Tuesday, 26 February 2013

Soft fail

A couple of days ago I went to CEX and bought a £15 box set of films ostensibly by Tinto Brass. Although I've written before about not being able to find any soft porn I haven't seen, I haven't really done anything to rectify this problem - apart from frantic browsing in the slowly-declining HMV and lamenting my failure to find anything - and buying Tinto Brass films seemed like a very good idea, seeing as how here are 4 discs in the box set, each of which containing three or so short erotic films. And I quite liked Trasgredire, too, so I knew I was in good hands.

This is why I should learn to read the back of box sets before I buy them. Especially with money I don't own.

As it turns out, "Tinto Brass Presents" doesn't actually contain anything by Tinto Brass. Tinto - "the undisputed king of Erotica"; have anything to say about that, Cybil Richards? - has merely "len[t] his name" to these twelve steaming piles of subhuman excrement packaged as erotic tales. Directed by "some of the most talented Italian directors working today", Brass' only involvement seems to be the fact that he makes quasi-Hitchcock, quasi-Meyer style cameo appearances (really obvious ones, as well) and has managed to get his name stencilled onto the DVD case.

Why so terrible? Well, they don't appear to contain any sex. I sat through an excruciating while trying to divine exactly why a wife not having the promised affair is meant to be hot. I wondered exactly what ballet dancing sans the Black Swan-style lesbian stuff (even though it's hinted at) is actually meant to convey. If this is tittilation, ur doin it rong - I prefer to actually be going somewhere with my sex scenes rather than having an interruption, fadeout or (worst of all) end credits before it ends up at sex at all!

I don't know what's more disappointing... the fact that I bought this, the fact that it's all very much of a let-down... or the fact that I felt I had to blog about this in order to warn everyone. It's not like any of you are going to buy it, right?


Saturday, 23 February 2013

The Sound of Sirens

When my eyes were stabbed by
The flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

Last night we had sex for the first time in our new bed. Twice. It was really good.

To be honest, I'm not overly surprised we ended up having sex. We'd been wanting to do it for some time, but Things kept getting in the way. Once we'd dispensed of (ignored, actually) said Things, it was relatively ease to slip into bed and get in the mood... although the fact that Jilly returned from the bathroom to find me reclining on the bed in the supine position without wearing any clothes probably proved to be the kickstart.

I'm not complaining.

About one and a half hours later (give or take...), I found myself lying on my back completely spent. Opening my eyes just a crack, I was confronted by a few sensations from our window I found comforting. In odd ways.

The second was a flashing neon light from a police car. It drew my eyes towards other lights in the distance - traffic lights, Belisha beacons, street lamps. Our window looks towards (although not directly on to, but we're close enough) a main road (dual carriageway, actually), which our new house is about half a mile from. A glance out of the window game me a view of office blocks, flat high-rises and an upmarket hotel, in addition to the road's car-regulating features.

In many other situations this would be ugly, depressing or downright unpleasant. But we don't live in a  bad area, and more crucially, I like urban landscapes. The view reminded me of the cityscape sprawl that greeted me out of the window of my room at university - on the top floor of a high tower in a major city. My parents' house doesn't have this sort of view... but seeing and hearing distant cars going on their way makes me think of movement myself, and I do love to travel.

However, the first came before I even looked out of the window. Almost immediately after I entered the post-orgasmic "not here, leave a message after the tone" phase, my ears clocked an emergency siren (possibly from the aforementioned police car, although it probably could have been any of the emergency services - cave rescue notwithstanding). I found this comforting.

You are probably wondering why (I should hope so, at least). Well, barring the first year at university (in the tower), I've always lived in the centre of suburbia, especially counting the 25 years of my life (minus half of three) during which I lived in the same house. In all these locations, there is the occasional wail of an emergency service vehicle coming or going - although nothing too immediate. It's always been distant, but with the same main road being relatively near my parents' home and this new locale, it's not unknown for the sound to be heard.

It takes me back to the multitude of times I've been lying on my back post-orgasm. It reminds me of times I've been warm and safe. It's an audible memory of the release I had after a long and hard day. Being in the same familiar state with the same familiar sound makes me feel that relaxation once again.

And if it's a siren, so be it. It works for me.

We all need our comfort.

