Monday, 29 July 2013

Stand aside, Peter.

I once answered a question on (whatever it passes for now is, I promise you, not what it used to be) in order to enhance my "sexpert rating". Yes, I too am cringing. Deal with it, jarhead.

The question was this: "If a man ejaculates more than once a day, does the amount of semen produced decrease each time?"

I reflected, clicked "yes" after a while, and was rewarded with the simply hilarious message: "Correct! Unless your name is Peter North!" I was fully expecting a "LOL!!!!!!!" after such a demonstration of wondrous wit and ready repartee.

One may be wondering why the question wasn't "can a man ejaculate more than once a day?". Of course he can. Everyone's favourite young raver does it twice, after all. I've done it twice in rapid succession: once during one sex scene and one during the next sex scene (although that hurt like having my skin peeled off and going rolling around in salt). I even used to do it twice when I played in a brass band - once before rehearsal and once after rehearsal - often to the same soft porn scene merely on account of the fact that I had Virgins of Sherwood Forest in my DVD drive and was too lazy to change the disk.

I loved living in a whole house on my own.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, I didn't intend to go down this tangent at all (you may be able to tell). What I wanted to tell you was that I ejaculated three times within the space of an hour or so the other day. Once inside my girlfriend, once beside her, and once for the hell of it while she was asleep.

Okay, this isn't really a massive feat of hulking Herculean masculinity. It's more a sign that I need to start having more sex because I appear to have started building it up over time. But, joy of joys, in this case - and this is the first time - it didn't hurt the third time.

I mean, it's not meant to hurt at all. But it does. I usually come twice during sex - once in, once on or beside - and that's never been a problem (especially inside the vagina, where it's warm and wet and lovely and please excuse me I need to go and do something okay that's better back now), but I know how I feel as regards long masturbation sessions, and especially after each subsequent orgasm it stings a little more, until eventually it starts to hurt. Mind you, being ready to orgasm and then denying it hurts even more, so swings and roundabouts, really.

It's not that I've never come three times in the same day before. I'm sure there's been a 24-hour period in which I've had sex more times than that (and if I think of one, I'll let you know). But these were all within the same hour. Three very separate, very different orgasms, all equal in magnitude and the amount of semen that ended up in various places at various times.

What can I say?


Saturday, 27 July 2013


Hey, couple of people who may or may not have been having sex in the park behind my house.

I've heard of our young raver losing his virginity in a local park, too. We now know it as the sex park. I've seen people like you before... both in a more obvious way and in the gathering dusk on the rolling hills of another local park. For all I know, you could be the same people. You may even not have been people... I could have just seen a very curiously-shaped bush appearing to be two people having sex. Only I don't recall a bush of any shape being actually on the path that leads around the park.

I applaud you.

It's a lovely thing to do... I assume. I intend to have sex in the very same park at some point.* And it was a lovely night, too. I was walking back home in time to catch Knightmare at 10:30pm, so it's logical that, at that time, you'd think you couldn't be seen well. You'd be right. I didn't see you well. And, since the park closes at 9:15, you'd be guaranteed a little privacy. Yes, there's a secret entrance; we all know it's there and we all know how to get in. But you actually did it.

And for that, I applaud you.

But please try not to make a noise like a dying horse again. That must be very off-putting.

* not a guarantee

Wednesday, 24 July 2013

Your life is an exciting adventure...

I was a smart little kid. As a result, I was actively disliked by everyone, but I did have my share of friends (some of whom also disliked me... although not so actively). My bullies made sure I didn't enjoy school as much as I could have done, but by the time I got to year 7 in the first throes of secondary school, I had found my solace in books. Having been brought up on the Narnia books and The Hobbit, and also beginning to get into Harry Potter, I couldn't wait for my own exciting, fun-filled adventure to start.

Only it didn't manifest. There wasn't an adventure to be had... so I invented one.

I rocked up to the playground at breaktime waving a sheet of symbols such as at signs, ampersands and percent symbols. "Look at THIS!" I yelled in an excited voice.
"What's that?" asked Lightsinthesky. I, of course, hadn't properly thought this thing through, so I just pulled something out of my head.
"An official-looking man in a suit ran past me," I gabbled, "and this fell out of his bag. I can't make out what it is, really."
To my surprise, delight and utter confusion, Lightsinthesky accepted this story without question and took the papers with genuine concentration developing on his face.
"Your printer went funny," commented another guy passing by, something which I vehemently denied.

