Monday, 29 April 2013


It's not easy to ask this sort of thing. Although I'll admit it's probably much easier to do in the sex blogging world, it seems like something of an intrusion, to just ask the question in such a blasé manner. How is your sex life? Share the intimate details with me. Tell me everything; I want to know. Depending on how much you share on your blog, I may well know already.

Personally, I think it's good to talk about your sex life. If it's a good one, you should be able to share with the world, as long as you're not boasting or shoving it in anyone else's face. If it's not so good, maybe sharing that fact will inspire likeminded people to either beef up your confidence or share their views on how to improve it. And, of course, it depends on how you yourself view your sex life. If asked a question, outright, at one point in time, how do you answer? And why?

I posed this question on Twitter recently. "How's your sex life?" I requested a one-word answer, as well... just to see how much can be conveyed through a single word. And the responses I got were as follows:

Happening. This is a fantastic answer, as it leaves a lot to the reader's imagination, and with my fertile imagination, that can be a very useful thing indeed! I think it's always good to have confirmation that a sex life is "happening", as anyone writing that clearly has their idea of how they define a "sex life" and is confident enough to say that one is occurring, even though there aren't any more details.

Brilliant. This just brings a smile to my face. Pulling no punches here, an admission (or proclamation?) that your sex life is, in fact, brilliant... well, it could be seen as boastful, but I think both thankful and contented elicit such a response. Not everyone would say this every time. But if, at one moment in time, you are able to say that your sex life is brilliant,then that's a moment to hold onto!

Infrequent. Bolstered by hashtags revealing the existence of a long-distance relationship. Having been through three of these myself - four if you count the beginning of the most recent one, although I don't - I share this pain. But, although LDRs have their down points, I think there's something to be said for waiting to see that someone special, as well as the anticipation to be experienced while travelling to see them, as well. But that's for more than "just sex". Travelling a long way for sex may be a bit excessive. But it happens. I've done it. And it's a great feeling. (TL;DR? Infrequency isn't as negative as it sounds.)

Non-existent. This is a tough one to analyse, as I'm not sure (unless you happen to be asexual) that a non-existent sex life, er, exists. One may not be having sex per se, but do you masturbate? Do you think about sex? Do you enjoy sexual imagery, have sexy thoughts, notice sexually attractive people? In my opinion, although it's not exactly the sex life you may like to be having, if you factor sex into your life in at least some way, that's a sex life. Sex is very subjective in many ways; accepting it and using what you can, when you can... and that's a pretty good one, if you ask me.

How would I define my own sex life? That's a difficult question, but I'd go for... Healthy. Why? For the reasons described above. I don't have sex much, but I have it enough times (and with increasing frequency as the summer months approach) - each time is absolutely mind-blowing. I'm sexually aware of both myself and other people, I feel free to discuss sex and engage in sexual discourse with a variety of people at little notice, and I have a huge cock with a strong knowledge of history. (Except that last one. My knowledge of history's only medium.)

So I pose the question again, gentle readers. How's your sex life? One-word answers... and explain what you mean this time!

Sunday, 28 April 2013

A post-sex business proposal

Bottle me this:

A slight, almost intangible tickle hovering around the bum; not unpleasant or irritating, but a little spark that's both there and not quite there at the same time.

The feeling of pressure against the still-hard penis pressed against a warm, comfortable thigh.

The size, weight and texture of her right breast cupped in the left hand during the embrace, topped with the feeling of her nipple underneath the tip of the thumb.

The heat - the comforting heat - of her back on top of the right hand, conferring (among other things) a feeling of security, a closeness, a connection and a sense of place.

The intimacy obtained by laying the chest against her chest, feeling both bodies touch, the hearts beating together and the breathing heavy, but gentle.

Bottle me all that, and I swear to you, this time tomorrow, we'll be millionaires.

Wednesday, 24 April 2013

Pipe dream

When I grow up, I will have treats every day
And I'll play with things that Mum pretends
That Mums don't think are fun
When I grow up...