Friday, 22 February 2013

Sharing a Moment

We were lying under the bedclothes, our hands held in a tight, but not painful, clasp. I wasn't wearing much... and neither was she. We were wearing things - it's winter, and winter is cold! - but not, y'know, much. Crucially, with one swift movement I could have had my trousers off and easy access to my penis. It's quite a fortunate incident when that sort of thing happens.

"I want to feel you come," she whispered into my ear. "I want to hold you while you come."

"Are you going to come too?" I said, curiously, while (not so) surreptitiously removing my pyjama trousers and kicking them across the room - which wasn't far, as our room is about four metres squared.

My eyes snapped open, looking for a visual cue. As it was pitch dark, I couldn't get one... but I could certainly feel one. Confident that we'd be sharing a moment together, I abandoned myself to the heady bliss of masturbation, gleeful that this would be the first time we had our orgasms in the new house. Not quite the first time we have sex... but the first time that we orgasm. Together. It should be, I reasoned, recorded appropriately.

My mind, dormant for a relatively long time in self-pleasuring terms, immediately plunged into its deepest reserves of sexual triggers... and judging by the shudders I could feel directly to my right, she was there too (or, at least, in her equivalent). With barely a warning, not a squeak, not even bothering to throw off the bedcovers, I let myself go, and came, feeling my stomach, chest and hand getting soaked in the warm, wet and welcoming familiar sensation.

I reached for a wet wipe without turning the lights on. She was still making short, sharp motions in the bed, and her breathing was getting heavier. Clearly mine wasn't going to be the end of the orgasms that night.

Tuesday, 19 February 2013

TMI _______: ____ in the ______

Wow, the TMI Tuesday blog guys worked really hard on the introductory text for today's entry. Anyway, here are my usual ridiculous answers.

Fill in the blanks:

1. I’m the type of person that likes to be _____ in bed.

I don't need to fill a word in for this one.

2. If the sexiest person I know propositioned me for sex, I would blink.

Assuming we're acting as if I'm single here, heh! It's the first thing I would do, since I have trouble accepting such propositions as fact. That is to say, I haven't ever received any. I've had a few in my time (although not nearly enough!), but none from the sexiest person I know.
At least this answer is true up to a point. At this moment in time, I tend to hang out with enough sexy people so it's impossible to divine who exactly is the sexiest! As a default answer, though, the first thing I'd do is blink. Because what else is there to do?

3. The worst part about me when I am naked is my tendency to obsess over my rolls of fat.

Or my moobs or my fat thighs. I know, deep down inside, that I'm not bad-looking, but get me naked and I tend to look down at the bits I don't like and an inner beast wails something like, "what a hideous body!". I've been gaining weight recently through stress, which accentuates it even more.
This is why I fish for compliments sometimes - they don't come from within!

4. I regret my first (and only) attempt to ask someone out.

It went very badly indeed. Took me a whole year to build the courage to do so, led to complete and utter heartbreak for me, and awkwardness on the part of girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on. We're friends now, but things have never been the same between us. I've only ever mentioned it once to her since then.
Of course, things have changed in the years since that happened. It's the same girl who last year talked me through the problems I had with Catherine, and who occasionally joins Robinson and the gang to come to our soirées. She's also less close to my sister than she used to be... which I'm kind of pleased about.

5. The last sexual/kinky thing I expected to like was the most recent sexy book I read.

Although I can't exactly remember what that was. But I'm certain that it turned me on. Big Bosoms and Square Jaws, the biography of Russ Meyer that I'm reading at the moment (still - it's a very long read), isn't very sexy, but it is fascinating and funny. I should read another sexy book soon - I'm starting to miss my regular page-turning erections!

6. Recently, I took part in a discussion about blowjobs with someone.

On Twitter, anyway.
I also just had a nice kiss, but I wanted to me more original with my answers to that!

Bonus: You have been kidnapped by lesbians and dragged into a lesbian orgy, what are you going to do?

Well, I'd... [IF YOU WANT TO HEAR MORE, CALL 0891...]

Monday, 18 February 2013


Bereft (somewhat) of things to write over the past few days, I took to Twitter this morning to ask my nearest and dearest if they had any ideas of things I could write about. Due to the immense amounts of stress that have been floating around recently, I would have preferred something slightly more  upbeat. The Lady came up with the rather ingenious idea of identifying, and reporting upon, small aspects of the whole "moving in together" thing.

The exact wording was:

The nice little things you notice about living with someone / moving in together.

