Wednesday, 30 May 2012

Parental control

I knew I should be in celebratory mood, having been outside on this nice sunny day, had a job interview that didn't go too badly (although I still don't think I got it), walked down some bits of London I've never seen before and come back to a relatively quiet house. Also, I have a good week-and-a-half lined up, starting from tomorrow. So I should have been in a buoyant mood. I just wasn't really feeling it. I was almost there. But not quite. I even felt myself sliding into despondence, which wasn't a good sign.

I knew what I wanted to do, of course... and in retrospect, it was the right thing to do, because now, I feel buoyant, if not a little playful as well - dear Lord! (Well, I did before the child next door started crying - crying children always upset me.) But I was just... well, I was wanting to, but I didn't think I could.

It's not like I couldn't. I have, after all, done it so many times before. Since I got this netbook I haven't even used headphones. Just turned the volume down to almost zero and kept the door closed. But this time, I was... well, kind of aware of my parents. They were there. It is, of course, none of their business what I do in my own room, but I still feel the need to keep up the pretence. It's part of how I've always done it, of course, apart from that time when I had the door open.

But this time I just don't think I was ready. I even had the DVD prepared and managed to get the drive to work. I just felt like, in this hot evening, unless my parents were out and I could rock up the sound, I just wouldn't be able to masturbate.

"We're going for a walk, see you later."
"Oh. Bye."
I heard a brief scuffle, and then the door shutting.

I hit the volume switch.

Tuesday, 29 May 2012


I used to have this early morning routine around about the age of 14 to 16. I can't recall exactly, but I was definitely at school. Nobody wants to get up to go to school. I was fine with going; getting up to do so was more of a challenge. I wasn't really awake by the time I stumbled out of the door at half past eight; dragging myself out of bed for a croissant and hot chocolate prepared my my dad wasn't really adequate preparation for the trials of a day full of disappointment and failure.

So here's what I did. I got up when called, dressed in my pyjamas and padded downstairs. I ate the aforementioned French bread product and quaffed the hot chocolate, and then slouched back upstairs and got back into bed. Of course, I had to get back up, but what I would do is then close my eyes, have about ten seconds of quiet relaxation, and then pretend to wake up, yawn, stretch and then get dressed for school. It worked quite well, considering the fact that it was just an excuse to be really lazy for a few seconds more. At least this way I could be sure I was awake when I awoke. If that makes sense. It probably doesn't.

I am no longer afforded that luxury because there isn't anything I'm doing so I don't have anything to be lazy instead of. My dad wakes me up a quarter of an hour before my alarm goes off, however many times I tell him, and although I can lock my bedroom door to stop him physically coming in and getting me up, that's what I end up doing, because - let's face it - there isn't much else to do, is there?

However, after recovery from the cold I had last week and what I'm slowly coming to realise is the combination of two months working for ten hours a day and a multitude of relatively late nights for various reasons, I am becoming more and more lethargic, resulting in periods of intense laziness over these last few days. Okay, I can make it through a thirty-minute session of being laughed at while running, I can play my guitar for twenty minutes, and for some reason I'm able to get my stuff done on the internet. But that doesn't amount to much. I spent large amounts of time just lying on my bed.

That's it. I'm not even doing anything else. I have multiple distractions around my bed but I don't even turn a page of And Another Thing... or play Pokémon Sapphire. I don't even cuddle my rabbit that much. I just get dizzy, throw myself onto my bed at a random angle, and lie there.

I'll admit it's quite therapeutic. Of course, what I really, really need is for someone to come and massage my shoulders, neck and upper back, all of which are currently extremely painful and tight, but since that isn't happening, falling down and lying where I fall is about as good as I'm going to get. It's natural. It's restful. And since it's not actually happening at night, it also seems more of a rest than actual "bedtime" does. If I'm resting during the day, then clearly I need to do so, right...?


Not like I've earned it or anything. But I'm not going to go for the thirty-second microsleeps. I'm not Batman, y'know.

