Saturday, 29 September 2012


Whenever Margaret Thatcher pops up on the Twitter trending topics, my immediate reaction is to shout, "She's dead!", followed immediately by disappointment when I click her name with wanton enthusiasm to discover that that pact with Satan hasn't fallen through yet. Mind you, it's something of a reflex, to almost be waiting for something and to jump to a conclusion the minute there's the slightest indication of anything.

My cousin got married earlier this year, and although I've seen her a few times since then, it hasn't been as frequent as I used to. She appears to be still surgically attached to her husband, and still looks a little like a fairy. She's also just finished her first ever job, which was - according to Nanna - making costumes for an actress named "Angelina Jolly". Once I'd corrected her on the phonetic pronunciation of /dʒɔːliː/, I had to admit that it's a pretty cool job.

However, it's not what any of us thought when this was announced. When Nanna, in only a way Nanna can, came out with "Have you heard the good news about her?", everyone immediately ejaculated, "She's pregnant!" After all, married and affectionate, and also probably a little careless at times, some people are going to assume that she'll be carrying on our ridiculous family line at some point. At least, that's what most of us are assuming.

Which is why my sister started taking bets on when her first child will be born.

She's got a spreadsheet on her iPhone, which charts everyone's guesses. We've all thrown a quid in, and whoever's the closest, with one month's leeway either way, gets the kitty as soon as there's a birth. I've gone for January 2015, which - according to my sister, who also asked my uncle, auntie, mother, father, 16-year-old-cousin, 12-year-old-cousin and cat - is the outsider choice. Everyone else thinks it's going to be somewhat sooner. Nine months following their first anniversary, or something.

It's nice to know we're all taking the concept of responsible family planning so seriously.

Friday, 28 September 2012


I'm not usually given to talking about current affairs on this blog, preferring instead to mention how unusual my views on sex are and the stupid conversations I have with my friends, but I thought I may as well mention the Megan Stammers case that everyone's talking about. Fleet Street Fox has an astute post summing up a lot that could be said about varying attitudes to it, but there's still a few things I have to point out.

My parents are taking the view that I assumed them to take, which is that Jeremy Forrest (or "that married 30-year-old maths teacher") clearly had no idea what he was doing. "What did he think was going to happen?" is the exact phrase that my parents used. Well, I have no idea what he thought was going to happen, but he clearly knew what he was doing - he was running away to France with Megan Stammers. That's what he was doing. What my parents probably should be saying is, "Why did he do that?", but only he knows the answer to that. Nobody seems to be asking, "Why did she?"

This might be a controversial statement, but I'm going to say what I've been thinking about this case since it started: she didn't go "missing". She ran away. Okay, maybe it wasn't a clever thing to do, but we knew where she was going, we knew who she was with and we knew when it happened. We didn't know why she didn't come back (although there was a return ticket - and I think anyone could take a pretty accurate guess at why she didn't) and we didn't know exactly where they were, and that's why everything went a bit pear-shaped.

But why did they run away together? That's easy.

It was romantic. I don't know how they feel about each other; maybe they don't know either. Megan probably doesn't, as the age of 15 might not be exactly the best time to start declaring love for people - especially your teachers or people 15 years your senior. But love in your teens happens. I've seen it happen. A couple I know fell in love when they were 14 and are married now. I know, by association, a married couple who have been together since they were 12. And, what's more, it looks like a very romantic thing to do. Think about it - you're 15, you're in school, you're bored and you've got a hot youngish teacher. Getting into his car and running away from cold, rainy Britain to continental Europe seems, at first, to be a wonderful, spontaneous, romantic and crazy thing to do.

What's more, it is portrayed in various media - often in a positive light. I've read Point Romance books - one of which, French Kiss, actually has a storyline of a female teenage protagonist falling for a new French teacher at her school; they end up together, and she moves to France with him to start a new life together. It's illegal, but the author didn't seem to consider that. Moving to the more adult side of things, a lot of porn portrays student/teacher sexual relationships as well - often in a not-too-negative way. Even in softcore - there's an episode of Love Street which has a young tennis player having his sexual awakening via his female teacher - it seems to happen and there's nary a batted eyelid. If the media are going to put this message out there, then what exactly is going to happen?

What gets me about this case is that Jeremy Forrest is being accused of a lot of stuff that I don't think he did. Yes, it's illegal to have a relationship with one of your students. Yes, it's illegal to have sex with someone under the age of 16 (her one year less seems to have made a lot of differences in this case) - although it's 15 in France, and if they didn't have sex before they went to France (if at all) then there's no criminal offence there. It's immoral to cheat on your wife. It's also unlawful (although I'm not sure of the legality of it) to bunk off school, or to go to another country if you're under the age of 16. There's a lot of stuff there that shouldn't have been done.