I will admit this rings alarm bells. Why? Well, it brings back... memories. In the sixth form, one of my well-meaning friends discovered her computer and started sending e-mails. Because I used to send her messages like "crying with bitter sadness", she decided to cheer me up by sending me e-mails titled such things as "THE GOOD THINGS IN LIFE", wherein she listed things which cheered her up, such as: "MY BOYFRIEND SIMON, BECAUSE HE IS SO LOVING AND CARING FOR ME". I wouldn't have minded so much, but she was shouting, and I found her e-mail just a little too self-satisfied for my tastes. In a bad mood, I sent one back, laden with sarcasm.

She didn't get it, and sent an angry e-mail back, including such witty gibes as "PAGANS DON'T BELIEVE IN GOD". This was the beginning of something of a rift between us, and things have never been the same. Eventually she married Simon, had two ridiculously-named children and now lives in a small flat around the corner from where we are now. I'm a little scared about this.

Nevertheless, I shall now pick out a few of the nice little things that I've noticed about living together. As for moving out of one's parental home into a rent-controlled room, well, we shall see. It's two days in and I'm not dead yet.

  • Cuddles. There are few things a warm hug can't solve, and at my loneliest of moments when I've been in bed, all I've wanted is someone to hold. Sometimes, even Oxford can't fulfil this need.
    When you get into bed with a lovely warm girlfriend, however...
  • Excitement. I quite like my job, and although it does occasionally stretch into unsociable hours, I do often finish just after lunchtime... and there's nothing quite like the stimulus to go home when you know there's somebody waiting at home for you. My journey home often takes about an hour, maybe a little more door-to-door, so it's a sizeable chunk of time which is actually pretty good for London. But I know who I'm coming home to. And that keeps me going.
  • Haute cuisine. Only not quite. But one of the things I've always liked about living more independently (and this is judging from three years at uni, first time around, so perhaps not the best judge of this) is the opportunity to cook more. I like cooking. I like eating what I've prepared. I even get a nutty sense of accomplishment washing up immediately afterwards. It's not all pasta, either. (Well, it is, but only so far. I can do other things, honest.)
  • Entertainment. This probably doesn't apply to everyone living together. But the cinema is just around the corner from us now, and one of the many reasons I can't afford the rent is the fact that we both have Cineworld Unlimited cards. We wouldn't have seen Warm Bodies today without those facts in combination.
  • Kisses. For obvious reasons, although as with cuddles, this is a more intimate moment shared. We can't kiss in a room that contains somebody else. Not that any of these rooms contain anyone else. I think the only time we've seen anyone else who lives here is upon them exiting the house at the same time as we enter. Is that a bad sign? ... I don't know.
  • No parents. Not that I've got rubbish parents. And, for all their faults, I quite like my dad. But my mother... well, she is a different story. And it's worth all the stress involved moving out for the simple fact that she isn't continually asking me if I'm out of bed every morning as if my three alarms don't do the job properly.
  • Nudity. Just because.
That's a sizeable list. It's a start, at least. And as for THE GOOD THINGS IN LIFE... well, there are some of them in this tiny room with us.

I miss my cat, though.

Sunday, 17 February 2013

The weekest link

Sometimes I feel OK with everything. Sometimes not. When I don't, it tends to hurt. A lot.

I didn't have a particularly good Valentine's Day this year, despite the fact that I had an okay morning at work (in the company of Twitter friends) and came home to a live-in girlfriend. Silly ILB had agreed to go back to work in the evening to cover some people, so he spent the afternoon preparing for that. He had also taken a lot of stuff over to his upcoming new place of residence, so he was filling in paperwork in what had once been a lounge, but was now a barren room with a tinge of sadness about it.

Jilly was understanding; it just wasn't the best way to spend Valentine's. I'd given her a card in the morning and had a surprise planned for the day afterwards (made affordable by the cover work I was doing - see, makes sense, right?), but unlike some other Valentine's escapades, there wasn't a massive explosion of sex in the time we had available. Some of it was spent moving even more stuff from home to new home, which also didn't help.

The day afterwards was my surprise, being that (after more moving stuff!) we went into London, ate far too much and went to see The 39 Steps. The first time you go to see a West End show with me is probably an experience (ask her), since I'm a bit overenthusiastic when the world of theatre is concerned. This was the second time I've seen it, actually, so I knew some of what was coming. But I loved it all the same.

Then came yesterday.