Or am I?

Monday, 28 May 2012

Journey to the darkside

I am aware I have a dark side. Everyone does, whether they are good at controlling it or not, or whether they embrace it or not. I like neither accepting nor embracing my dark side, but I am aware that it is there and I want to control it. No, I want to suppress it.

I don't know how I look to you, but how I look to myself is a different matter. Strip away all the physical ridiculousness and you get someone quite nervous, yet wrapped up in a bundle of sexual energy. I channel that sexy feeling into various things - one of which you're reading right now. But it also comes out in humour, dancing, masturbation, and love (I'm pretty good at turning sex into love. I think so, anyway.), and of course sex itself!

However, when I indulge in sexual fantasising, my dark side becomes more and more apparent. Inspired by @DebutDilettante running a list of turn-ons and turn-offs on Twitter yesterday, I tweeted my own. It wasn't surprising that I mentioned intimacy as one of my biggest turn-ons - although I also listed tease. It wasn't surprising, either, that I listed pain as a turn-off. But I have spanked people. I've been spanked. Whether I like it or not.

In retrospect, maybe I've done too many things that apply to the darker side of sexual nature. Nothing extreme. But a few things. The fact that I don't like BDSM or sexual roleplay doesn't mean I haven't done it. But I don't like it. I don't like pretending to be someone else and I don't like hitting or getting hit. I'm not very good at it. And yet I'd do it if asked. But I'm not a submissive - I just like to comply. I'm definitely not dominant - it's not in my nature either. I don't even like pigeon-holing people like that. Even the term "switch" doesn't mean much to me.

Anyway. When I fantasise, my thoughts are light. Or they start light. Dark doesn't turn me on. The things that do it for me - thinking about kisses, rolling through words and phrases in my mind, watching soft porn, naked skin and feeling sexy, memories - are all quite light. That's what starts me off. Talk to me about whips, marks, pain or calling someone something like "sir", or worse, "daddy", and I'll recoil. Mention enforced chastity and I'll wonder what the point is. But when I near orgasm, my thoughts slip. I've caught myself sometimes wondering what it would be like, trying to get into that more seedy side of sexual indulgence. Lots of sex bloggers do. But that's them. I'm me. I'm different. I'm light. And yet just before orgasm, pictures hover there - pictures that shouldn't really be there. I feel dirty; I feel ashamed. This is not me.

Yesterday I revisited one of my old worlds. A technique for sexual stimulation I used to do all the time at university, but which seemed to drop out of my radar almost instantaneously for some reason. Nothing dirty, nothing even seedy or underhanded. Something pure, shining, good. With the best of intentions I indulged. And I came. Nothing else was needed. My thoughts did not wander. I didn't wonder about where I stood, where I fell, if I should. I just let the light take me. And in the light my orgasm washed away what I saw as my impurity.

As it should be.

Saturday, 26 May 2012


I'm not exactly sure how to put this, but here goes... I felt a young lady's bum on the train.

No, no, no, wait! Wait - come back! I wasn't doing anything untoward! Let's put that another way. Okay, okay... let's see. Okay, my bum was pressed against her bum and...

No! Hang on, there's got to be a better way to put that! Okay, okay. You know the Japanese soft porn film Tandem? Well, it was a bit like... oh, you don't know it? Well, that's hardly my fault. It was on Channel 4 about ten years ago; you should have watched it. So how do I explain this?

I was on the Central Line, making my way back home from work, when the train stopped at Bank. This is a major interchange for lots of commuters, and I was already on the train (which was full of people, as most of the world seemed to be intent upon getting on earlier at Chancery Lane), in my usual position standing erect with my rucksack clasped tightly between my legs... which isn't as sexy as I just made it sound. It was incredibly hot (again, not sexy), but thankfully I was only wearing a short-sleeved shirt, so I didn't have too many problems. The businessmen in suits were amusingly sweltering, though.