I don't think for a moment that any of it should have happened.

But... abduction? The word that keeps being thrown around? It's not really abduction. There's no indication that he forced her. She went consensually. CCTV footage showing her in the passenger seat of his car and eyewitness reports of them holding hands on a street in Paris don't indicate, to me at least, that this was unwilling. It was a planned event and, although I've no idea what their aim actually was, I really can see the appeal.

So - yes, I'm sure it was upsetting for her family and friends to have her vanish on them. I can't imagine how this would feel for them. Jeremy Forrest's family don't appear to have been mentioned much and I can't find much about them online, but I'm sure they - not least of all his wife! - have their own feelings on this. And yes, I can see why he was arrested. But... Megan being put into protection? That seems a little extreme. I'm finding it hard to believe he was leading her into a paedophile ring or anything. She was 15, she went willingly, it must have been exciting and adventurous and, although it was a pretty dumb thing to do (as they would have been found eventually) I really can see why it happened.

It's not another Madeleine McCann; it's completely different... and, although I won't deny that there were a lot of things that happened here that probably shouldn't have, maybe people should start focusing on how Megan and Jeremy might re-integrate into society once they return to Britain. Because there's more or less going to be an immediate stigma.

Also, what if they were in love? Stranger things have happened.

Wednesday, 26 September 2012

Power Station

"So you're back in school now?" I enquired of my friend-who-is-a-teacher, well aware that school terms started over a week ago and I was just fishing for something to say.
"Yep," she said. "It's... much the same as it's always been. How about you? Are you back yet?" she enquired of the young raver, which caused the rest of us to roar with laughter. We'd all heard the story, but we were eager to hear it again.
"Tell it! Tell it!" demanded Hairy Friend's older, louder sister, while Robinson and I exchanged knowing smiles. To our delight, the young raver was still keen to share his story. It goes something like this:

Young Raver: So, you're my mentor for the next year.
Young Raver's Mentor: Yes, I am. Let me tell you about myself...
[NB: Our young raver is on a vocational course at the moment. His mentors last for a whole year, and this is his final year.]
YRM: ...[snip personal history]... okay, what about you?
YR: Er, uhm, well, er... [snip edited personal history] ...yeah, and now I'm here in my final year.

"That doesn't seem so unusual," quipped our friend-who-is-a-teacher, "when you consider what could have happened."
"There's more."
"Oh? Go on, then."

YRM: I need to point something out to you, before we go any further.
YR: Okay.
YRM: As we've established, I will be your mentor for the whole year.
YR: Okay.
YRM: Now, as you know, you're a male, and I'm a woman...
YR: Okay.
YRM: ...and obviously there will be some gender differences between us.
YR: ...?
YRM: What's more, because of our rather obvious gender differences, that might cause some friction, and of course, there will inevitably be a power dynamic that develops between us.
YR: [thinks] What the fuck?!

"What do you think she wanted?" grinned our friend-who-is-a-teacher, as the rest of us laughed at this development.
"I've no idea," fretted the young raver. "Maybe she thinks that because I'm a boy, I'm going to hit on her, and she's trying to tell me not to hit on her, and she's using this power dynamic thing to try to stop me hitting on her, and..."
"Maybe she thinks you're going to try and beat her up?" interjected Robinson, steering well clear of the very serious danger that our young raver was about to hint that he regularly hits on girls because he can. He's going to Australia next year to do so, allegedly.
"I think it's more likely that she was really attracted to me," casually boasted the young raver, "although I felt really uncomfortable." This probably wasn't too far from the truth... apart from the bit about her having been attracted to him. We learned on camp that he once left a girl (just before they had sex )to go to the pub - I'm pretty sure he needs some recovery time from that.
"Well, there are two possibilities," reasoned our friend-who-is-a-teacher, "although the first one - that she genuinely wanted your backside - is probably less realistic than the other possibility, which is that she was just trying to be incredibly feminist and ended up sounding like a bit of an idiot."
"Or she could have wanted to use the phrase 'power dynamic' and found a chance," I pointed out.

There was a pause.

"I'm going to go with the idea that she wants me," said the young raver.

Tuesday, 25 September 2012

TMI Tuesday: Decisions, decisions...

