Wednesday, 31 October 2012


I had my tormentors in secondary school. As a peaceful, clever little outsider, I attracted what at the time felt like all the bullies in western Europe. I had the one who tried to spread the rumour that I was gay, mostly because I tried to tell him there was nothing wrong with being gay. I had the one who consistently poked me in the side for an hour and a half because he knew it would frazzle my nerves. I had the one who threw acrylic paint all over my blazer because he could. I even had a mortal enemy... kind of. He threatened to kill me, anyway. (There was one guy who actually tried to kill me... but that's another story.)

My mortal enemy was everything he wanted to be, and in many ways the opposite of me... apart from intelligence. We were both naturally clever - the difference being that I used it. He didn't, really, apart from take advantage of being in the top set for everything by misbehaving - in the most subtle of ways - so I saw him in practically every lesson until the very end of year 11. The most memorable of these lessons was always our Thursday afternoon geography lesson in year 8, being both the penultimate lesson of the day (English, my favourite, was after it) and the only lesson wherein we didn't have a teacher for the last ten minutes, as he had to go from one site to another for his final lesson of the day (or to smoke. One of the two.).

As you can imagine, the class relished this extra free time, but we did have to stay in the classroom for it. My mortal enemy and his henchm... sorry, "friends"... would use this time constructively by indulging in such intellectual pursuits as composing a song about the size of the boobs of the girls in the class (and myself; I was included in the song on account of the fact I had "big tits"), throwing various things at the back of my head with precision aim, and packing away their stuff early and getting in a power-nap. But this post isn't about that.

Halfway through the year, my mortal enemy decided he wanted to date my friend, Ruthie, who I had originally heard about through someone - it may have been him - declaring eruditely, "oh yeah, she's well fit." Ruthie sat next to me in Geography, and it was during one of these lessons that he decided to ask her out. Although "asking out" isn't really the active phrasal verb here, as he didn't really want to go anywhere with her. He just wanted to get hold of her.

No, I didn't know either. Apparently it meant a long, passionate kiss with tongues, as opposed to sex, which is what I thought it meant. You hold someone before, during and after sex, right? So I was surprised when she replied "yes" to "can I get hold of you?".  As a result, I enquired as to why Ruthie had so readily agreed to let him do so.
"He wants to get hold of me," she leered. "Do you know what that means?"
"Yes, of course I do," I lied smoothly.
"Well, then."
"But you're underage," I pointed out.

Approximately three million people laughed at the same time. None of these people - not even Ruthie - would explain to me what getting hold of someone meant. I had to work it out myself.

Once I had, my mortal enemy wouldn't let go of the fact that I once didn't know the meaning. I'd coveniently forgotten to tell him that I now knew it meant a kiss, so he went out of his way to ask me if I'd ever myself gotten hold of a "gel" (/ɡɛw/, not /dʒɛl/ - although I can't think how else to spell it), evidently hoping to elicit the same response. Naturally, as an ILB I hadn't (I was 13! Very few people had!), and I was pretty adamant that the only person I'd be snogging would be a girlfriend - it took me four more years until Soldiergirl was my first kiss, and that happened after I asked her out. So, although that prediction was correct, it didn't stop this conversation happening between us:

"Have you ever got hold of a gel?"
"No, I've never had a girlfriend."

"But... have you ever got hold of a gel?"
"No, I'd only do that with a girlfriend, and I've never had one."
"Have you ever got hold of a gel?"
"Have you ever got hold of a gel?"

Repeat ad nauseam. Of course, he continued to persist - day in, day out - in asking me this, partially in order to elicit the "underage" line from me again, which I think even he eventually worked out wasn't forthcoming; he ended up doing it just to annoy me. And, to be fair, that was a bit of a success.

Silver lining. He'd stopped talking about my big tits, at least.

Tuesday, 30 October 2012

Mum's .net

My mother has started a blog! My mother!!!

She asked me for information about how to write blogs. As I'm abundantly aware that she knows I write more than one blog, plus I'm aware that the only one she reads is my LiveJournal (although not often because, quote, "it upsets me"), I'm confused as to why she'd think I know a lot about blogging - although, of course, I do. I know a little too much, in fact.