This is, of course, what had actually happened. My printer had broken the night before and managed to print out a seemingly random series of symbols and punctuation before I had managed to fix it through the simple expedient of turning it off.

"Hey, maybe it's Wingdings," proposed Lightsinthesky. Good theory, but not correct. He seemed to realise this, thus correcting himself immediately with, "no, it's actual symbols, isn't it?". He used to have conversations with himself like this a lot. I just let him carry on as, having started this thrilling descent into spy territory, I had no idea quite how to continue it.
"Do you have any idea?" I prompted him.
"No... but we've got to do something, right?" he grinned. I continued to be shocked by this ready acceptance of what, in my opinion, was a story incredibly easy to discount as hokum. My brain suddenly went into overtime.
"I know what I'll do," I ejaculated while stashing the sheets back into my bag. "My flatbed scanner does OCR..."

Wow, I just felt myself age ten years.

"...and if I feed the symbols into it, they might render as something else. After all, the at sign looks like an A, the exclamation mark looks like an I..."
Lightsinthesky was genuinely excited by the prospect.

I never mentioned this plan again, using my scanner instead to enlarge pictures of Emma Bunton my sister had in her bedroom and then using Paint's fill tool to make her look naked. But I'm glad that, for just a moment, we had the beginning of our exciting adventure after all.

Sunday, 21 July 2013

View From The Other Side III: This Just Got Real

The air practically tasted of urgency as I ran towards the church, fearing my lateness. As it turned out, I needn't have worried - practically nobody was there yet. People were milling around, as is the way, including a lot of people I haven't seen for a while. Going in, my white suit jacket and black trousers not clashing as much as I'd feared, I took a seat next to my sister and unfolded the thin parchment which held together the order of service.

For this was no ordinary wedding. This was one that had been in the works for long enough that it should end up excruciating. This was the wedding of my friend-who-is-a-nurse, one of the friends who I've had since I was six, acting as both voice of reason and encouragement towards rebellion, sometimes both at once, which takes serious talent and large amounts of alcohol. Add that to her Maths-Teacher fiancé (now husband) - MTH - being possessed of the ability to wisecrack at an incredible speed and a strange mixed Polish/Irish heritage, and you have the recipe for a day to remember.

Or, if you prefer, lifetime.

The day in question went past in fits and starts, sometimes at breakneck speed, and sometimes so slowly that you were wondering if time had stopped altogether. The wedding ceremony was rushed through by the vicar, who forgot to turn his radio mike off, so the vows were punctuated by whispered cues and titters from those audience members with sharper ears. The reading was from Solomon's Song of Songs - always good to hear - and my hairy friend (her brother, indeed!) stood up to read his poem well, giving a sly raised eyebrow as he sat down. It lasted barely half an hour - maybe less - before we were all rushed out...

...and then suddenly everything went slowly again. This was the hustle-and-bustle picture-taking part of the ceremony, and thus I was reduced to wandering aimlessly around with an empty cup in my hand, wondering who to talk to and what about. It was only when we gathered all the Woodcrafters around and took a picture that I actually got to communicate with anyone. I also ended up in a "Friends of the Bride" picture, along with about three million others (she has a lot of friends).

Skip through the next hour or so and you find me once again moving swiftly through time, as the sit-down meal came and went with quite alarming rapidity. To my delight, my table contained Robinson and Lovely, Mane and his girlfriend, ILB, my friend-who-is-a-teacher, the young raver, scene girl, Mane's little brother and girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on, so jaunty conversation and building models out of Lego (yes, really) carried us through the courses with increasing speed, and even the speeches (five of them, as opposed to the customary three) seemed to flash by in a trice, before a sudden and unexpected drop right back into the doldrums for a while... brought to an end by cake.

The second half of the revelling I enjoyed even more. A ceilidh was instigated, with both organised dances (I partnered my friend-who-is-a-teacher and we were mystified by what we were meant to be doing) and wild spontaneous ones (The Wild Rover was a particular highlight). I also danced with my hairy friend's wife, who is beautiful, but also smiles incredibly widely. It was a bit like waltzing with The Joker. But pleasant, nonetheless.