Today's TMI Tuesday is about choices. This or That. Why there's no "the other" option is mystifying.

This reminds me of a forum game I played once in which one This or That question was which website was better (they were twinned websites, so it was a tough choice). The answer given was Thunderbirds. I've never quite understood that.

Okay, now sit back and observe just how verbose I can get when I'm in smug mode.

1. Olfactometrically offensive feet or olfactometrically offensive breath?

First off, you may have noticed that I've subtly changed a word in this question. This is because I don't like the original word. It doesn't look right, it doesn't sound right, and I don't like using it.
In any case, my answer is feet. I don't like the breath (that's another word I don't like using, although not so much) much, even if it's easily treated by brushing one's teeth or chewing some gum. Even drinking a glass of water helps with that. Feet are harder to deal with, save the act of putting socks on, but I don't find the odour more unpleasant, so I'm going for that.

2. Overwhelming pleasure or repetitive numbing pain?

Clever question! At first the answer seems obvious, but now I think about it, there is something quite pleasant about repetitive numbing pain. If you have a pain and you concentrate on the throbs - usually this happens to me with teeth, but headaches too - the pain tends to just beat itself out. (NB: I realised, just after writing that sentence, that I could have phrased it as something that sounds less like pain is masturbating. But I stuck with it. It's a sex blog.) So they're both pleasant sensations.
I'm still going for overwhelming pleasure though. Because it's lovely and that doesn't mean you can't go for a calming afterglow following the event, as well.

3. Phone calls or text messages?

I like getting both, but I prefer text messages, depending on the context. I was thinking about this earlier today, actually, with fond memories of a drunk text I once got which contained the word "dual". It took me half an hour to work out that auto-correct had gone to work on "fuck".

4. Being spanked or getting spanked?

They're the same thing! Proof-read your questions!
Unless you want to go into a lexicographical argument about the difference between the verbs "to be" and "to get" - while the first can refer to a worldly state of having been spanked or just one who is spanked at some point in their existence, whereas the second one refers to a spanking (or spankings plural) as a commodity to be handed, and I'm not exactly sure that's what the TMI Tuesday team is going for, I'm going to continue to go with my first answer.

6. Go blind or become deaf?

This is a very difficult one as I really wouldn't want to lose any of my senses, but who would? I'm going to plump for blindness, because I love music too much to lose it. Obviously, I like aesthetically pleasing things as well, but blindness can (usually, depending on the severity) be at least partially corrected by special glasses or treatment. My grandfather came back from Moorfields today having had his right eye fixed, and John Lennon was technically blind, but he did okay.

Bonus: What is one choice you've made that you would like to change the outcome to?

I once chose not to tell my mother that I got a job. I knew she was stressing about me being unemployed (as if that's something new), and I was told on a Friday that I'd get some temporary work. I chose not to tell her until Sunday lunchtime, but in the meantime I told her not to stress. My head constructed a scenario in which I'd be nonchalant about it, everyone would share some banter, and at the end of it I'd get my guitar out from behind a chair and everyone would sing Red Solo Cup.
In reality, my mother yelled for about three hours because I hadn't told her immediately, and then told me that she thought I had Asperger syndrome because I clearly didn't realise other people had feelings. (I repeat: I told her not to stress).
Evidently, I'd have preferred the outcome that I thought was more likely to happen, although that's mostly because I'd like to be able to play Red Solo Cup.

Sunday, 23 September 2012

Soft Porn Sunday: Susan Featherly & Mike Roman

It is nice, sometimes, to discover something you like that you didn't know existed before. Better still, perhaps, to discover it in your possession, free to access and enjoy at your leisure. Even better when it's... okay, I think you know perfectly well where this is going.

In any case, I found this one on a disc I have and had never really given it much of a second glance on account of the fact that there are other scenes in this film that have more of an effect upon me. I don't even recall downloading it - although I've downloaded a lot of stuff over the years - 

Appearance: Andromina - The Pleasure Planet (1999)
Characters: Xula & Omar

 I don't need to go through the premise of this one, do I? It's the same male character as presented in the scene I've previously reviewed, although further along in his storyline. Seeing as how his storyline mostly involves having sex while maintaining a rather irritating hairstyle, it's not surprising he gets to do so twice in rather rapid succession. The fact that it's with two different girls doesn't surprise me, either, except that in this one there's a switch in the balance of control. Or something else that makes me sound clever. Like, you know, whatever.