It's quite amusing for some reasons....

"I've got a follower!"
"I've got a FOLLOWER!"

"That's... that's my cousin. He used to live here."
"I've got a FOLLOWER!"
"Yeah. Uhm, do you follow his blog?"
"What? No."
"You sent an e-mail to him asking him to follow you, didn't you?"
"Yes, of course."

"I've got a FOLLOWER!"
"My blog gets over 100 hits a day."

...and soul-crushingly frustrating for others. These are mostly due to the fact that I know relatively little about using WordPress. Relatively. However, I am experienced enough with various blogging services to know enough to be able to motivate my way around the WordPress dashboard, whereas she doesn't have a clue. Not that this hinders her - she teaches primary IT, after all - she'll get the hang of it eventually.

Eventually. When I've explained five times that she doesn't need to edit the text on her "Hello, world" page to get the whole text displayed on the screen and it's all to do with the hideous theme she chose, tried to help her with setting up a links bar / blogroll and then explained that her "about" link went missing as a result, and came up with clever ways of making it look a lot prettier and navigation-friendly - all without wresting her netbook from her grip and doing the design myself - which would help immensely! - it's difficult to stop slamming my head repeatedly against a wall until I've forgotten how to do maths.

So kindly excuse me while I try to guess her password...

Monday, 29 October 2012


Last night I had sex in my own bed, with my parents in the next room (hopefully) sleeping. This isn't a new occurrence - it's happened before, quite a lot of times, but it's admittedly been a long, long, long time since it last happened, and therefore I needed to revisit the different states of being that you go through while indulging in flagrante delicto with them in earshot.

(For those of you who are curious, it's an unusual mixture of glee, guilt and maximum horn. I'm aware that sounds like a cocktail. Multiple Screaming Orgasm plus plus.)

A number of things have influenced how my parents may react since I last had a girl in my bed. They are considerably older than before. My dad's going deaf and my mother has had Parkinson's for a while; this doesn't affect her hearing too much, but my dad - bless him - has taken to reading her books (á la the audiobooks he records, cf. what I used to do for TD), and when they don't do that, they listen to chill-out music (or whale song) while trying to sleep. It makes a nice change from BBC Radio Five Live, but I digress. The point is, their ears aren't usually attuned to exactly what's going on in my room, and the wall is quite thick. Creaking bedsprings aren't a problem, exactly.

What's a problem is the noises of sex.

It's not exactly an unknown quantity with this girl. She's loud. Not exactly a massive screamer, but loud sex is often good sex and she's a firm subscriber to that. In her house (as long as her roommates are absent, which they often are), that's not so much of a problem. I'm pretty sure my parents don't object to us having sex, but it's not really a subject I feel comfortable broaching with them; ergo, I'm not sure making someone scream in the room next to them is the best of ideas. Unless I had sex-positive parents, and I'm not entirely sure I do.

I've never asked.

Anyway. Undeterred (read: turned on), we went for it anyway, and although it was fantastic sex, I was still a little concerned about how we would get around the auditory problem. Putting my hands around her neck would constitute breath play and possibly murder, and I'm not really into that. Hand over mouth is offensive, and it means you can't kiss, and smothering the face with a pillow is a bit too Othello for my tastes. But, as it turned out, there weren't any particular problems in that area. I'm fairly silent in bed myself - except for when I turn into a wolf, and that only happens at full moon - and, although she did make the noises (for which I am grateful, I like eliciting them), she did a very good job of keeping them to an acceptable level - although she did need to use the pillow at one point.

She also let me know that she appreciated what I was doing through the movements of her body, whispered words of encouragement, staring into my eyes and letting girlcum tell the story... which I also appreciated, natch. Plus, if it did show sounds of getting loud, I could always replace moans with kisses. Mad skillz, innit. That's what makes for good sex. Really, really, really good sex.

I need my own place. Someone offer me a job? Or a free room?