It was only when the tube train stopped in the middle of a tunnel that I realised my back and my bum were pressed against a distinctly female back and bum as well. This wasn't deliberate, nor was it even too noticeable until we stopped - this poor girl must have got on at Bank and now she was squashed between me and the door to the next carriage, and evidently couldn't move. I was squashed between her and the big sweaty man right in front of me.

Which put me in the very difficult position of deciding what the hell to do. There wasn't any position to relax into. I didn't want to lean backwards, otherwise it could be construed as intentional frotteurism, similar to the chikan present in Tandem, only with a backside rather than a hand in the schoolgirl panties... and also I wasn't turned on. I mean, I'd be quite offended if it was me. But it's not like I could have done anything about it. I didn't want to lean forwards, as I'd instantly be pressing my moobs into the back of the big sweaty man, and that might have ended my life prematurely. But there was no space to turn around - we were packed together like the heretics burned in tombs in Dante's Inferno.

So I did nothing. I just stood there like a lemon. I was physically unable to do anything about it, but the more I tried not to think about it, the more I became aware of this girl's derrière fighting with mine for space. What did she look like? Was she, too, stuck in the same position? Was she enjoying it? I was certainly uncomfortable, but was she? Could she move, and if so, why not? If not, I'm really sorry, girl, I really am! I'm taking up as little space as possible - I'm sorry my arse is huge!

The train screeched to a halt at Liverpool Street and the doors opened. With a noise akin to a pop, several people were ejected involuntarily from the train door, and a massive throng swept its way out onto the platform, with a rush of very cooling, very welcome air. And, thankfully, I was in this difficult position no more. I adjusted myself to the idea of being in space to move without human flesh surrounding me at three hundred and sixty degrees.

The girl glanced at me for the briefest of seconds, then scuttled away. And I breathed a sigh of relief.

Tuesday, 22 May 2012


I sit here shivering and occasionally sneezing into a variety of paper tissues, having finally dragged my arse out of bed. Of course, now I'm interminably worried about what's going to happen to my clients while I'm not at work, but knowing how extreme my emotions get, worrying might give me an ulcer, and that's something I really don't need. I'm not well. That's enough.

In hindsight, perhaps it wasn't the best of ideas to go out until midnight last night. But being a teetotaller, it's not like I went out and got a hangover. Nobody got drunk, either, so it was all quite a pleasant affair. But it was, after all, my friend-who-is-a-teacher's birthday. And so I went straight to her flat immediately after work (it's thirty seconds from the train station, so hardly much of a mission) and, after picking up the gang, we went in search of pizza. We're so cool.

Although it's the young raver who generally provides our bi-weekly source of smut (commenting the other day that a camping website we were looking at "sounds like a sex blog", a slightly unnerving quip - but I agree with him, it read like something out of Lady Laid Bare), it's my friend-who-is-a-teacher who can occasionally be downright filthy. She is lovely, but she will freely admit that working with children during the day meant that her slightly dodgy side - the one with all the dirty jokes and comments so lightning-quick that even I miss them sometimes - does emerge in the evenings, when in close contact with her friends - which means, of course, us.

Not that she made any until after the two screaming girls appeared.

We were sitting in the back room of a local pub after having had the meal in Prezzo (we didn't want to go to a bar, so we found a quiet back room to sit in), having a discussion about music videos and the EDF Energy advert - which we looked at while I noticed that the pub had started playing James - when two very loud girls appeared in the doorway screaming at the top of their voices, ran around us screaming a few times, and then ran out of the same door.

For a while everyone looked as if they'd been slapped around a bit with a large trout.

"We got you a screamagram," said Mane eventually. "It was a lot cheaper than a kissogram." That broke the
Let's face it, it's clearly a bit of wood. But you had to look twice first time, didn't you?silence, and everyone laughed. We didn't stop laughing for a while afterwards as it suddenly became apparent that Mane's brother's penis was hanging out of his flies. (Turns out it was a bit of wood eventually, as he is an arboriculturalist, but it was still... well, not shocking, maybe the word is "typical"... for the first couple of seconds.)