One week after handing in the deposit was our final push to move. How appropriate, I thought, moving into a new place - together - on Valentine's weekend. I just hadn't factored in a few variables: namely, the amount of stuff we wanted to take, the amount of space we had to fit it all into, and the fact that I don't deal well with stress. Most of yesterday was spent breaking into hives, having incredible stomach cramps, bursting into random floods of tears, and standing completely still staring into middle distance and hoping everything would stop for a while.

That is what I've been doing this week. Kindly excuse my absence.

Normal status will now be restored. I've got a different set-up now from that which I used to have (namely, it's a smaller room; I'm also sharing a workspace with Jilly: although we have separate desks on opposite sides of the room, she used to work in the lounge, but although we have a lounge here, it's not really adequate space to write erotica). There's also no cat; the hardest thing I had to do yesterday was say goodbye to Willow. She blinked a few times, but I think she understood.

Broadcasting from the same postcode but a few streets away, I've been ILB. Thank you, and stay tuned for more of my nonsensical rantings.

Here's a picture of Kitten Natividad.

Because I'm still reading Russ Meyer's biography.

Tuesday, 12 February 2013

Sweat Naked

I chanced upon an article in yesterday's Metro on physical "sexercise" - various fitness tips to help improve one's love life. I've never really thought about sexercise before - apart from it having once been a porn site run by Kira Reed - and personally I think that physical fitness doesn't always equate to skill in bed - it's more to do with the touch, or the connection - but I do need to build a bit of muscle, sex or no sex. Glancing through the mere three tips and wishing once again that somebody would make something like Scarlet magazine for men, I found a couple that I thought I could do without looking like a twat. I ripped out the page, stuffed it into my bag, and went on my merry way.

A couple of hours later and I'm finding myself on my break at work. I know, I think to myself, I'll give a couple of those exercises a go. I return to my bag and pull out the crumpled page. In the dim light of the break room, and mercifully on my own, I squint at the instructions. I start with a plié, before I realise that that one's suggested for women. The male equivalent - designed to strengthen the shoulders and core - involves doing a full-arm plank: lying face-down and lifting yourself up off the floor, akin to a press-up. Then hold.

I give it a go before falling back to the floor after about ten seconds, gasping for breath. Okay, maybe arm strength isn't my main thing. So I move on.

The next paragraph is about building stamina. The example they give uses a treadmill or exercise bike, and I don't have any of those to hand in the break room. I don't think they're the sort of things my company shells out for (or can afford to, considering they only pay me £8 per hour). So I improvise, by jogging on the spot for sixty seconds before slowing down for a few. Hmmm, I reflect, I don't feel any fitter. In fact, I feel a bit like an idiot, jogging on the spot in the middle of a dim, empty room. I scan the page of Metro again.

"Perform this two to three times a week in addition to your weights," advises the article.

Weights? What weights? Nobody said anything about weights! I had enough trouble lifting my bulk off the floor with my hands and toes! Now they want me to do weights? They're nowhere else in the article! (NB: I had no idea, at this point, that I would be carrying IKEA furniture later in the day. There, I've done my weights.)

So I move on.

The final exercise is based around the pelvic thrust, which really drives you insane. That, I'm sure I can do... until I notice that the suggestion is to do so lying flat on your back. A quick glance around and furtive listen at the door convinces me that there's nobody approaching. Taking a deep breath, I lie down on the floor, place my arms by my side, bend my knees... and thrust. It all seems fine, I can do it - in fact, I can do it well. I speed up a bit, I slow down a bit, I clench my gluteus maximus, I rest a little and repeat. Brilliant! This is something I'm good at! My sex life is going to be awesome!  

At this point, I realise I'm making love to the air, and with that, another small part of my life dies away.

Upon reflection now, I can see how much of an idiot I must have looked to the outside observer... but there weren't any outside observers at that point, so I was safe; however safe that may have been, anyway. Not that I could see how thrusting into thin air may have done any good. But I'd completed the session. Only for Valentine's this year, I think a couple of rounds of good ol' romantic sex will do just as nicely.

I needed to finish off before returning to work, however... so I did the plié after all.

Sunday, 10 February 2013

Soft Porn Sunday: Jennifer Behr & Paul Michael Robinson...

...AKA: "Haven't I been here before?"