I've discovered something. I think it might be called "being a grown-up". This is a new and interesting concept to me, and I most definitely don't like it. Although it has its advantages: among them, the ability to stay out past your bedtime, attend "adult" meetings of organisations you've been in since childhood and listen to everyone else making dirty innuendo without having to initiate it myself.

Take last night, for instance. I'd just been sitting in said meeting. The window was open, the cool night air circulating the small, warm room full of grown-ups doing grown-up things. Robinson's dad was eating cake, Robinson's mum was drinking water, my friend-who-is-a-teacher was taking notes, and I was pretending to fly on a dragon.

"Right," said one of our number: a single mother of two. Balding, greying, vegetarian and, like most of the people there, a teacher. "I've got to get home," she announced, standing up and pulling on a regulation coat of lurid purple and blue lining. "I've got the plumber coming in the morning to check my pipes..."
All plumbers look like this.
"Is that a euphemism?" said everyone except me.
"I wish it was..." she started, before trailing off, breaking into a slight grin, blushing and practically zooming out of the door.

Immediately this image came to mind, along with the music you'll hear by clicking here, in a kind of glorious synchronicity. Along, of course, with the urge to laugh, masturbate and cry deeply to my shattered soul all at the same time.

Because that is what being a grown-up's all about: the realism of everyday life.

Sunday, 21 April 2013

Ed Balls?

Year 8 geography teacher: "How many children do your parents have, then?"
Evangelical Christian friend: "Five. I'm the eldest. They were thinking of trying for six, I believe."
Y8GT: "Five?"
ECF: "Yeah..."
Y8GT: "Do your parents watch a lot of tennis?" *wicked smile*
ECF: "Eww! That's gross, sir!"

Y8GT: "Love-fifteen, your serve!" *wicked smile*

Someone's going to need to explain this one to me. As you can probably tell, it's been bugging me since Year 8, but I still don't really get it...

Thursday, 18 April 2013


Ladies and gentlemen, medical practitioners, friends and enemies... villagers, hearken to me! What could it possibly be? The story of the year? Nay, the discovery of the century is upon us! I make this announcement to you, so that you may benefit from its wondrous glory and remarkable splendour!

I have discovered a cure for hiccups.

This was last night, and I am still trembling with excitement. I was afflicted by the little devils (yes, I do know that technically it's synchronous diaphragmatic flutter, but I'm going to stick with "little devils") for most of the afternoon, continuing into the evening - during episodes of cake consumption and watching webseries - and, finally, past midnight, where I realised that something had to be done.

And, me being me, I had no idea whatsoever what to do, so I sat and masturbated to orgasm... and, when I had finished, the hiccups had gone.

I was practically delirious with delight (well, I think it was delight, it's difficult to tell immediately following orgasm). The pain in my chest was gone, as was the constant and irritating froglike noise accompanied by a violent shaking of my body (and, by extension, my bed, making it seem more like I was attempting to sleep on a bouncy castle... which is not as fun as it sounds). And all I'd done was have a wank.

I know what you're thinking, teams. You're thinking that it's all psychosomatic, and that as soon as hiccups weren't on my mind any more (although what was on my mind was far more entertaining), my body stopped having them. But let me tell you this: why would I be aware that the hiccups were gone were I not aware of them in the first place? It's watertight, people.

I masturbated the hiccups out of me and it worked perfectly. I must be a genius after all.

I claim my prize.

Tuesday, 16 April 2013

Drawing the line

When I was in the sixth form, I had a friend two years younger than me, who I'll name BJ (simply by virtue of the fact that they are his initials reversed; I could have called him James Blunt, Jason Bourne or Justin Bieber, but those would have attracted the wrong sort of traffic). Most of the sixth form (not to mention his own year) saw him as a bit of a rarity: a little oddball who didn't really fit into any box, even "outsider". He worked incredibly hard, has very few friends who weren't older than him and regularly attended Christian Union, being the only attendee still in uniform - everyone else who went was in the sixth form. Most people went to argue.