As my body had started to commit seppuku from the inside out, I decided that now this would be the time to take my leave. It was only after tugging for a few moments that I realised my coat was refusing to leave with me. I was about to remark upon this (I would have left it, but it had my throat sweets in a pocket), but my friend-who-is-a-teacher saved me from the trouble.
"I was wondering what that feeling was," she shared, "before I realised I'd been sitting on your toggle for a while!"
Everyone looked at me. I paused.
"Well, that explains all the orgasms!" I heard myself saying. That got the laugh, so before I could feel any more awkward, I graciously gave everyone a hug and then left the pub.

Stepping out into the cold night air, I was abundantly aware that I was feeling a lot more unwell than I had done at work, but also that it had been a good night. And my friends had lived up to their glorious reputations. I was only sorry that I'd had to leave before more dirty jokes could be peddled... but I really needed to go home.

That was when I realised I didn't have my bag with me. So back I went.

Sunday, 20 May 2012


I like my church. I am aware I don't always go, and I'm also aware that it's not for everyone. But we're a nice, small church. We're friendly, open and liberal in our general values, and there's a very small congregation, so if you're a visitor you're not overwhelmed by the number of people. And I've been going since the age of five, so I should at least feel vaguely settled there. I went up today to read about Matthias and my voice carried through our building easily. I have no problem with this.


I often like to browse the newsletter; it's inoffensive and sometimes funny - and occasionally mentions me - and while not exactly being an example of stunning journalism it's clearly evident that there's a lot of effort put into its publication, so it ought to be read. I picked it up, idly browsed through the vicar's message and the awful jokes page, when I stopped. There was, reprinted verbatim from a random website, a two-page (double-page spread, in fact) article about why gay marriage should NOT be made legal.

I stared. Really? There's actually an article in our church newsletter about this?!

I'm in favour of gay marriage. Of course I am. The article's flawed, anyway. There are a few - and, it has to be said, relatively few, compared to other issues addressed therein - passages in the Bible (namely, in Deuteronomy and Romans) which could be construed (and have been) as defining homosexuality as an abomination. Although there are other interpretations, as well, and lesbians aren't mentioned at all, fundamentalists who choose to interpret those verses as banning gay activity are free to do so, as is their right.* However, although the Bible's every mention of marriage specifically mentions a man and a woman, there's no passage in the Bible (that I can identify) which actually specifically outright bans homosexual marriage.

It actually bans eating shellfish, growing two crops together, and entering a church if you don't have a penis, but people do these things all the time (except the shellfish; I think that's horrible, but again, not my place to judge). So even if it did ban gay marriage (which it doesn't), I'm pretty sure a lot of people might ignore it. Maybe, anyway.

My problem, however, isn't with the fact that the view exists. I think it's bigoted and unfair, and I think that if two people want to get married under the eyes of God (as opposed to a secular partnership), then fair enough. I'm pretty sure that if God didn't want to allow it, there would have been a sign by now. Plus, registrars (including religious ones) are often allowed to marry any two "persons" - gender isn't, as far as I'm aware, specified. But I digress. I'm genuinely upset by the fact that the young lady who writes this newsletter - whom I like; she plays the recorder and everything - actually saw fit to put this into print. There's been no indication that it should actually reflect anything our church puts out, and as a member of the regular congregation, I actually feel insulted by this.

What makes it worse is that nobody else saw anything wrong with it. My nan, as a liberal Christian herself, said something vague about marriages, but my grandfather doesn't even believe in God. I'd have thought that he'd at least have some sense. But he does sometimes radiate homophobia - enough for my sister not to tell him that she's bisexual - which is a problem I'm slowly working on, in bits. It's difficult, but...