Okay. Omar/Becca kind of worked because Becca, played by Shannan Leigh, was a strong female character. When they had sex, it was because she threw herself at him, knowing what she wanted and how to get it. During the actions of actual coitus, Omar was in control of the sex, but only because he knew what he was doing and she was a virgin. Just not a doe-eyed, frail Bella Swan to be deflowered - a powerful, self-assured woman who wanted pleasure and took it.

Omar/Xula is different somehow. The story is hardly massive, but basically, Omar escapes from Becca after they go on the run ("before they execute us both" - wow, this planet is violent!) and just happens to chance across Xula - which, I'll admit, is a great alien name; much closer to what traditional sci-fi may expect aliens to be called than "Becca", or worse, "Roxie" - who, as another resident of a planet entirely populated by women - has also never had sex with a man, so inevitably they end up having sex. The difference is that, although not a weedy or weak character, during sex Xula is much less certain of herself, and the whole scene is much less aggressive in the way it's presented or played out.

One thing I'll say for Susan Featherly - who I hadn't actually clocked before but now I seem to recognise in more things - is that she does make it seem like Xula is genuinely enjoying this special moment. She has a lovely smile, which she manages to wear all over her body throughout the scene, and for the orgasmic bits she opens her mouth with aplomb. The movement of her body is even somewhat experimental, and somehow - although I'm not quite sure how - she does make it seem as if she's both experiencing and enjoying sex (with a man) for the first time, which isn't something I'd initially think one could do with a body in a cheesy film, but here we have it! As for Mike Roman, well, his job isn't really to do much here apart from be a man who knows how to make love outside - but he plays his part. He says a line afterwards which is poorly delivered, but I can ignore that (although not really).

Although I do like the scene in parts, I do have a problem with the length of the thing. It's 05:36 long - which is quite long for a sex scene - but the first two minutes consist entirely of frottage and gradual disrobing. I am aware, of course, of both facts that foreplay often takes a lot longer than two minutes and that it also involves more than taking your clothes off and rubbing each other a bit (unless it's a quickie, in which case I assume you're more up for it before you start unbuttoning), but this is softcore, and what the viewers want to see is simulated sexual intercourse. That's how it works. At the 02:04 mark, where the sex starts to happen, it gets more exciting, however.

So they start off with reverse cowgirl. It's an odd position to start with, but in real actual life and stuff, I've often heard that reversing the astride position is a good way to lose one's virginity on account of the fact that the angle of the body and the erect penis go together quite well, although I'd always considered the missionary position to be a better one for that. I lost my own virginity having sex in the traditional astride position, which also worked pretty well. But I digress. It's less bouncy than it can sometimes be in softcore, Xula actually rocking back and forth on top of Omar rather than riding him, which I think works well.

Think about it. She's just been penetrated for the first time and she's probably currently adjusting her body to the feeling of his penis inside her. I'd expect her to slow down her movements a bit and maybe rock back and forth rather than just go for it like a jackhammer. It makes sense to me!

Anyway, this goes on for a bit (with rather shaky camera work, which is slightly off-putting, I'll admit) before it mixes to some variant of doggie style - which is believable, because they wouldn't really need to disengage too much. And in fact, during the mix, you get about half a second of Xula leaning forwards and Omar rearing up onto his knees. This is more familiar to us, as we've already seen Omar doing the same position with Becca! Doesn't the guy know how to do it from the front? Switch it up, dude! So it gets faster and harder quite quickly - but too speedily for it to be believable - until 03:35, where it finally (and surprisingly) mixes to the dénouement, which is... oral sex.

I know. It usually happens first, right? But I guess there's no rule that actually say you can't have oral sex after sexual intercourse, and it does fill up the last couple of minutes with some nice shots of Xula lying on her back and smiling while Omar's head is somewhere which may or may not actually be near her genitals, and then - this is unusual - some simulated oral sex from Xula to Omar, which (although she's bobbing her head up and down, something they usually forget to do in these films) is a bit lame, due to the fact that Mike Roman is making some truly stupid faces while Featherly is clearly kissing his stomach. Still, it's a brave attempt.

It ends with a cuddle, which is lovely!

Okay, so I like... some of this scene. I'd be lying if I said I didn't often skip to the sex bits, as they're usually my favourite bits of any scene and the rest of it seems slightly limp, as if they're just filling time with foreplay which I like to assume has already happened and oral sex which seems a slightly weak ending to a more dramatic sequence of events, but it's done well enough, it suits the characters and the setting's quite nice. It's outside - most of the scenes in this film are - and in a more idyllic setting than Becca's tribal village. The costumes, for what we see of them, are vaguely well-thought-out, and it all looks pretty - down to Susan Featherly's long blonde hair, which I like.