Friday, 26 October 2012


I'm not much of a one for writing erotica, apart from the occasional foray into bouncy sex, flash fiction which I once wrote and sent off but didn't hear back about and lesbian erotica which I don't write and never have written, honest, but I know what I like and I know what I'm good at. And one thing I'm good at is identifying punctuation errors.

I'm also aware I'm shooting myself in the foot by saying this. I don't proofread my blog posts and occasionally make unintentional spelling errors. I know how to spell words write, but the occasional typo slips through - I'm confident, however, that I know how to use punctuation, although I use a lot more of it than other people!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is going somewhere. Really.

I read, recently, some erotic historical fiction. Nothing unusual about that, you may think (apart from the fact that I don't read much erotica either, The Pet Shop being a rare exception), but this was unfinished. It was a Word Document. It also wasn't mine.

As I let my cursor fly over the screen, deleting a space here and replacing a comma with a colon there, I felt wonderfully sordid. Here I was, defiling a perfectly good piece of erotic fiction, merely because I said I could and its author said I could if I wanted to. And so I did.

Every now and again, I do feel like a real writer.

Tuesday, 23 October 2012

TMI Tuesday: Then & Now

Kudos to TMI Tuesday for doing some questions focusing on then and now. With a sexual bent, obviously. Watch as my photographic memory dredges up the horrors from my past to deal with this lot...

1. What one part of your sex life today would most surprise the 17-year-old you?

That I've had sex with more than one person. I lost my virginity at 17 and I thought something along the lines of, "right, that's it, that's the one person I'll ever have sex with". Bring the total up to eight and I'd have been flabbergasted.

2. What one thing might shock that younger you?

About me now? The whole sex blog writing thing might be a contender, although I was anti-censorship / pro-sexual-expression then too. I think how brazen I've been might though. 17-year-old ILB wouldn't have gone to a CCK social on an Erotic Meet. And certainly not Eroticon.
What may not shock the younger me (assuming that I'd met Rebecca by this point) is that I'd end up dating bloggers. I met Rebecca through her blog too.

3. What part of younger you's sex life do you look back on with the most nostalgia? (Disclaimer: This question didn't specify it had to be the 17-year-old me.)

The amount of sexual freedom I felt at the age of 23, particularly with The Oxford Seamstress (aka The Drinker). We were both young and free, and although there were a lot of stressful things there, there was also lots of sex. I felt more virile and has more stamina back then, although (to be honest) I think I'm gaining some of that back these days...
Maybe something not to be too nostalgic about, but revisit? Although not with her.

4. Is there anything in the younger you’s sexual ambitions or fantasies you have not yet fulfilled?

Yes. I've still not had sex outside. Or in a tent. Or in the rain. Or in a tent in the rain. Outside.

Bonus: Give your 17-year-old self a piece of sexual advice.

Calm down. Be gentle, caress. Take your time, take it slow. Get her wet, really wet. Wait until she's soaking. Be careful, be good. React to what she's doing. Pay attention. Make her orgasm as many times as she wants. You can do this. And you will.

Monday, 22 October 2012

Glimpse into the unknown

When I was in year 7, I started going home from school via my Nan's house. It was on the way home and, even though my house was only five minutes from school, a halfway stop was always appreciated, especially as I usually got a snack from Nanna and, occasionally, a very lazy lift home. I continued this tradition through until the end of year 9 (or thereabouts) - a routine that I slipped into, mostly because it involved food.

At some point - I must have been in year 8 at this point, so aged 12 or possibly 13 - I was sitting in a bedroom upstairs (although I've no idea why; it's the darkest room in the house and there's no real reason to be in there), and I saw something through the window (and the window of another house - not the one that backs directly on, my cousins lived there, but close by).

It was a girl changing her clothes.

I didn't know where to look. I was very young then, but I still knew what a voyeur was. I knew that looking through two windows wasn't wrong, but here was a girl - who hadn't closed her curtains - taking her top off. In plain view, although I'm sure she didn't think anything of it. And for all I knew, it would be over quickly. So, what with being curious and still coming to terms with my budding sexuality - I peeked.