But the real triumph comes at the end, as it always must. For a jukebox had been standing idly in the corner for a while, but here it came into its own. The instant the ceilidh band left the stage, people were clamouring to make their selections of things to dance to. From Sit Down to (I'm Gonna Be) 500 Miles, we let our inhibitions go and our crazy dances - often led by my hairy friend, Mane and his little brother, or everyone's favourite young raver - got madder and madder to coincide with the venue's getting hotter and hotter. We danced on tables, we collided with each other, we sat down on the dance floor and performed both complicated lunges and little jerky movements. I got a round of applause for doing a 360° turn. Wannabe was, of course, a triumph.

As a taxi turned up to ferry my friend-who-is-a-nurse and MTH off to what presumably will be a life of ease and plenty in the land of milk and honey (or alternatively a honeymoon in Kenya), we poured out of the side exit to see them off. A ripple of light clapping ascended to a mass crescendo of applause as they were carried off, with us stamping our feet and roaring our approval. And we continued... long after they had disappeared into the night.

And that, my friends, is love.

Friday, 19 July 2013

View From The Other Side II: This Time it's Personal

Despite every bit of evidence to the contrary, I do love a good wedding. Despite the incredible amounts of cosplay and a ridiculous sequence of events, I enjoyed myself at my little cousin's wedding last year, although that's probably mostly because I got to sing a song in Russian while dressed as the
Small sonic screwdriver. Not massive hand.
Eighth Doctor. That being said, there's something incomparable about a wedding that I can't really quite pinpoint. The romantic in me loves the idea of two people bonded together in matrimonial bliss for (hopefully) the rest of their life and beyond, while the gourmand in me goes, "OMGZ!! FR33 F00D!!!!!!111".

There's a good indication of the way to my heart somewhere in there.

Anyway, yesterday I attended the first wedding in a very strange sequence of two in fairly rapid sequence. That is to say, I attended the last part of the day. By the time I got there, the wedding was all done, and the gathering afterwards incredibly well-established.

I've been friends with the bridegroom for a longer period of time than I've known 47, so evidently there's a lot of history there. I'd like to think I'm quite close to him as well, although he didn't actually invite me to the first bit of the reception - space and all that, or he just couldn't fit me in so much - but I was very pleased with the invitation. I was less pleased with the £33 it took me to get to the venue, as it was out in that mythical land known as Essex. Mind you, it was still a very pretty little house, clearly established purely for wedding receptions as it had signs requesting you not to throw confetti too vigorously around the place (which makes me wonder what happened to necessitate their asking that).

What I don't like about weddings is the general milling about, and there is always rather a lot of this, not least for the first hour or so after I turned up - although there was free ice cream, and Robinson was there along with my friend-who-is-a-teacher and my friend-who-is-a-midwife, so I didn't feel too lost. I was clearly in the minority by not having attended the same school as EVERYONE ELSE IN THE VENUE, but I held my nerve and walked around until I found the groom to give him a best wishes card.

He looked happy, but then again, he always looks happy. His bride, who I like mostly on account of the fact that she has a James album, also looked happy, which was rather more of a relief. As a hot day gradually melted into a hot evening and the traditional first dance was over (the DJ seemed a little put-off after he yelled for couples to join them, and none did), we queued up for some much-needed food (well, I needed it; according to Robinson, those who had already been there all day didn't really need any more food). I was joined in the queue by an old acquaintance of mine who I haven't seen since school.

"Hey!" she said. "Are you queuing up for food?"
"Evidently," I said, "as this is the food queue. You all right?"

"Yeah, good. Are you looking forward to the hog roast?"
I fixed her with a quizzical stare. "Oh, yeah," I drawled. "I'm totally looking forward to the hog roast. I mean, that's just the sort of food I'd go for with a bang, isn't it?"
She blinked vacantly a couple of times. "Are you a vegetarian?" she gaped after a while.

"I've been a vegetarian since I was nine," I reminded her. You'd think this is the sort of thing she'd remember, considering we used to eat together at least once a week.

A few hours later and after a few servings of limp bean burger and French bread plus cake with Mario figures on it (by far the coolest wedding cake I've ever seen), I Gotta Feeling drifted through the air, at which my friend-who-is-a-nurse, who I hadn't expected to be attending since she was supposed to be rehearsing her own wedding, insisted that we must, we must, we absolutely must get onto the dance floor. This basically dictated the rest of the evening, although two hours of dancing in blistering heat was slightly outdone by a conga line started by the groom, who decided that holding onto the bride's train was probably a good idea.