Since I first saw the Emmanuelle In Space series in my mid-teens, there were (perhaps understandably) a few scenes that I remembered incorrectly, or had the wrong idea about. A couple of them I could recall spot-on, but there were some dodgy memories abound at various points. I can be forgiven for forgetting this one, though - as it's not actually my fault!

Appearance: Emmanuelle in Space - 1: Queen of the Galaxy and 7: The Meaning of Love (1994)
Characters: Emmanuelle/Ursula & Haffron

I'll explain:

In the plot of Queen of the Galaxy (also known as First Contact), Emmanuelle - played by Krista Allen, as you should know by now - takes on the task of teaching an alien crew, captained by Haffron (Robinson), about human love and sexuality - English translation: she has sex a lot. As this premise quite rapidly vanishes into the ether after about ten minutes, the team quickly threw together The Meaning of Love, a seventh film (out of six) consisting mostly of previously-shot footage with a wraparound plot set entirely on the ship, with the exception of the final ten minutes, which includes the entire series' amazing* plot twist. (*Not really amazing.)

Our new room looks like this!
The Meaning of Love features a few sex scenes from earlier in the series, re-cut to make them shorter, so in effect it's actually an incredibly boring film. I wonder why they made it, actually; I'd have preferred them to leave the whole thing open-ended after One Final Fling (film 6). However, one thing I do like about the way they re-cut the sex scenes is that they didn't take away from this one: they added something in.

The reason for the sex is this: Emmanuelle, wanting to teach Haffron how to flirt with women (I know - just go with it, all right?), uses his TV remote control alien technology to transform her shape. She becomes a short, blonde woman ostensibly named "Ursula", whom Haffron has to find, seduce and then work out she's actually Emmanuelle. They're also on a cruise ship, but that isn't important. Haffron finds Ursula (played by Jennifer Behr), not knowing she's Emmanuelle, flirts with her, then has sex with her, and then does the same with two other women (don't ask).

Plant attacked by bright circle!
I always found this scene rather boring upon re-watching it, because in my mind the scene involved sex in the missionary position with Ursula still wearing hold-ups, whereas the scene actually involves sex from behind (a kneeling doggy position, although I'm not sure if that's actually possible), followed by the classic astride position. Ursula's legs are clad in black hosiery, but it's not what I remembered happening - hence the confusion.

Turns out that my ILBrain wasn't wrong after all. They do have sex in the missionary position, but it's cut from Queen of the Galaxy. In a one-off, they show the complete scene in The Meaning of Love, one minute of missionary position intact!

Anyway, so the scene starts off with some stupidity involving cherries and cream (yes, it sounds better than it actually is). As I've said, the sex from behind kind of bores me. It's shot pretty well, despite the fact that this is one of their 3D merry-go-round scenes and there's a bloody great plant in the way, but (even for soft porn) it seems a little too unrealistic for me. You can clearly see where Ursula's vagina is, and there's no strategically placed hand or scenery to show that it's not being penetrated. Plus, she doesn't look as if she's enjoying it. The riding bit at the end shows a lot more smile and is actually quite hot in places, as Ursula laughs at one point before collapsing onto Haffron, who looks confused (as he does in all his sex scenes!). But neither of those bits have the spark that a lot of the scenes in this series have.

Help! The human's about to escape!
I like the missionary position - both in real life and in softcore, as it's easy to film (and allows for a lot of deep penetration). But it seems to be forgotten about a lot in film, as it's difficult to show a lot of flesh (apart from the man's back) in some cases. But there are so many ways to make the missionary position sexy, and here, I think they get it just right. We have Ursula curling her legs around Haffron's back, helping him stay in position. We have Haffron using his arms for leverage. And we even get some face shots, showing (in some cases) a smile. Which may or may not be genuine. It looks so.

The problem I have with an interesting bit being sandwiched between two boring bits is that it's over too quickly. Out of the three positions (no mean feat!) tried here, the first - impossible kneeling doggie with added six-pack - takes up over a third of the time. That's why it's boring... it goes on too long, and there's only so much you can do with the same motion over and over again. Missionary - demonstrating Ursula's flexibility and Haffron's... well, back... provides a good precursor to the end of the scene, whereas without those precious seconds, in my opinion, it's a bit of a lazy scene. it doesn't benefit from the fact that the two following sex scenes in QotG are much better, either!

"Where's me washboard?"
I don't mean to be overly critical - it's a fine scene, but what I remembered isn't what I ended up seeing, and thus I was a bit disappointed when I actually bought QotG on DVD a few years back (actually about nine years ago now!) and didn't see what I was expecting...