I don't know who it was. From what I saw, she would have been about my age. She stripped off her top - lifting it above her head in what I thought was a very sexy way - and then put another one on. For the few seconds in between the two, I saw a shapely torso, breasts well-developed enough to warrant wearing a bra (although forgive me for not remembering the colour), and hair which (when loosened from being tied back, as school uniform liked to dictate) fell gracefully down her back.

Feeling both shocked at myself for watching (although it's not like I was up a tree or in a bush) and gleeful, I headed downstairs. I'd just seen a real girl taking her top off! Perhaps somebody my age, perhaps even in my class - definitely at the same school, as the school was right next to where that house would have been. Yes, it was in the distance; yes, there were two windows in the way, and from how far away I was, she appeared about as large as my little finger - 6cm, according to my ruler - but I'd still seen her. Here it was - proof that girls took their tops off. And wore bras.

At that age, although I'd probably started watching soft porn by then, this was a wonderful experience, which (looking back on it now) I feel a bit sullied by. Invasion of privacy and all that. At least I wasn't watching anyone have sex or anything. It was just a few seconds' glimpse into another world.

I returned to that room every day for the rest of the week. I never saw her again. Or maybe I did - but at school. And who knows which one of the girls in my year that may have been?

Saturday, 20 October 2012

ILB 2.0

DESTRII: "All the stuff that was happening to you up there... that was kind of major, wasn't it?"
DOCTOR: "It needed me... it was trapped... I released it and it opened my mind... we freed each other. It was like the last piece of a puzzle falling into place... I think I was evolving."

I experienced something close to evolution the other day. Evolution, that is, not regeneration. I was already well on the path to regeneration.

Orgasms can do amazing things, especially when they are accompanied by a large amount of energy. But that wasn't all I was experiencing. I was under the onslaught of a barrage of emotions, feelings and connections like... well, like nothing I've ever been able to describe. Like nothing I've ever felt before. I was driving forwards towards an orgasm, and at that moment I could have been anywhere. Just anywhere. What was important wasn't where I was... it was what was happening.

And how I was feeling.

I wasn't overwhelmed. I could cope. I was coping - I was proving to myself that I could. And I did. I didn't let what was happening get to me. I let everything wash over me, and then let it flow through me. If there was going to be this spark - this life, this energy - I thought (knew? felt?) that I may as well let it take me. And so I let it channel itself through me. I filled up, I let myself pour out. I was growing.

I felt like I was becoming more. I could have grown a couple more inches, let my skin rip open and my muscles expand. I could have felt two perfect silver wings burst from my back and taken my place among the stars. I could have travelled into the future and re-ignited the dying sun. I could have evolved into a new me. I was on the brink. So close... so close...

...but then I held it back. I knew what to do with all this energy. And I let it go... I let it go forcefully. Powerfully. It was the right choice, as I burst with a mass of sparkly white light, letting out something between a yell, a scream and a note of purity. (And cum, but that's not what this post is about.)  And as I eventually stopped, lay there and felt the warmth and the air surround me once more, bringing me back to this plane, I felt my glow settle. Not without me, within me.

I didn't change. I didn't evolve. I did one better. I got myself back. I rediscovered... me.

ILB is back. And he is amazing.

Wednesday, 17 October 2012


I never sleep well.

As you can imagine, for a variety of rather obvious reasons I have not been unsleeping particularly well either. For the uninitiated, unsleeping is the practice of lying there with my eyes closed trying not to think "lord, this is boring" and hoping I eventually sleep. It's when the body is asleep but the brain isn't. I've been doing it a lot. When I do get to sleep, which is usually around 2am or 3am (depending on when I go to bed and how strange my life has been), recently it's been punctuated by various disturbances - the foxes outside my window having a party, Willow telling me that she absolutely must have my attention now now now, or the sudden realisation that I am, in fact, awake all along and why aren't I sleeping?

I was awoken from my dreams yesterday morning by a variant of the recurring nightmare I have, although why I'm still having it, I don't know... nevertheless, there it was once again, worse than ever, with a little twist in the tail, just to throw me off-kilter once again. This happened at 6, and evidently I couldn't get back to sleep after that.