By the time midnight rolled around and the venue looked like the aftermath of the Hunger Games, the survivors gratefully staggered out into the cool midnight air and exchanged pleasantries, both bride and groom looking well chuffed, innit.

As I clambered gratefully into the back of Robinson's car I wondered if I felt a bit left out of things. As it had turned out earlier in the day, I wasn't actually needed at work (although I didn't know this), so I could have gone to the actual ceremony earlier - but I wouldn't have been able to attend the dinner in the afternoon, so there's that. The atmosphere was buzzing with stories of amusing things which had happened earlier on, and I felt slightly mollified that I'd missed out on all that. But, as I reasoned a little later on, this wasn't a day about me. It was about my friend and his new wife. And I was pretty pleased I'd made it at all, to be honest.

Young love in the blistering heat... now there's a romance novel title.

Wednesday, 17 July 2013


And so it turns out that today, while I was watching The Apprentice, #weddinghour was trending on Twitter. "Wedding Hour", apparently, was a time period in which a lot of weddings were planned... essentially, a ploy to get wedding companies a lot of business. I suppose it worked, considering how many people were hooked.

Two couples obviously missed this.

The first was the couple I know who are getting married tomorrow afternoon. I'll be attending their wedding reception in Essex dressed in my work clothes, since they are smart casual enough to pass and, besides, I don't have many other clothes. I'll probably be travelling by train and taxi there and back.

The second was the couple I know who are getting married on Saturday afternoon. I'll be attending their wedding and reception in North London dressed in a full suit, if I haven't melted by then. One of this couple is my friend-who-is-a-nurse, and her future husband I firmly approve of.

I love my friends and I love that they're getting married.

I don't have any time off work.

Pray for me.

Monday, 15 July 2013

Moaner Lisa

When I was 17, Lightsinthesky (a slightly dodgy friend of mine from school) started dating his first real girlfriend, Lisa (a slightly dodgy friend of mine from church) - not her real name - who I'd once had a crush on myself, although by that point it really wasn't there any more. Lisa was a bit of a moaner, although she did have her reasons, but upon dating Lightsinthesky, she started to become nothing less than insufferable, what with her almost constant stream of complaints about him to me via e-mail. 

I remember one such conversation:

L: "He doesn't love me, does he?"
ILB: "I'm not sure. Maybe. Maybe not. Why?"

L: "Oh, don't worry, that was the PMT talking. But now you've mentioned it, why don't you think he loves me?"
ILB: "Hold on. If you're going to be like this, we'll have the same conversation every month."

I played a lot of her silly games, too. I cycled two miles to her house late at night because she threatened to self-harm if nobody did anything (she didn't expect me to actually do so). She flitted around on MSN with screen names like "unpretty, fat, and ugly" - so I 'phones everyone she knew and conducted a survey, none of them thought she was - and put on an almost indecent show of enthusiasm towards adults. I recognised the symptoms of depression, but they weren't very similar to what I'd been going through... particularly not self-harm, which (as I knew, also from personal experience) wasn't something to boast about.

In any case, I was pretty much against her dating Lightsinthesky, mostly because I knew they were going to destroy each other. Because they were both friends (particularly Lightsinthesky; I saw him every day), I wanted them both to be happy, but I could practically predict this happening. Of course, it did, and then when he finished it, it was left to your friendly neighbourhood ILB to pick up the pieces.

I got this text:

L: "So, you know the new girl he's been dating?"
ILB: "Vaguely, yeah. Why?"
L: "How long's he been dating her for?"

ILB: "About a week."

(Bear in mind this was about three days after Lightsinthesky had finished it with her and started with his new, younger girlfriend. In hindsight, I shouldn't have said that, but it was more of an estimate.)

ILB: "She's younger. I don't know much else about her."
L: "Are you serious?!"

(This was in reference to my first text; I, however, thought it was a reply to my second. The perils of sending two in a row.)

ILB: "Yeah..."

The phone rang. I was in the school library, but I picked it up, anyway. I shouldn't have done, because I got an earful of mixed wails, insults and the classic moaning. I felt incredibly guilty for inadvertently suggesting he'd been cheating on her. Lightsinthesky may have been a bit of a cad, but he didn't go that far. I apologised for the confusion and enquired as to if she was okay. Of course she wasn't, but she let me know that... with a certain degree of force.