Yeah, so, anyway. What do I do? I've signed enough petitions and written enough letters to show my support for gay marriage. I've even prayed about it, because as a religious practice I think it's only fair to show my support to God as well! But I think some sort of direct action should be taken to indicate that this specific article not only does not show the opinion of every member of this congregation, but has no place in a community newsletter, which should be unbiased and welcoming, not harsh, cold and homophobic like the Bible belt churches one reads about on news sites.

Any thoughts?

*Although I don't condone evangelism, it's not my place to tell anyone else what to believe either.

Thursday, 17 May 2012

In peace may you slumber.

Close your eyes.

Can you feel it? The air getting heavier and warmer? The hard surface of your chair getting softer, lighter, much more comfortable? Lie back and dream.

I want it, too. I want to sleep. I care not for the clicking of mice or the tapping of my errant fingers on this keyboard. I am not here. I am adrift. I want to sleep.

Can you feel it? The warmth? Here, here are my arms. Let me put my arms around you. You can rest your head on my chest if it helps. My heartbeat can soothe you, my cuddles protect you. I'll try not to be too overbearing. I'm very gentle, as you know. I'll hold you... stroke your hair. I want you to be calm. Soothed. Relaxed.

So sleep.

I can feel myself falling. I will go. I am half gone already - this, I know. Listen to my breathing - listen, as it gets steadier, deeper, more even. Listen to my breathing, as my eyelids flutter closed. Can you feel them brush gently against your cheek?

I am gone. I have fallen. I hope you feel secure, wrapped in my arms. I hope you feel safe. I hope you feel comfortable, warm, loved. I do my best. I feel the same with you. I have fallen, truly, completely. Drifted off.

Here is your bed. Lie back. Close your eyes.


Tuesday, 15 May 2012

Light the fuse!

I don't usually read horoscopes that much... and pay attention to them. I mean, I always read them - I've been known to scan newspapers looking for them - but, believer as I am in such concepts as God, faeries and angels in some conceptual way, I can't bring myself to actually assume that the movement of the Sun through constellations is actually going to impact my life in any particular way. However, astrology, as a pseudoscience, I still find fascinating - but in the absence of any real research into the subject (as I can't do that from work) I thought I'd bring you my horoscope from the Metro this morning.

Compromise is part of every relationship but it has become a focal point. Later in the afternoon a change in tone revitalises your love life. You've wanted to bring passion into your life, so get set to ignite.

Sounds exciting! Bring it on, Life.

Monday, 14 May 2012

Me here talk good?

I'm finding it incredibly difficult to feel intelligent at the moment. It's not surprising, really, when you consider that I've gone through life being told that I'm a clever boy and subsequently treated like a bit of an idiot. For my own part, I am aware that I'm in the "higher intelligence" bracket. Not that I actually use it for much. Academically speaking, I didn't put much effort in until I got to secondary school, when I started to work harder - and even then, not particularly hard. I coasted through the first three years without much difficulty, put in a bit of work for my GCSEs and then stepped it up for my ASs and A2s. Not that my results pleased me much, but at least my 9 A*-Bs got me through to the sixth form, my A-Levels getting me into university.

My problem with academia has always been that it doesn't necessarily reward intelligence, as such. It rewards one's ability to jump though pre-set hoops, certainly, but that's no indication of how bright you are. By the time I got to university, I was overwhelmed with a mass of creative/expressive energy that I wasn't able to channel anywhere, except through my guitar (not doing A-Level Music was a big mistake) and my IRL-style blog, which I'd been writing for three years by that point. I was intelligent and in higher education, and eager to set myself free.

And yet, through the first two years, the work was uninspiring. I joined a band to get the energy out and, although the music was great, I was bullied there... especially by the bandmaster, who used to treat me like I was completely devoid of intelligence. Every time he mentioned stupidity, he pointed at me. He constantly told me I couldn't play my instrument (and at one point hinted that this was due to my not eating any meat!), and used to send me home crying. Yet at the same time, I was the champion of the underdog in that band. I came to represent the downtrodden and ignored - when he fired one of our players and boasted about sending her away in tears, I was the only person to e-mail her to ask if she was okay. I stood near the younger players to help them with their parts. I chatted to the tea ladies and found toys for their children. I am aware, yes, that my good heart was more apparent than my big head. I didn't mind that at all - and it did help, somewhat, that a lot of the other musicians in the band were aware that I was far from vacant. My thoughts move very quickly inside my head sometimes, and so sometimes I'm concentrated on selecting the one bit of information; I haven't zoned out. I'm thinking.