Yesterday evening, I was determined to get to sleep. I didn't want no sleep and I didn't want nightmares. I was incredibly stressed and knew I needed a good, solid  night of sleep before I started tackling whatever problems were remaining (which I did today. Ultra-productive ILB.), and if I don't normally sleep, what sort of a night would I have being stressed?

So I knew what I had to do. I put the convection heater, which I have in my room now because there are three outside walls making heat little more than a hypothesis, on full blast. That still doesn't make my room warm, but it was next to my bed. I stripped naked, lay on my back on top of the bedcovers, and closed my eyes. The combination of the rising heat and the cool air on my skin were somewhat soothing, but I clearly needed something more. I couldn't pretend I didn't know what it was.

Closing my eyes, I wrapped my hand around my gradually stiffening cock. My imagination sprang into life and I let all my worries and problems dissolve. After a while, I brought myself over the edge accompanied by gentle strokes and heavy, measured breathing. I scrambled for a tissue to clean up and then let myself drift off almost immediately on the waves of post-orgasmic sleepiness.

It worked. I didn't wake up this morning until ten.

Monday, 15 October 2012

Hard Porn Monday

I had a strange longing, earlier on, to watch hardcore. Which, as I'm sure you'll know if you read this blog, isn't like me at all. I don't like hardcore. I don't like the people in it (although I'm sure they're lovely people), I don't like the angles, I don't like the explicit bits and I don't like the lack of plot. But earlier on today, I found myself wanting to have a peek at some hardcore porn. Really not sure why.

I haven't dived into the murky depths of hard porn for a while, preferring as I do to windsurf gaily through the frothy upper currents of softcore. That isn't to say that I don't know how to do it; I just... don't know how to do it.

Obviously I wasn't going to watch any of the hardcore DVDs I actually own. I wanted to find something new, fresh in the mind and, uhm, not shit. It isn't easy, when you consider how fast my trigger finger taps through the timeline of many hardcore videos thinking something along the lines of, "boring... boring... yawn... is that possible?... is that legal?.. has she broken a bone?... Batman angle... cumshot. Lame. Next?"

I surfed through RedTube, putting classically vague terms into the search box, like "sex", "kisses", "some more sex", and "make me orgasm, you insidious blackguard". Nothing really worked... until I found a video with one iota of plot - that is to say, there was a plot. It was lame, stupid and offensive, but it put some ideas in as to who the characters were and why they were having sex, although she was supposed to be a virgin and clearly knew what to do, so maybe it wasn't that realistic.

But at least it worked... which makes me wonder why I didn't stick with softcore. At least I know those stories well enough to recite!

Friday, 12 October 2012

Going Underground

I was on my way to a job interview today, looking uncharacteristically smart - full suit, tie from the '80s, non-leather shoes scrubbed clean - when I saw a couple kissing in a tunnel.

This wasn't a unique occurrence. I mean, a lot of couples kiss, and long tunnels (the ones you walk down, not the ones that the Underground trains actually travel through) are public places, so you're perfectly allowed to kiss, there's nothing prohibiting it (unlike the other 4,123,236 things you're forbidden to do by the multitude of notices they have on the Tube). But this was different. He (a scruffy-looking, obviously cool, young man with a beard and a guitar) was pressing her (a pretty young girl with a hat and a huge smile against a corner in a wall - one of those that looks like a busking spot - and they were... well... making out.

I'm aware that's an American phrase, so I'll try to clarify - they were kissing a lot more explicitly than I've seen a lot of couples do on public places. It was affectionate, intense and touchy-feely... the kind of kiss more suited to a bed than a public tunnel on the London Underground.

The commuters around me all tutted. But they didn't seen to mind... and neither did I.

Why should I mind? What business is it of mine to stop people kissing? Through my head whizzed a few things - who they might be, how they met, was it spontaneous (it looked so!), what did they do, Rebecca Black ringing in my ears as my iPod decided to choose the right song for the moment - and for a few seconds I was lost in a whole constructed world for these two unknown people, lost in their kiss and clearly oblivious to the world around them. They were in their world and we were in ours. And for that, I applaud them.