My life spiralled into a month or so of confused messages from all sides. I lay back and suffered, idiotically, the verbal abuse and threats of suicide from her while she rebuffed my offers of advice and friendship - until I couldn't take any more and told her best friend about everything that she'd been saying. I went back to laughing with Lightsinthesky about the stuff we used to laugh about before the debacle, supported my token black friend in his emerging relationship with one of his friends, a long-term crush for him, and acted as the messenger boy for missives from the girl who had once been Lightsinthesky's second girlfriend to her new crush... a guy who looked like Dewey Riley out of Scream who wasn't really interested. I got a lot of flak for that, as well.

Eventually I stopped hearing from Lisa. Talking to her wasn't good for me, so although I was still worried about her, it was a bit of a breather for me. I wasn't entirely sure about what she'd done to Lightsinthesky to make him dump her so abruptly, but it clearly wasn't pleasant. I'd seen what she was capable of, emotionally, and it certainly wasn't pleasant.

Lisa eventually went on to get married at a quite young age. I was incredibly surprised when she graduated in the same ceremony as my sister, implying she'd taken four years longer to complete (or start) university than all the rest of us had. Noticing her name being read out, I went to say hello. She pretended to barely recognise me. We exchanged awkward pleasantries... and then I melted away relatively quickly.

I think it's for the best, don't you?

Wednesday, 10 July 2013


Believe it or not, I know more than you'd think about selfhosting. These words you're reading now are hosted on Blogger, and that immediately puts me into some sort of negative spotlight (although I'm not sure why - Blogger seems to be mistrusted by a lot of people in the sex blogosphere, but I've never had any problems with it), but the current debacle with sex blogs being taken down by both Blogger and the previously-revered WordPress (oh, how the mighty have fallen) has led to various discussions on selfhosting.

I'm not going down that route.

But I do know a lot about it. In my "other life", I'm the creator and maintainer of several websites, one of which is relatively popular (although, of course, ILB remains my pride and joy). Although I probably lose massive geek points for using Word to edit the sites (yes, really), I perhaps redeem some of those through the host I use. It's completely ad-free, supports PHP and CGI, is fast, reliable and limitless in terms of storage space, and - crucially - doesn't cost me anything. I'm incredibly lucky, in fact, to have this space. It's hosted by a good friend of mine, and I am eternally grateful.

(In theory, if I wanted to host my blog elsewhere, this space would be a good place to do it. But this friend doesn't know I am ILB. I potentially have space on 47's server - a similar deal - although I don't want to host this there either.)

I also know quite a lot about domains - where to get them, where to point them, how to fiddle with mailforwards and even a little about setting up an IMAP if needs be (although my friend, the aforementioned host, is more the person to talk about that with - or @DomSigns is a good choice too). I have a few domains (another thing generally not advised by sex bloggers: although none of them point to my sex blog) and I've never had any problems with those either. Nearly everything I've learned about webmastery comes from trial and error, but since I've been doing this since I was 12, it's not too much of a problem for me.

So why am I not moving this entire blog over to some form of self-hosted dealie, when it would probably be relatively easy to do so? Apart from the fact that I plain don't want to? Well, to be frank, I don't think I'm at a high level of threat. I actually think that the issue at hand is a much smaller one than it's made out to be anyway - although obviously for those who lose their blogs it's a massive one - and Blogger at least sends you a warning e-mail or puts an adult content confirmation page if they think there's anything objectionable there.

I don't really think what I do here is particularly objectionable, either. I don't really go in for all-out nudity to any great degree, graphic depictions of sex are here in abundance but very tastefully so if I do say so myself, and there's zero commercial content (with the exception of reviews) with no click-through links or anything that monetises this blog at all. A lot of the situation at hand seems to be stemming from the fact that bloggers can advertise sex toy companies with affiliate sidebar links - something I both dislike and purposefully avoid - and this is possibly what constitutes the "pornography" that WordPress have suddenly started acting upon.

(Albeit in small measures. Like I said, I haven't seen much evidence beside about three blogs, although more have been reported. Still, the sky isn't falling.)