I liked BJ, although I wouldn't have called him a close friend. I knew there was something unnerving about him - he was clean, fresh-faced and well-intentioned, but had difficulty making friends (I saw a lot of myself in him for those reasons); he was close to Lightsinthesky (they met at the short-lived drama club) and thus myself and Einstein too. It was when he was at my house that he asked me a personal question.

"What is it?" I asked, pausing in the act of putting a The Big Knights VHS into the VCR.

He asked me if I'd ever lost anyone close to me. Coincidentally, I had; my mum's best friend (I always called her "auntie", even thought she was no blood relation) had died recently. BJ, it turned out, had suffered something a little worse than this - his uncle had died, leaving him without a permanent male figure in his life. he also told me that his mother had run away from an abusive husband - BJ's father - taking BJ and (I believe) a little sister with her. I felt sorry for him, but also slightly weirded out - why was he telling me all this? I have a good ear for troubles, but I had a lot of my own at the time, and they were well-publicised. Why was BJ confiding in this damaged, questioning, chronically depressed 17-year-old with a massive lack of confidence?

I sensed initially that he was attempting to project the dominant male rôle onto me, and as much as I liked him, I couldn't accept that sort of responsibility. We talked for a while, and eventually the subject turned to sex. Here BJ was incredibly inexperienced - as was I, but at least I knew what I was talking about. He didn't seem to have much of a clue, and the more he talked, the more frustrated he seemed to get. Towards the end of the conversation, he started to talk about the male side of things more, and I got more of a sense of what was going on.

BJ asked if he could show me his penis. I agreed because I didn't know what else to say. He showed me. It looked like, well, a penis. He put it away and then went home. I thought little of the matter, until I got three text messages from him later that day. He texted like he talked, with a stutter (he actually wrote "I - I..." before sentences), admitting halfway through that he thought he may be developing sexual feelings for me - which I'd worked out by then.

I suggested, helpfully, that he might be gay - which he thought was wrong. He also had a crush on a girl in his year, and when he pointed this out to me, I replied with, "maybe you're just bisexual." This possibility clearly hadn't crossed his mind. I was convinced, personally, that he was gay, and that this crush - I knew the girl too - was passing. BJ would eventually divine his own sexuality, although his staunch Christian views would cause problems for him - my Christian views had no problem with his possibly being gay... but that's the flexibility of religion for you.

Flustering, BJ texted me some ideas he'd had about how to "get it out of his system" - although all of them seemed like bad ideas to me. I was too kind to mention the fact that I thought trying to "cure" yourself of homosexual tendencies was abhorrent, but I didn't take too kindly to his plan to watch gay porn in order to be disgusted by it ("but I wouldn't know where to get any!"), mostly because I thought he would be fascinated by it and that may have confused him a little more. He agreed to step back and think about it until anything else happened.

A few weeks later and I found myself demonstrating how to use the Internet to BJ, who didn't have the Internet at home and had barely touched a computer before. I had a framed picture of Soldiergirl by my desk at the time, a heap of anti-live food leaflets next to the monitor and a load of soft porn on the hard drive, although BJ didn't know this. I didn't think soft porn would be his cup of tea. We were talking online to a couple of my friends, when (completely out of the blue) BJ asked if he could see my penis erect - to which I, politely but firmly, said no.

I wasn't comfortable with showing someone else my erect penis - and it wouldn't have been fair on me, or Soldiergirl. However, I also told him that it wouldn't have been fair on him either. It was becoming clearer to me that he wanted more, and that if I gave him a sign of such, he may have expected more. The last thing I wanted was a developing gay relationship, and to be honest, I didn't think he needed one at that point either. I didn't mention it to him ever again, and he never pressed the matter at any point in the future.