...which actually involved Krista Allen as Emmanuelle wearing the hold-ups during missionary sex. Which also doesn't happen.

...and the rest of the alien crew standing around the bed watching. Which also doesn't happen.

...and Ursula saying "that was the best it's ever been for me" after the sex. Which also doesn't happen.

...and this happening while Emmanuelle is sleeping with someone else in another cabin. Which also doesn't happen.

My memory is amazing.

Saturday, 9 February 2013


On Monday I went to view a flat for rent in my local town. Well, I say I - we went. It seemed like a good place to view, but when we got there, the clipped estate agent (all skirt and hair) showed us a minimal room and gave us a price that amounted to about £900 - I had forgotten, when I did my calculations, to factor in council tax and bills. We left after three minutes.

On Tuesday we caught a bus down a long A-road that's near where we live at the moment because I'd had an "emergency viewing" offered for a cheaper flat that had suddenly become available. It took us a long time to get there, and we were confronted with a sleazy man who demanded a deposit immediately on a dark, dank, dirty and minuscule room with a ridiculously high price attached to it. We couldn't leave quickly enough.


And then on Wednesday we walked about twenty minutes to a place about half a mile from here (directly, although the hills and bends in the road made it seem longer). We were shown a double room in a share house. In light of the trouble we'd had for the rest of the week and my parents' constant refrain that we need to move out of the house before they do, we said yes. It's in the same postcode, my friends and family are nearby if we need a lifeline, and it's equal distance from the train station, so I can still get to work really easily. And, crucially, it's really cheap.

We returned home relatively buoyant.

Today we went back there to hand in our deposit and I freaked out a bit. In light of having had a little time to think about our situation, I was positive about moving, and then I realised how small the room is. Despite my mother's continued refrain that I don't have as much stuff as I think I do, I do have that much, and a lot more besides. Plus all Jilly's stuff. There are two wardrobes built into the walls (one of which, probably mine, doesn't have a door that closes properly, and I really want to fix that), and a double bed, under which we can store stuff, but still, there's a ridiculous amount of haulage that needs to be done, and such a small room.

I almost cried. I suddenly felt trapped and insecure. And the weight of having to do all this in such a quick period of time was crushing. As Jilly eloquently puts it, "I really wish we didn't have to move."

While I was at university (first time around), I was in a tiny room, but I managed to arrange it so that everything had a place and, although not exactly roomy, it was OK for my needs. But this is different. There are two of us and a large amount of stuff that needs to be stored. Even if we move out simplistically, with a minimalist approach to what we take (the current plan is clothes, a bookshelf and two small desks - which will probably take up a lot of space in the room even if they are small), it will be a (k)nightmare to arrange things in the room to still accommodate space or make it seem homely. In the barren state it's in now, it resembles nothing more than a prison cell - even more so than the room I sit in at work, and that's got bars on the windows.

I'd like to say I'm confident that we can make the room "our home" - there are two communal lounges, but how welcoming those may be I can't say - but it's incredibly difficult to see that happening if I can't visualise the final product. I may be a dreamer, but my imagination stretches only so far at certain points, and in a very real, very immediate situation like this, I can only really go as far as "scared and confused, naked and alone". Only maybe that third one is optional.

I'm not sure, but I'd appreciate your patience, dear ones, while all this is sorted out.

Although once we've had sex in that room it might seem better.

I'll let you know.

Friday, 8 February 2013

Eroticon 2013: Meet, Greet, 1337


With only three weeks to go, Eroticon 2013 is just around the corner, as long as you accept that time has corners. I'm convinced it doesn't, but what do I know? I don't know much about time (outside of what I could learn from watching Doctor Who, anyway).

I'm pretty sure I did something like this last year, as a precursor to the last time I attended Eroticon. This year, there appears to be more at stake. I had to read the schedule, anyway, and I appear to have been the last person on the planet to have done so.

Feast your eyes on this lot!


Innocent Loverboy (ILB)

Twitter ID:


Must attend Eroticon 2013 session:
All the sex education ones, because I'm into sex education, yo. Also Molly's sex blogging session, because of obvious reasons, and the Sex and the Media panel. As I loved it last time and everything.