I live in a country where public displays of affection are not frowned upon or forbidden. Embracing that should be part of our culture.

And it warms my heart, too.

Wednesday, 10 October 2012


I tried to masturbate yesterday. Okay, correction. I did masturbate yesterday, and for those of you who are interested in the consistency of male ejaculate, it was a large amount, and thick. Just so you know. I guess losing most of your body fluid through blood, sweat, tears and raw energy does that to you. The difference is that this time I used a TENGA egg.

Correction. I tried to use a TENGA egg. That is to say, I waited until I was solid as a rock, took the egg out of the packaging and slipped it around my penis, then masturbated. Kind of. Eventually. That is to say, I masturbated, but I took the TENGA egg off before I came.


I didn't look at the instructions. I'm aware they're in Japanese and all, but there are some IKEA-style diagrams as to what to do before you stick your cock into the rubbery silicone and pump away, and I didn't look at them, because I am dumb. Correction. I'm not dumb. I was just horny, and therefore my intuitive reasoning was down about 50%. I've barely ever used a sex toy and, the upshot of it all was, I didn't open the little sachet of lube-type liquid and do what it tells you to do before using the egg.

Also may explain why I needed to stretch the thing out to the size of a small Caribbean island before I could get it to fit around my shaft and even then it felt like a Saran wrap. Still, it did wonders for my erection... since when I took it off, I felt so wonderfully free and easy that it was a brilliant feeling, and it didn't take me long to orgasm after that.

So maybe it worked. In some way. Even if my brain... well...


Monday, 8 October 2012


As of yesterday evening, I'm no longer in a relationship with Catherine. This isn't the place to go through all reasons and methods (well, it is, but I said I wouldn't), so I'll just say a few things.

I ended the relationship. It is the worst thing I've ever done and, no matter what anyone says, I do feel incredibly guilty about it. At the worst stages, I felt more like a villain than anything else. However, a lot of level-headed thinking says I did the right thing. Our relationship wasn't healthy for either of us. There were issues with distance, differences of opinion and interest, and the fact that I write this blog was probably a big factor in it.

However, the crucial deciding factor was that, as much as I like Catherine for who she is, I didn't think our relationship was working as well as it should have done and we needed to concentrate on being who we were individually.

I said that I wanted to end the relationship on a train to see her just before we were going to go on holiday. Yes, incredibly bad timing, I know. But it would have been worse if I'd just gone there directly, sat her down and said, "okay, we need to talk about our relationship." It would have been even worse if I'd gone through an entire week's holiday pretending to have a good time, all the while wondering how to say, "this isn't right, we should break up."

I know, essentially, that I did the right thing. But I hurt somebody I care about, and so in a lot of ways, I feel like I did the wrong thing.

But that is what happened, and that's how it stands.

Comments not allowed on this entry, but if you want to talk to me, you probably know where to find me.

Saturday, 6 October 2012

How not to be seen

I took a deep breath, and after deciding that I couldn't hold it off any longer, I ran forwards and leaped onto the stage.
"Good evening, good evening, good evening, good evening, good evening, good evening," I hollered into the microphone, "and welcome to the Erotic Haha! I'm Innocent Loverboy. Are you adequately prepared to laugh?"
The crowd made a moderate amount of noise.
"That was pathetic," I said. "Are you adequately prepared to laugh?!"
The crowd made the same amount of noise.
Okay, time to pull out the planned introduction. The self-deprecating bit about myself was met with silence. The fire drill gag was met with... silence. And the oxygen mask bit, which I actually went out and bought an oxygen mask for, was met with... silence.

I panicked a bit and introduced Mel Jones, who went on and immediately got a laugh, before practically racing off the stage and looking imploringly at Jilly Boyd.
"What did I do wrong?"
"You didn't do anything wrong."
"But nobody laughed!"

"They will."
"What am I going to do? I can never think of jokes I haven't used before!"