But it does have to be said: one thing I can't forgive is the music. It's bland and uninspired. I know that that can be a problem with softcore, but a lot of the other scenes in this film have some really good music, which fits the scene and the characters - and even the actions; one thing that makes a good scene for me. Here, however, it's just chugging and undynamic - it doesn't really go anywhere, it doesn't do anything and, crucially, it doesn't add anything to the scene.

So. A good scene, in my own experienced opinion - but one that could be made better by being shortened and having more appropriate music. I'm still pleased to have discovered it, though.

Friday, 21 September 2012


I've posted about being scammed on the telephone before, and (as this is a regular occurrence) I usually, if not always, revert to the same tactic of lying that I'm an IT technician (not entirely untrue) and having then hang up on me. I always make it my business to keep going until they hang up on me - never the other way around. My dad always gives them an earful, but I like to have a little more fun with the scammers. This one even claimed he was from Microsoft.

"You call yourself an IT technician and you don't even know about the hundreds of errors you are having on your computer?" he said, in a frustrated tone (and the present continuous tense), after the third time I said, "hang on a second, I just need to check something," and waited for thirty seconds before doing anything.
"Mmmmm," I decided upon saying.
"Now open that window I just told you to open! How long does it take you to do something as simple as that?!"
"Oh, I apologise. I shouldn't have been so silly when talking to such an obvious computer expert as you. Okay, I've opened the window."
"Now what do you see?"

I paused for a few seconds.

"A multitude of tabs with a different blog about my online friends having sex with various people in each one. The window I opened was a Firefox one, you see, and I've been browsing."
"I didn't tell you to open a Firefox window!"
"Maybe not, but I'm bored and wanted to read some sex blogs instead."
"You're meant to be an IT technician!"
"Perhaps. But whatever I am, I know what a scam is."

Click. Whirrrrrrrrrr.......

I got this one talking for over ten minutes. I hope they pay lots for international calls.

Thursday, 20 September 2012

No ifs, no buts...

So, erm, yeah, it looks like I won't be attending the SlutWalk this Saturday.

Yeah, it's Saturday. I didn't know either. In fact, I only just found out today when it was. It was heavily publicised last year, but either it fell of the radar or I did this year, and therefore I didn't know when it was on. Given my tendency towards self-deprecation as a defence mechanism, I think I prefer me making the mistake.

I had plans for this year's SlutWalk. I enjoyed last year's, after all, including my holding of a sign declaring my absolute innocence and my resurrection and liberation of a bee, who sped off gloriously into the sunlight - a symbol of hope for the future, maybe. And a lot of luck.

What I wanted to do this year was walk through London with a cabal of south-eastern sex bloggers, holding a banner and protesting loudly against rape. Y'know, because that's what the SlutWalk's for. I'm sure a lot of fellow sex bloggers would want to go. Hell, I'm sure a lot of them are going. I, however, am not. Why? Because I committed myself, back in June, to something specific on this one specific day and it's not something I can get out of.

Not like I didn't try. I even asked when it finished (it's not important what it is; suffice to say, it's not interesting either) so I could slip off at lunchtime and join my slutty whatever-the-female-equivalent-of-brethren-is. But I can't do it. I can't go, and that's that.

But if anyone reading this is going, spare a thought for those who aren't, and appreciate that we'll be with you in spirit. Or at least I will.

Save another bee for me.

Wednesday, 19 September 2012


When I was younger, I was in a band called "The Piraten". It's one of the bands I started and a lot of the bands I've participated in since then have had their roots in what we did back then, over ten years ago; I'm still playing some of the songs now. Okay, so the name may be confusing - we weren't a pirate band (we had one song about pirates, but we never got it finished); we were named after the Edelweiss Pirates (Edelweißpiraten), on account of the fact that the first song we learned how to play as a group (and I use the term loosely) was their anthem. I later on re-did the song in the original German, but that's not too important.

Lightsinthesky will always claim that the ensemble consisted merely of the two of us (he plays the bass, which he thinks makes him cool), but he's not entirely right about that. We had another friend, Einstein, who'd gotten an electric guitar from his parents after passing his GCSEs (all I got was a VHS of Pokémon 2000); he couldn't play, but looked very earnest strumming one chord. We also had a drummer whose job it was to hit "go" on the drum track I'd programmed and a backing vocalist who never turned up. Despite all this, we managed to record a couple of tracks in semi-decent quality and almost made an album - Einstein even drew cover art, featuring pirates - but still, it never happened.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, on this day we think about pirates, and as a result, every September 19 I sing the Edelweiss Pirates song to myself at some point. Humming it softly as I got on the train from work this morning got me thinking about that time in the sixth from with guitars and grit, and accordingly Lightsinthesky popped into my head (I travelled into work with Einstein, but I haven't seen Lightsinthesky for a while). He was a very... interesting person.