Bloggers you’d like to be trapped in the lift with:
My very own Jillian Boyd,
Blacksilk, Lady Pandorah, and Rose Monrou. Why? Because we are a gang, innit. I'll add Emma Whispers to that list, as well - because I've never actually met her, and being stuck in a lift might be the only chance we get to talk.
Oh, and before you ask... no, the fact that they're all girls has nothing to do with it. Well, not much, anyway.

Erotic writer you’d like to write or dramatise your life story:
This is a difficult one because I've never actually read any erotic fiction that really captures how ridiculous my life actually has been. I'll say myself... because, if such an adaptation were to be made, I'd have to write it! Terrible answer, but then again, I'm a terrible person.

Expected biggest fangirl / fanboy moment:
Everyone meeting me. I don't think they will be able to handle the moment.

What keeps you awake at nights?
Weariness, despair, the bitter pill of self-delusion, and When I Grow Up from the Matilda musical. Not that it's playing anywhere outside my head... but it's irritating, because I don't even know all the words... yet.

Interested? I know I am. See who else is coming to Eroticon 2013. Go on, I dare you.

Tuesday, 5 February 2013

TMI Tuesday: Back to the Furniture

I actually wrote this a few hours ago, but I had work-related commitments this evening (read: work), so I didn't get to post it. Here are my responses to some of the weirdest questions I've ever been asked, then.

Not that I'm entirely sure why, but I'm pretty sure this makes me want to put a link to Furniture Porn...

1. When you bought your bed frame, did you evaluate it in terms of ropes, handcuffs, etc?

Nope. My parents bought it while I was at university (they were decorating my room at the time, as I was away). I've had the same bed for the six or so years since that happened. Fortunately, it does have an adequate headboard for tying things to, but as I'm not really into bondage, it's only been used for very light kink. If need be, however, the criss-crossing metal is certainly enough!

2. Aside from beds, was sex ever a major consideration in choosing a piece of furniture?

No. Wow, that was a short answer!

3. Have you ever had anyone else (friend, mum) say a piece of your furniture was inappropriate because it was clearly for sexual purposes?

No. Hey, another short one!

4. Do you have a piece of furniture that has a stain caused by bodily fluids?

Yes - my mattress and my computer chair both have semen stains on. At least, I'm pretty sure they're semen stains.
My mattress also has a bloodstain on it from one of those female things I'm not allowed to know about (we tried to remove it, but it wasn't easy). In terms of my computer chair, although it's still in commission, I've replaced it with a straight-backed wooden chair from the kitchen due to my back needing a place to rest. Because this technically belongs to my parents, rather than myself, I tend to put a towel on it should I ever be naked at my computer... just in case a stain gets there!*
(*I got this idea from a girl in a sex chat room about eight years ago. Don't judge me.)

5. Do you have anything in your beside table you wouldn’t want your father or mother to know about?

I don't have a bedside table with drawers, but on the table by my bed I currently have both a biography of Russ Meyer and a book of sex positions from Ann Summers. They're both in plain sight, although I'm not sure how much my parents might see if they come to look.
There's also a box of smut at the foot of the bed (all of which belongs to my girlfriend), a multitude of softcore DVDs in a box on a shelf, and under the bed a few ILB-related things and some unused sex toys. Although my parents aren't blind enough to assume I've never been sexually active, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want them to find that much stuff!

6. Do you own any exercise equipment that is useful for sex?

I don't own any exercise equipment... apart from a Wii Balance Board, and I've never tried having sex on that...

7. Aside from your bedroom, what room do you have sex in most often?

Well, overall I most often have sex in my bedroom, but apart from that, this house offers up some interesting choices. Although I have yet to use the front lounge for full sex (although I've had a couple of blowjobs in there), I've had sex in the attic room (aka the studio, aka the ILB Hostel), the downstairs lounge and on the bathroom floor. Rooms as yet unconquered are the other bathroom, the toilet, the dining room and my parents' bedroom. Although if we'll get round to those before we move out, I'll be very surprised.

8. Do you have any electronics (TV, stereo, etc.) in your bedroom that are on during sex?

No. I really, really hate that. The most I can deal with is having quiet music on (although in one case it was James!), but I absolutely hate having the TV on or anything. There isn't a TV in my room anyway, but I once had sex with a girl who insisted upon having My Hero turned up unreasonably loud. It was distracting and annoying. I want to concentrate on the girl, not the TV! And especially not Thermoman!