"You could start a webcomic," said my shoulder angel.
"You stay out of this!"

I took a deep breath, went back on and hurriedly introduced Frantic Ali. I was aware by this point that I was talking far too quickly and appeared nervous.
"I'm aware that I'm talking far too quickly, and I appear nervous," I said to whoever would listen to me. I was distracted for a while by Ali slathering cream over her body, before I realised I was expected to go back on and introduce Sasha Selavie. I went on and listed her achievements, then made a joke about feeling inadequate that I'd been planning for a week. It fell flat and I vanished from the stage faster than Billy Whizz.

"It's fine, I'm doing OK," I said, although my thoughts were something like, "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck", and my immediate intention was to run as fast as I could to Nepal, where I intended to live as a goat. I hadn't done this badly on stage for a while, and the last time I was met with a befuddled silence, I at least had the excuse that I was singing a song about a cuddly rabbit. Here, I had nothing, except for the task of going back on and introducing Paul Burston.

"Some people are shortlisted for the Stonewall award. Get over it!" I grinned into the microphone. Again, nobody laughed, not even Paul Burston. I let him on and enjoyed listening to his reading, then went back on, did some stuff about the raffle, drinks and being back by 9pm. I then totally forgot to make the best joke I'd written for about three years, despite it being written on my cue sheet. People went to get drinks and I left to drown myself in the sink.


By the time I got back onto the stage, I was somewhat beyond caring, and when I did the introduction to the second half, I will admit to being somewhat acerbic. I was surprised, of course, when my loaded joke about not having any friends elicited a sound I didn't recognise. Although I realised afterwards that it was laughter. Interesting.

That was clearly the way to go, then. So I kept it up. I filled in for Miss Cairo Mascara (after suggesting she might set the stage on fire) in between Mel Jones' emergency poem and the performance itself - which was fantastic, by the way. I got a round of applause for Molly Moore after she performed corset removal skills, even though she wasn't on the bill. I said a prayer for Mr. Mistress while introducing him as "the gay messiah"; this necessitated my abandonment of a whole routine set in the Bronx, but I think it was better than I had expected and allowed me to evoke my Christian tendencies.

By the time I got to Rubyyy Jones, I had at last hit my stride, and weathered both unannounced interruptions and the crowd's chanting in order to deliver the jokes I'd prepared about having a sticky Y key and announcing a list of verbs ending in "save" before introducing her. They all got a laugh, and by the time I got around to watching her strut her fantastic, shoe-related stuff, I'd forgotten all about how awkward I felt at the beginning - I had finally worked out how to make the audience laugh.

Shame it was right at the end of the evening. But when I got my round of scattered, unenthusiastic applause, I felt that I'd sweated enough to have earned every clap. And that's what being a performer's all about... but, you know, next time I think I might make do with a two-minute show piece of my own. At least then I can go home and cry quickly afterwards.

Great evening, by the way.

Thursday, 4 October 2012


On account of the fact that it's National Poetry Day, and also in celebration of the fact that I've finished my cue-sheets for tomorrow's Erotic Meet comedy night thingy, I present here a poem. Original!

This is, in fact, the first poem I ever read at Erotic Meet, back at my first Erotic Meet in February!. It was designed to be a nice little antidote to the stories about getting hit with stuff. People laughed, and apparently I'm funny now. 

Who knew?

I could tell you stories, I could tell you tales,
But instead I shall introduce me.
See - I write a sex blog, and that's what I do,
And I do it - well - incessantly.

The girls? They all like me; they think that I'm cute,
But none of them think that I'm hot.
And there is a very good reason for that,
For put very simply - I'm not!

See, I've got these weird bits:
My face is a mess,
My beard is pathetic,
Don't know how to dress...

I'm a terrible flirt,
I will never be cool,
I can't dance, I can't sing,
Never dated at school...

I'll never be ripped or be strong or athletic,
And I know that I'll never be fit.
But I write a sex blog. And that makes me "interesting".
You want an achievement? That's it!