However, every time I saw him at school afterwards, he seemed more knowing - slightly more confident and self-assured. Not to any massive degree, but somehow more so. What had happened? I wondered to myself if he had done the soul-searching that he said he would. Was he more comfortable with his sexuality, or did he just shift his focus onto other efforts, like his studies, which (as the grapevine told me) had redoubled - which was remarkable, considering what he'd already done.

I like to think that, maybe in some small way, by drawing the line when I did, but remaining friendly and open, I helped BJ gain some more confidence and assurance in himself as a person. Quite a good job for someone who had no love for himself at all, really.

You may be wondering what happened to BJ. I didn't see him too much after I left school. However, the last I heard from him was that he went to UCL with a student grant. He had a steady boyfriend and was an active member of the university's LGBT society, even being president at one point. Bearing that in mind, I think it's a fair assumption that BJ got his happy ending after all.

Sunday, 14 April 2013

Sinful Sunday: Headless

While pondering what to put in my blog today, I was gently reminded (by myself, though) that it was Sunday, and while there are about 4,385,204 Sunday memes out there (my own notwithstanding), by far the easiest to do would be Sinful Sunday. Or so I thought.

My intention was to take a topless picture of my own body, but in the wanton scramble to remove my shirt, I realised a little too late that I'd forgotten one crucial thing... do all the buttons up on a shirt and it's impossible to lift over your head.

As you can see.

You are likely to be eaten by a grue.
You'll also notice from the radiance in the picture that my halo was trapped in there with me too... so there's no giveaway clue that it is actually me caught under there. But it was me... and it was terrifying.

It was pitch dark. Who knows what might have found me if I hadn't had the presence of mind to ask for a little help?

Sinful Sunday

Friday, 12 April 2013

One skin, two skin, red skin, blue skin

Okay, someone (preferably someone from America) please explain this one to me, because I am dumbfounded.

Foreskin: why remove it?

That's not as idiotic a question as it sounds. I understand that it's removable with a very small operation, and it has been removed many times over the years, to people with religious (Mini's husband) or medical (Mane) reasons. Those I can both understand and accept. But I've noticed, again over the years, that there appear to be a lot of people - again, Americans; I'm not entirely sure if it's merely a transatlantic phenomenon, but apart from the exceptions above I don't actually know anyone - who have no foreskin. It's removed at birth, seemingly for no reason.

Why is this?

I love my foreskin. It's a brilliant shape and it's absolutely fascinating, not only to me, but to all four girlfriends throughout time. It defines the rest of my penis for me - its contours, its size and, especially, its feel in my hand. It bamboozles me as to how one might masturbate without a foreskin to grab and shift back and forth (American Dad! suggests it requires lotion, which seems both risky and expensive!) - although according to Mane there's a way - and, although it's probably made my penis less sensitive over the years, it's a part of my body and my sexuality. I can't imagine life without it.

The no-foreskin thing didn't really bother me until I noticed some sort of dichotomy in seedier parts of the online sex world about it. "Cut or uncut?" was something asked of a friend on a sex chat room, to which she replied: "What's that?". I saw it in increasing volumes on adult dating websites (when I still did that...), usually expressing a preference for one or the other (usually "cut", for some reason), and even on Twitter it's been mentioned, such as @youporngirl once expressing a sentiment similar to, "no uncut cocks for me! they totally gross me out!".

Which brings me to my next question: why the foreskin hate?

What's wrong with it? It's not unclean, it's not awkward, it's not dirty and it's certainly not unnatural - we're all born with one (unless we are of the female persuasion, in which case I apologise and stipulate the clitoris as a bonus that we males don't have). And it rolls back when there's an erection, so it shouldn't be something that gets in the way in any case (and if it does, it's easy to pull back yourself!) - what, exactly, is wrong with it?

So can somebody please answer this one for me? Why remove the foreskin... and, for that matter, why dislike it if you don't?