Sunday, 3 February 2013

>format EM:

I went to Erotic Meet last night. Okay, that's not particularly unusual; I've been going for a year, and accordingly have never actually missed one. I still manage to feel, after every Erotic Meet, that I'm missing out on something somewhere along the way.

Wow, paranoia.

Yesterday's was a new format, though. After walking through the Waterloo area, an activity punctuated by my girlfriend seemingly overexcited by things I've seen 4 bzillion times before, such as the OXO Tower and the IMAX, we arrived at the new venue, and then waited for an inordinately long amount of time before ordering food. We then (eventually) ate the expensive food while sitting around a long table before descending into sexual discourse.

And talking about dislikeable celebrities, but eventually we got back into talking about wax play.

Sound familiar?

I am aware that it was an entirely new format - including more food than previous instalments in the saga (although I missed the Stroopwafels that Rose brought with her last time!) - but it had some much better points, which consisted of:
  • It was quiet 
Okay, that's one point. But it does make all the difference, especially at an event like Erotic Meet, the purpose of which being to discuss erotic creativity with other... people. At the Green Carnation, the dancing was fun and the staff were friendly, but it was incredibly loud and the one way you could get your message across to someone usually involved yelling into their ear. The fact that we managed to escape for a much calmer snack last time around is testament to that unfortunate quality.

Here, we actually got to talk.

The one thing that I missed about this format of the Erotic Meet was the performances. I liked the performances, even if I wasn't doing anything; they provided a centrepiece to the whole event - a divider between the opening milling about and the closing milling about. I'm not sure more extreme performances would have been appropriate (or allowed!) at the new venue, but I certainly think that a few poetry readings wouldn't have gone amiss - maybe something more similar to to earlier Erotic Meets that I attended one year ago.

Lack of a microphone may not help though.

So, all in all, I enjoyed the new format. I do miss the performances and the food (although delicious) may be a little too expensive (£45 for two meals - even with a discount voucher!), but I like the opportunity to be able to chat - even if it's about how fascinating wax candles are - and it does bring back good CCK-related memories, even if those days may be over. It may take me a few goes to get used to it...

...but it's still an opportunity to keep up with the community. And for that, I am grateful.

Saturday, 2 February 2013


Afflicted as I am with body issues and almost total lack of self-esteem brought on by being in close proximity to my mother (seriously, she's got me doubting my own existence by now), I do occasionally feel that I have been sorely lacking in airs and social graces recently, mostly because my opportunity to be social has been... well, like air, really: invisible.

So I, of all people, am pleased that this weekend recalls the opportunity for me to go and ILB in a public setting, not once, but twice (originally three times, which would have been more impressive to write) - after a week of working harder than I probably should have been, this is a reward... of a sort. Would be more of a reward if it wasn't hurting my stomach so much.

Anyway, I'll stop complaining.

Last night I fetched up at Sh! in order to for viewings of photographs with referring to Molly taken. The first large-size photograph I saw, that of Molly topless in a field of sunflowers, I recognised instantly, cementing both the theme of the evening and the fact that I spend far too much time looking at blogs. I was, of course, accompanied by Jilly, and not long after we entered, Silver turned up. As a triumvirate (I would have put "threesome", but [insert end of joke here]), we walked around the small store, looking at the pretty things on display.

Oh, and Molly's photos. We looked at those too.

After a couple of hours consisting mostly of being shocked at how hard some sex toys can vibrate, watching Jilly attempt to spank Silver using a fake hand on a stick (it's one of those 'had-to-be-there' moments), trying to decide which photo would be suitable to show your parents (all in all a hard task, but it was our consensus that an explicit vagina shot may not, alas, qualify) and lusting after Liquid Silk, we were (gently) turfed out by the Sh! Girlz and left to our own devices.

By which I mean we followed DomSigns around for a bit before piling into a burger place (which we got into really easily; I assumed Molly had flashed her "I'm a sex blogger" card, but allegedly that neither works nor exists). Four hours after arguing with my former boss about how much money I'd been earning (it's not a lot) and I'm sitting at a table with Jilly, Harper, Molly, Mike, Friday-AM, Ruby Goodnight, and Captain Teflon, among others, having discourse about sexual politics, IRL blogging events and... er... pickles.

My life is really bizarre sometimes.

Anyway, this morning we have cleaned the house, and it's a bright afternoon. I'll be preparing to head out to Erotic meet later on today, to provide a continuation to the festivities.

Wonder if I can get some orgasms in before then?