So I unleashed my intelligence into my degree work. My tutors loved it. Okay, sometimes it wasn't exactly what they wanted, but I was doing an English degree. Here I was, contributing to every seminar with an eager voice. Being unusual and original in essays. Making it my mission to make everyone laugh. Sometimes I slipped, felt despondent, overwhelmed, unable to cope. But my heart picked me up and my head made the break forward once again. What a team.

I ended up with a 2:1 a the end of my first degree. I cried for about three days before I realised that that's a pretty good mark. My dad got a pass without honours and he's done okay. But why was I so upset? Because I was well aware that everyone was expecting me to do more. At five I was told I was going to read English at Oxbridge. At ten, I was told I was going to my local selective grammar. At sixteen, I was promised a string of A* grades; at AS level, at least four Bs. And when I started university, having failed to achieve any of those things despite trying hard, I was told I was clearly good enough to get a First.

But of course I didn't. Not that it'd have made a difference. But I liked the fact that my tutors were aware that I was intelligent. They treated me like a person, rather than a statistic, to the point of calling me by my nickname as opposed to my real one.

When I did my second degree, however, everything flipped. I wasn't clever any more - I wasn't allowed to be. Gone were the heady days of studying English - this was a science degree. Academic brilliance wasn't meant to shine in a world of citations and figures. I wasn't even meant to analyse. Adamant that I wasn't going to play their game, I continued to use my language in their essays - foreign phrases like raison d'être, modus operandi, apropos and even et ceteri (not cetera - I was indicating not "and so forth" but "and the rest"). I even ended every essay with a humorous aside. My tutors hated it, but it made me give a wry smile. Every time a lecture mentioned intelligent people, I nodded sagely. My friends grinned. Here I was, hating a course with a passion, but safe in the knowledge that my intelligence would get me through (despite people telling me, for the first time, that I couldn't do it).

The last time I felt intelligent was last year, at college for the third time. That course I enjoyed. I did okay (again I didn't quite get the mark I wanted, but by that point I was resigned to the fact that that would be the result), and I was allowed to use my intelligence in a productive way.

I don't feel clever any more.

All weekend, my brain struggled to work. It was firing thoughts back and forth as always, but there was no motivation to channel them anywhere. I started things I didn't finish. I didn't write. I barely worked. I only went outside once. I sang, but only a bit. It was a quiet, lazy, lonely weekend. Sitting on the train this morning, a random memory - that of my sixth form philosophy teacher telling my mother that I was clearly the most intelligent person in the class, but that didn't mean I was going to do particularly well - swam into my head. I stepped onto the platform, and felt lost - strangely detached from the throbbing mass of people, with a void of emptiness swirling around me, with my head screaming out to be noticed and my heart aching to be set free.

Thursday, 10 May 2012


Lunchtime came, and so did I.

I was stowing my Glee lunchbox back into my rucksack. This usually takes a while due to the volume of books and stuff that I also have in my bag, but it always manages to fit somehow. Today, due to the simple expedience of me taking all the books out first, it fit in easily. Mulling over which bit of dross to start working on during what remained of my lunch break, my stomach gave me the usual early-warning twinge that I would need to use the toilet soon. Rather than starting on something new, I thought I may as well walk to the toilet then and there, in order to make the rest of my break... well... last without a break.

Upon entering the toilet (a clean one, one of the few things I like about this new building we're in), I noticed that one cubicle was being avoided by all and sundry. A quick check confirmed why; there was no light. Well, there was a light, but it was either broken or not turned on. Our company is moving HQ in a week and there's very little point in attempting to rectify that if it's only one cubicle. But I decided to chance it, so I headed into the dark, shut and locked the door behind me, and perched on the toilet seat.