Tuesday, 9 April 2013

TMI Tuesday: Ifs, ands... no butts

I'm doing TMI Tuesday after a fashion. By which I mean I'm not doing the bonus question, because it's absolutely horrendous. The rest of the questions make me feel quite wistful. Look:

1. If you had a magic beauty wand, what would you give yourself?
a. Shinier hair, hands down.
b. Glowing, soft skin – pass the moisturiser, dude.
c. Brighter eyes, with no crows' feet — I want to look less tired.
d. Nada. I love what I’ve got.

Well, I'd actually make myself thinner, but out of these four, C is the best answer. Why? Because I seem to constantly look tired. Because I constantly am tired.
Okay, that's not true, but I have "one of those jobs". And crippling insomnia... and the weather at the moment is making me feel even more tired than usual. But, to be honest, the look isn't too bad... it just makes me a little hangdog. If the wand were more varied than just dealing with the aesthetic, I'd remove the symptoms, not the appearance!

2. If you were spring-cleaning your life, what five things would you throw out?

I don't like throwing stuff out. I'm a bit of a hoarder, even though I usually plan to live with a kind of minimalist leaning. It never ends up like that. Whether I USE the stuff I hoard...
I've got a collection, somewhere, of 21 CD-Rs full of scenes from porn (generally soft). There are about three discs that I genuinely like, some more which have some scenes that I like, but there are at least five which I barely watch. I suppose they could go.

3. If money were no object, what kind of house would you buy?

A modern one with various rooms and designs, walls of white and round windows with polished glass in them. A wetroom / shower room which is entirely a shower with a large drain in the middle. A serviceable, huge kitchen. A large bedroom and two studies, at least. A studio for my music. And one room for basically nothing, just for kicks.

In fact, just give me my friend Danny's house in Switzerland. That's nice enough.

4. Have you ever visited an erotic massage parlour AND had a “happy ending”?

No, and no. Not that I haven't come close - I know where a few are, in fact. I even sent some e-mails to places to see if I could get an actual massage - not an erotic one: a real one. Lord knows, with the state my back is in, I could use one.
But... no. I've never visited an erotic massage parlour. And even if I had, I'm far too gentlemanly to demand a happy ending. I'd prefer my dénouement to be more open-ended.

Sunday, 7 April 2013

Sinful Sunday: Indulgence

Gluttony ties with lust as my favourite sin.

Forgive me, Father, for I have dined; a luxurious feast of twice-roasted potatoes seasoned with parsley. A deep, rich pie, glazed with milk, the filling (vegetarian, of course) creamy: a mix of Quorn, cheese and leek, making the mouth water and the stomach growl for more. Lightly steamed, moreish broccoli, seasoned with generous helpings of salt... all topped with thick, enchanting gravy.

And the coup de grâce, to indulge a sinful stomach.


Not quite a full Eton mess. But oh, so decadent. Meringue topped with vanilla yoghurt and cream, with a generous spoonful of sugary jam to complete the spectacle.

I am truly sinful.

And they wonder why I'm overweight.

Sinful Sunday

Tuesday, 2 April 2013

Free Parking

The door opened with almost indecent enthusiasm. I looked up from my computer and saw my girlfriend coming through the door, wearing a blue coat and a wry smile. She was panting a bit.

"There's a couple having sex in a car just down the road!" she trilled, dumping a bag of shopping on the floor.

"Really?" I chose to reply. I've never really paid much attention to the possibility that people may have sex in this street, although I've seen (heard, actually) evidence of it happening in the next house along. I wonder if anyone can hear us... although that doesn't really bear thinking about. We're next to a council estate, so it's a wonder sex shouldn't be happening, actually.

"How do you know?"
"They were naked," she twittered. "They were on the back seat..."
"Say no more!" A thousand scenes in soft porn flicked through my head like one of those flip-o-rama picture books.

A few minutes later I shrugged my own coat on and headed out in the general direction of London. I knew it wouldn't still be happening... especially if they were aware they'd been spotted. But I couldn't help affixing a broad grin to my face as I stepped out into the cold, clear air and bounced off down the street, wondering which car had seen more than just tarmac and pavement that day.