Tuesday, 2 October 2012

Hardly much that's soft...

Following careful consideration, which could equally be translated as "much frustration" if you push it, I have come to the following decision: I need some new soft porn.

I am aware of how much I have. 9 DVDs, 1 VHS and five full films in AVI form, plus 24 CD-Rs and about three or so folders somewhere on my PC and external HD stuffed full of sex scenes. I know it seems greedy, but I've amassed a huge amount of firepower. And, for the most part, it works. I know what I like and I know what's effective and what isn't.

But every now and again - it hasn't happened for a while, but now and again - I do get an urge to see some new soft porn. It doesn't have to be new in terms of manufacture; just new to me. Something I haven't seen before. It has to exist somewhere; I'm just not sure what it is.

Back in the day, there was a lot to be found on L!VE TV, UK Living, Bravo! and (for a while) Sci-Fi (now SyFy) - which also showed Knightmare - and that's where I got most of my knowledge of soft porn from, although Channel 5's first few years helped as well. Some, if not all but one, of the soft porn DVDs I own, I own because I have fond memories of watching them first time around late at night on my Gran's TV, even if in some cases the scenes aren't really what I remember them being (sometimes better, sometimes worse). I must have seen practically everything soft of the border shown on British TV at least once.

However, the fact remains that there has to be more and I've no idea what it is or how to get it.

Somebody has to be making soft porn. It's an art form as well as a lucrative industry. The hardcore business is flourishing, but what's happened to the companies that made the stuff of the late '90s and early '00s? Surrender Cinema, my favourite of the companies, appears to have very little presence, as I haven't head anything from them for years and I can't find a website. Alain Siritsky's company, ASP (responsible for the Emmanuelle in Space and Justine - Sex in 3D series), can't be doing nothing, but I haven't heard of them since the most recent Emmanuelles, where she appears to be blonde. But it can't have just died.

Okay, so a lot of the actors who were famous for doing soft porn must be getting a bit... well, old. Krista Allen isn't doing it any more, Kira Reed's moved on to presenting and producing and Shannon Tweed is, well, married and probably retired. I haven't seen what Paul Michael Robinson looks like recently. But there are a lot of more recent performers who are picking up the mantle. Evan Stone, who is famous for doing hardcore, has done his number of soft porn flicks and, due to the fact that he can't act but is clearly having the best time of his life trying, is perfect for the roles he's been cast in. Not sure about any younger actresses, but I'm sure some of them still have what it takes, and those that have been around for a while (Lisa Boyle, Shannan Leigh, Amber Newman, etc.) probably still know how to work it.

And production values are never too high. You just need some cardboard sets, a couple of decent cameras and some cheesy music (although a good script helps, natch).

So where is it? I want to know! I want to see it and love it!


Monday, 1 October 2012

Fame at last!

Nothing remotely sexy or funny has happened today, unless you think that walking down Oxford Street in a soaking wet business suit (because the heavens opened; I wasn't doing a Piano Man impression) is sexy. Actually, that's quite funny when you think about it. It just wasn't at the time.

I've - finally - started writing material for the Erotic HaHa! thingy that's happening at the end of the week, which I agreed to compère in a moment of rash foolishness, labouring under the delusion that I'm actually able to make people laugh. At least I'm keeping my running up so I'll be able to make a quick exit when it all inevitably goes wrong.

As a bonus to doing this, however, I got my name in Time Out. This isn't the first time I've been featured in the press - I was in a local newspaper once for coming second in Junior Mastermind 1995. At least, I was meant to be. The newspaper spelled my name - which can easily be appreviated to three letters - incorrectly. Quite a feat when you consider that the guy who came third was called "Vincente Romenellhi". (I was also in Radio Times once on account of the fact that I was in a radio programme. I won a Sony award for that, only they forgot to tell me.) Still, it's pretty exciting. In an odd way.

I'm also on the flyer. This would also be exciting if I hadn't seen it about four bzillion times already. Still, it's a cool flyer.

I should go and write more material for it now. Although I probably won't. I may just ruminate on the fact that I have scary eyes instead.