It was like being in another place entirely. I'm not a fan of the dark, but in my little cubicle, my eyes adjusted quickly, and there was a shaft of light coming from beneath the door. I quickly became accustomed to this small space of my own - somewhere nobody else would want to be. I also was quick to ascertain that nobody realised this cubicle was occupied at all; I heard colleagues coming and going about their daily business, and even a client at one point, talking on his 'phone, although how he got into our toilets I'll never know. But nobody noticed me, not in my little sanctuary, safe as I was.

As I gradually came to this realisation of glorious isolation, my penis began to twinge with the need to come and play. I have been neglecting it, and despite the presence of a reminder of soft porn via print media yesterday, and the weekend I had a few days ago wherein my girlfriend's tongue served as a cleaning implement for my chest, I knew exactly what it wanted. It's been done before. And so, listening for footsteps as I went (out of habit, nobody would be able to get through a locked door), my hand closed around the shaft of my cock, feeling its size and weight in my palm, and letting it pulse against my skin for a while as my mind conjured up the usual brazen images - including a few new ones.

It took a while, but by the light of my digital watch, I kept track of time. As I took full advantage of my solitude, my mind playing along with the movements of my hand and the stiffness of my penis, I felt myself topping towards the edge. The moment came, and I refrained from letting it take me, holding out just that second more... before letting myself go, cum coating the back of my hand as I delicately balanced it, careful not to let any drip into my shoes or touch my shirt or jumper. The perfect, sweetest crime.

Grabbing some tissue and cleaning up my hand and the head of my shaft, I rearranged my clothing, flushed the toilet, and stood there in my sanctuary for one final moment, my heart beating a drum roll against my chest. My 'phone lit up, and a quick check confirmed that my girlfriend had recently had an orgasm too. Maybe we'd come at the same time. That would have been a feat. I grinned to myself.

I checked the time once again, ascertaining that I had just under half an hour left. I clicked open the lock, pushed open the door, and stepped out of my sanctuary, back into the blazing light of the corporate world.

Wednesday, 9 May 2012

Challenge Anneka

I picked up the Evening Standard on the way home from @almadsfeika's birthday meal this evening. I have to admit to usually reading the Standard... because it's free. I don't think I've ever actually bought a copy, but let's be fair, I read Metro in the mornings, so anything is a step upwards, really. The difference between me and other Standard-reading Londoners being that I actually do carry mine to a recycling bin. Shocking, I know.

I usually flick through looking for something vaguely interesting (that is, something that doesn't mention Boris Johnson. It's bad enough that I actually sat up to see him being re-elected; I don't want to have to read about it as well.), and although it's rarely a picture that catches my eye, this time one did. A vaguely familiar picture of a smiley blonde woman holding a dog. Okay, maybe the dog wasn't familiar, but the woman was. But where had I seen her before?

Reading the article, which was about the BBC being lambasted for putting footage of animals on air (or something like that), one name did jump out at me. Svenska. Tanaka-Svenska. Anneka Tanaka-Svenska. Fantastic name, but where had I seen her? Although the Standard claimed that she presented wildlife shows on Channel 5, my brain connected her with sex - you know, obviously - and then my inner encyclopaedia clocked it within a few seconds. Last time I saw Anneka Svenska, she was naked, and riding her boyfriend in soft focus. In my mind, Svenska was a star of Threesome.

I used to get turned on by a programme with this woman in it and now she's on Channel 5. That's hardly a step of gargantuan proportions, but nevertheless, being able to identify her in a national newspaper was, I think, pretty cool - in a really odd way.

You know what else is cool? You type "threesome" into my blog's search function and the first entry that comes up is from over a year ago. That's how vanilla I am!

Tuesday, 8 May 2012

TMI Tuesday: Masturbaaaaaation!