Although we were friends, he had some odd habits. I remember him printing out a picture of Louise and carrying it around in his pocket, periodically taking it out to have a stare. I remember him making a list of all the girls in our year and then crossing them out as they all either started going out with someone or rejected him. I also remember us both having a crush on the same girl at one point - only he was more overt about it; I didn't tell anyone. Apart from her best friend, but that's another story. He asked her out, and was rejected, of course. I didn't.

The reason girls didn't seem to like him much was that he was quite desperate for attention, sex, or both. He used to yell about casual sex in the corridor, act out sex with his beanbag (yes, he really did this, in front of me for some reason), go on about topless babes for an unreasonably long period of time, and assume that, as he liked metal, that anyone else who did would be an automatic lay for him - "Yay! She's a metalhead! We can have sex!" However, to everyone's surprise (himself included, I'd wager!), when we got to the sixth form - around the time The Piraten started - he managed to have sex once ("You bastard!" he shouted to me once as I entered Einstein's garage to find them playing pool. "Guess who lost it on holiday?"), and after he started playing bass, indulged in a little Dutch courage every now and again and wantonly started sleeping with random girls - all of whom were nice-looking, but also probably quite desperate.

The last time I really saw him properly was when we went to feed ducks in a local park and he rhapsodised to me about someone he was having sex with - she had a boyfriend, but was using him for sex - and asked how to get into one of my friends' pants (my hairy friend's older sister. In her words, "it was never going to happen."). He seemed happy with his sexual lot - he was, after all, having more sex than me, and that had always been his aim since we were both 12 - and I had no indication as to how he was doing for the years immediately following that.

Until I saw him join a group for "NSA encounters in Greater London" on Facebook.

Nice to know he's still the same old pirate.

Monday, 17 September 2012


Baby, you light up my world like nobody else
The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed
But when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell
You don't know you're beautiful
That's what makes you beautiful

Beauty is not subjective, nor is it only skin deep. It's not even a happy medium between the two. I've always maintained that everyone is beautiful in their own way, and that the fabled "eye of the beholder" relates to someone's ability to identify either inner or outer beauty (or both), and not boil it down to purely aesthetic qualities.

Don't worry, this isn't a rant about glossy magazine models being identified as beauties, far from it. Many of them are physically beautiful - or at least in our culture, they are. And that's important. I'm not going to pretend it isn't. However, I'm sure some of them are superficial inside, and some are deep. That's how people work... I'm friends with a model who is both aware and pleased of the fact that she is incredibly good-looking. Stunning, even. But she's much more than that - and was assigned the nickname Pug by one of her friends, of which she is pleased. Much more than meets the eye, then.

I was told once (by a girl who asked me to pick a random word from a bowl) that I need to turn my eye to appreciate beauty in all things. This has the inherent danger of turning me into a flower child, hugging trees (even though I occasionally do hug trees, but that's not what I mean!) and rolling in fields of daisies (although that sounds nice too) while singing Colours of the Wind and inviting people to join me in my evening meal of mung beans stewed in a billycan.* But, to be fair, she had a point. I do try and look for beauty wherever I go, and yet sometimes it's staring me right in the face and I'm completely ignoring it.

I need to appreciate it more. I need to love the beauty of words, the beauty of art, and the beauty that's both on the outside and the inside of people. Because, just as everyone has their own concept of beauty, everyone has their own beauty, too. And when you've got it... well... you may as well flaunt it.

* Not a stereotype. I genuinely know people who do this.

Thursday, 13 September 2012

Fall back, spring forward

London looks pretty in the autumn. We have a warm, sunny day outside - the last vestiges of our late summer have not quite gone yet - but the leaves of my Acer palmatum senkakaki have already started to turn red, the wind is starting to blow, and yesterday we were treated to a rainstorm, which battered against my window, prompted me to feel warm and cosy inside and made a great sound on concrete. Despite what you may be witnessing today, it is turning a little chilly, and soon we will be having a return of autumn to our fair city.

For some reason, autumn energises me. I don't know what it is - the clean and crisp air, perhaps? The pretty mixed colours outside, even in London, grey turned to blue by the advent of rain? The cloud formations in the sky or the particularly crunchy leaves on the street for my shoes to destroy? Who knows? I may feel the urge to be more sexy in summer... but autumn always picks me up somewhat.

It has a somewhat bad rep, it has to be said, for those both still in education and working in academic years (I continue to do this; I no longer work in education, but my mother and a lot of my friends do, so I can't really avoid the summer-is-the-holiday ethic that serves our students and teachers so well), as it's the start of the autumn term, and the return to school (work) does seem very much like a drudgery. But there are positive things too - autumn contains Harvest Festival, All Hallow's Eve, Bonfire Night, and towards its end, the start of Advent (Morrison's all have their Christmas things out; start stocking up, folks!), and if the cold really isn't your thing, then it's a great excuse to huddle inside, wearing comfortable soft clothes, and turning the radiators (and vibrators, if you're that way inclined) up to 11.

And naked bed-sharing to feed off body heat. That's nice too. As is the arrival of a new series of Doctor Who.

I feel autumnal. I'm looking out of my window at the trees of my road and the road beyond and thinking of watching then blow gently in the soft breeze. I'm sitting here in a thick jumper and drinking strong, aromatic coffee, with a bar of rolled oats for company... and thinking about how nice Autumn is.

Watch out, London. I'm going to be enjoying you these months.

Monday, 10 September 2012

That extra half an inch

When it comes down to it, there's nothing like good sex. It works on so many levels and, as much as I've talked about the joys of sex both penetrative and not so, there's one thing that I like to do that I don't think I've mentioned before. It's been a while since I've done it, but it never fails to elicit a (thankfully positive) response.

This only works in the missionary position. I like the position itself a lot, anyway - it's simple, classic and effective - allowing for a lot of deep penetration, simple but both quick and hard movements, and you're also to see who you're making love to, which is one of the main attractions, in my mind! The main problem with the missionary position is that I've always found it to be one where you (rather, I) expend a lot of energy quite quickly - especially if you lose control and start going for it rather rapidly. It feels great, but unless you happen to be a Paralympic athlete, there is a need to stop after a while. Apart from anything else, it's nice to mix things up a little.

And my hips can hurt too.

It's nice, if I'm inside her and there's very little movement going on (although I can try my best to regroup, level up and restart - and almost always do), to push steadily forwards. I don't know about you (but feel free to say!), but I like to get my penis deep into her to begin with, before I start moving, but that sense of intimacy - really being inside someone else - can get lost in all the shenanigans and the goings-on. It doesn't take much energy, but a bit of extra effort is worthwhile, I think, for the purpose of just edging forward, getting all your shaft inside for a while - or if, more realistically, you are already completely inside her, then just probing forwards with a gentle push, seeing how far you can reach.

I know it sounds crazy, but it always seems to work for me - or, more accurately, for her... just guiding the tip of the penis forwards a little... going that tiny sliver deeper.

Thursday, 6 September 2012


I went to the Paralympics yesterday.

I sat in the ExCeL watching table tennis. I have no interest in sport, so I didn't care much for who was playing. I was enjoying the atmosphere and the food. Then again, I felt like I ought to be supporting someone.

"I'm supporting Ukraine," I said out loud. But not too loud - I didn't want anyone to think I genuinely had an interest. Ukraine were playing in the court right in front of us, so it was easiest to pick one.
"Why?" asked Catherine.
"Oh, you know... just... because." I didn't really have a reason.
"Is it because the girl playing is quite pretty?"

I looked at said girl. She was.

I assumed a small voice. "No..."
"Are you sure?"

I'm pleased to announce Ukraine won.

Monday, 3 September 2012


We've all been there - some of us more than most, and myself in particular (although I'm sure some of you have tales to tell of the same experience): we've had an orgasm so powerful, so sudden, so needed, that the release takes you away from this earth for a while. The blissed-out, almost ethereal feeling. The disconnection. It is a wonderful sensation, not having any of those feelings for that space of time. And the re-awakening, while it may well be a nasty taste of reality, can sometimes be a great feeling too. I sometimes feel, when I stretch after coming around from an orgasmic bliss puddle, that I am re-aligning myself with my body. Getting back into it, like Doctor Who after a regeneration.

But today, my body decided to take things a bit further...