Playing TMI Tuesday once again for want of something to write. Today, it's about that strangest of practices: masturbation. (Okay... maybe it's not that strange. I write about it enough in this blog anyway.) So! Read along while I play, why don't you?

Although I'm not going to play in that way. I'm not sure the girls in the office right now would appreciate it, although I'd do (almost) anything to avoid the banal conversation about nutrition that they've been having for aan hour and a half. If I hear "babes" one more time...

1. How often do you masturbate?

Pretty much every day. Is that bad? I'm not sure. It's been less so since I started working full-time again, but I always seem to be able to find the time to do so. It takes me a while to finish, so I don't always go all the way... but I certainly start!

2. What are you doing to celebrate Masturbation Month?

Nothing specific. Telling anyone who'll listen that it's Masturbation Month is enough. They never seem to believe me, so i find that at least a little amusing...

3. Do you like to watch your partner masturbate?
a. Yes, it turns me on.
b. Sometimes, because it gets my partner very aroused.
c. Not really, it’s boring.
d. No, it’s a turn off.
e. I’ve never experienced it but I’d like to.

Of course, why not? I can see why some people might not like this - their partner getting pleasure from something that isn't direct stimulation from them - but with my well-documented love for soft porn, trawling of sex blogs and overactive imagination, I'm hardly one to judge. Plus, this genuinely does turn me on.

4. Do you let your partner watch you masturbate?
a. Yes, it turns me on to be watched.
b. Sometimes, because it gets my partner very aroused.
c. No, it’s embarrassing.
d. I’ve never experienced it but I’d like to.

Not much more to say about this. And if I finish, I get licked as well. So, yeah.

5. Mutual masturbation? Yay or Nay?

Yeah, why not? I'm not sure it'd bring me to orgasm, but it'd certainly feel nice. And I like to give, so I'd certainly go to town on that!

6. If you had an all-expenses-paid trip to San Francisco to attend Masturbate-a-thon 2012 would you go and masturbate? Why or why not?

Uhm... probably not. I wouldn't do it in front of a load of strangers... my limit's there!... and I probably couldn't attend anyway. What'd I tell my boss I was going to do?!

Friday, 4 May 2012

Everyone loves an ILB

My immediate senior at work - not my boss, but my superior (because he was the only one who could be arsed to apply for the job) - seems to be enjoying my company. Not in an overly obsessive way or anything, but because the other two guys who tend to hang around sometimes give way to being a bit... well... pervy. I mean, they're great guys, but constant references to hardcore porn and innocently quipping that one of our clients has an "arse like a fuckin' peach" isn't what you want in your ear 24/7. Or even 1/7, come to think of it.

Which is why I was surprised that my senior asked me today if I was a player.
I think he meant "player". He probably doesn't mean "playa," although it's quite hard to vocalise txt spk as you're naturally conditioned to use vowels in spoken English. Still, they mean the same thing... in various senses.
"No, I'm not a player," I said. "I'm a loyal and faithful person, me." My halo laughed, but I ignored it.
"So are you a playa hata?" he said (although probably using the right spelling. It's easier to vocalise 1337 5p34k, I find, as it's easier to pronounce "ph33r" as /fiə/ than "playa", which isn't really a word.). This was a trickier question to answer - as what's a player? I certainly know a lot of poly people, but that's not playing. And I know a lot of musicians, but that's surely not what he meant. I even know some "playerplayers", which I've ascribed to be a term for an actor who's popular with the opposite sex. Not that I'm looking at anyone specific.
"No, I'm not a player hater either," I said, settling for the least committal answer I could think of.

He looked at me curiously.

"I'm... I'm..." I faltered. I keep interesting company? No, that'd be a bit too leading. "I'm accepting, but..." Hang on, what do I say?

"I'm accepting... but defecting."

He accepted that as a reasonable answer. Which is good, because I certainly haven't a clue what I meant. I'm glad somebody does. Everyone loves an ILB, right?