It's my fault, really. I didn't orgasm once throughout camp (I doubt any of us did, with the obvious exception of scene girl) - even though it's become a tradition in some ways - and, since I got back home, the orgasms I've been inducing have all been quite powerful. I will admit, however, that my first after I got back - on the day I got back - was a little disappointing. It certainly was effective (oh god, it was everywhere!), but it wasn't special. What I needed today was a particularly special orgasm, one which thoroughly grounded me after the necessary disconnect. I started masturbating with this in mind, and although it took me a while (deliberately), when I finally did reach my peak, it was a fantastic experience. The sexual enjoyment of a while all packed into one final moment. Majestic.

And then I fell asleep.

Right there and then. I didn't even move onto my bed. I just fell asleep, in my computer chair, with my hand still clenched around my penis. My head dropped to the side and I just... left. Completely. I was gone - evidently, my brain thought that it wasn't quite needed at the moment, and consciousness departed in the few seconds after orgasm.

When I awoke, my head was whirring with a mass of confused thoughts. I can't remember what any of them were. It had been some time since I'd had my orgasm, but it couldn't have been that long, as my genitals were still warm and the male ejaculate I'd managed to spread liberally around the place was still wet, waiting patiently to be cleaned up. Once I'd arranged my mental state into something closely resembling order, I calculated that I'd been asleep for about ten to fifteen minutes. Or had I? I couldn't really tell - I was asleep.

It was an odd realisation, to be sure... but then again, I think I may have just found the cure for insomnia.

Saturday, 1 September 2012

While we're on the subject...

You know how I said, less than a day before I left for camp, that none of us were likely to be experiencing the sex-in-a-tent phenomenon any time soon? Well, kindly pass me the salt to put on those words - for I am about to eat them.

By coincidence, our three cars pulled up to the entrance to the camp site on Monday afternoon at exactly the same time as a Belgian guy on a bike. He seemed friendly enough, and as he was travelling alone, we got to talking, accompanied by a little gentle teasing of one of our number (who I'll call scene girl), who seemed rather impressed with his muscular physique. Standard Woodcraft practice, really; find a new person, immediately matchmake. We're all in our twenties, after all.

As the camp began to grow in terms of tent numbers, and the day continued to draw to a close, the Belgian guy - who, as it turned out, was only staying for the one night en route to Brighton, and had pitched a single two-man tent - quickly became a de facto part of our group, partaking of pasta with sauce, cheap cider and bad jokes along with the rest of us, all the while glancing at scene girl, and learning (among other things) her name. I can't have been the only one thinking that some sort of tryst would be on the cards between them, surely?

The night went on, the fire burned lower, and I eventually decided (the fact that it was 1:30am helped me make this decision) that it was time to get some rest (even though it was clear by now that I wouldn't sleep). I bade my goodnights to everyone still up - including scene girl and the Belgian guy - and retired to the tent.

Since there were so few of us, we'd made the decision relatively early on to all sleep in the same tent. Robinson and my friend-who-is-a-teacher were already there when I bedded down, and everyone else (with the exception of scene girl) followed soon afterwards. Predictably, Mane and the young raver were the last two in.

"Where's scene girl?" asked Mane.
"It's not difficult to guess," replied the young raver, after checking to see that everyone else was asleep (or, in my case, pretending, part of my sleeping bag over my eyes to shield the fact that they were open). "Best keep that a secret, okay?"

I could hear his grin, and allowed myself one. So, after all our jokes and sly suggestions (and one mere day after expounding upon the idea in excruciating detail), it was happening to one of us. What were the odds? Well, good for her, I reasoned. Well played. (Well indeed.)

However well scene girl played it, however, what she hadn't clocked (or didn't know or care about) was the ability of sound to travel at a long distance over a wide, empty open space...

I was probably the first to hear it; in between the snuffling snores of Robinson, the deep breathing of Mane's brother and the mooing of the cows in the field next door, my alert ears picked up the unmistakeable sounds of sexual interaction... although I wasn't the only one to be partisan to this, judging by the whispered conversation I then heard, three inches from my head.

"Did you hear that?" chuckled the young raver.
"Yeah, boy!" laughed Mane.
"Jesus, she's loud!" replied the young raver, before both of them collapsed into fits of the giggles, at which (as if to contend with this) the muffled squeaks increased in volume and tempo.

Torn between anxiety and amusement, I fought off the urge to join Mane and the young raver in their incredulous laughter, and continued to feign sleep, a wide grin spreading over my face as I listened to the sounds of my friend having sex, segueing into the beginning stages of midnight rain, shifting silently into a more comfortable position to do so as my halo began to glow.