Insofar as where to go from here, it's not clear, but there are alternatives to selfhosting available too. Venus in Slurs uses LiveJournal, which has a more sensible approach to adult concepts (although some blogs have ad support, which is very annoying). Its main rival, Dreamwidth, has nothing against adult material, and by all accounts I've heard it's a good service to use. The problem with both the .BML services is that there's no sidebar available, so there's nowhere to put your hideously-coloured links to sex toy companies or blogroll (the "friends" feature doesn't really cover it that well). It's not ideal, but it will do in a pinch. Although I hope nothing will come of that.

There are even other alternatives like and that thing that MSN runs, but I wouldn't use that. if you really want to, you can set up something using Joomla! (although you may need space for that) and there aren't any restrictions there. And then we have Tumblr. There's always a way out, and if there isn't, there's always a bigger fish.

But for those of you who are worried that your blog is suddenly going to vanish, the best advice I can give you is to merely CALM DOWN. Precautions are one thing - taking backups of your blog in .XML format, for example, on a regular basis - but I can see this becoming something close to a massive panic without regulation, and in reality, I really don't think there's much to worry about. Ruby Goodnight's excellent post makes a very valid point on the subject: making your voice heard about freedom of speech is a positive thing you can do about this. I've always been a passionate anti-censorship activist myself, and as Ruby says, there's nothing to stop you writing to your MP, either. It may not make a blind bit of difference, but it's something you can do.

But seriously. There is no "war on porn" (apart from in the Daily Mail), and certainly no "war on sex". There's a lot of adult material out there, there are hundreds and hundreds of sex blogs, and a few being deleted for monetised content isn't the start of a plague of Biblical proportions. Just be careful, take some backups, keep an eye out... and calm down. It may not happen and, to be honest, it probably won't.

If you want to selfhost, do it. But don't just do it because you think you have to. As any good psychologist would tell you... sometimes you really have to want to change.

Sunday, 7 July 2013

Lazy Ho

My girlfriend and I have this thing... when we are lazy, as can be the case at times, one of us will call the other a "lazy ho". Neither of us is a ho, as far as I'm aware. I'd like to think of myself as not being lazy, either. But it happens. It's the summer, after all... and, as much as summer makes me want to flirt more, the heat can make one quite lethargic. The mornings I spend at work are now a constant battle between the heat of the sun and the cool air from the rudimentary fan I have on my desk. It's pleasant weather, for sure... but movement, to be fair, seems somewhat restricted.

Not that this means no sexual contact. Take Thursday, for example.

I was lying in bed, bathed in something that was probably sweat (although it's hard to tell in this heat). She was next to me and there was something about her position that made me want to touch her. More than usual. I'm usually touching her, but y'know, in the "holding you while you sleep" sense. But this was different. I slipped my hand between her legs. And kept it there.

At first, I don't think she realised how wet she was. But as I started to stroke, I was abundantly aware. I think she gradually became so too. She certainly ended up wet enough for me to work my finger between her lips, the ball of my hand gently massaging her vulva, feeling the familiar softness of her hair contact with the slippery, wet (although no less soft) feeling of her labia. Slipping my finger inside a little further came with the always-pleasant sensation of her inner walls contracting a little, moulding themselves around the shape of my finger.

This carried on for a while. The heat and the hand and the wetness and the legs. And the sweat and the heavy breathing. All this, and when her orgasm came, I held her in both arms as she shook and gasped in air. I kept my arms there, grinning slightly, as I felt her bring herself to a second. Bonus orgasms for my lovely girl. And I hadn't even bothered to take the duvet off.

I am a lazy ho. A sexy, naughty, crafty and very hot lazy ho.

Tuesday, 2 July 2013

TMI Tuesday: Blankety Blank. Not involving actual blankets.

I really shouldn't be doing things like this at half past ten in the evening...

1. If my sex life were a film, it would be rated 12.

12... not 12A. Or possibly 15 if I'm being more realistic. Why so low, when I've been having actual sex? For a few reasons: one, any depiction of my sex life would be tasteful and not show anything graphic; two, I tend to write about sex in a more covert way than lots of people, even though I write about it a lot; three, there's no kink or pain involved; four, I think people should feel more open to discussing sex at a younger age!
Interesting* (*not really) bonus fact: the R18 rating appears for a split-second in the "rating" advert that pops up at Cineworld Cinemas. It's right at the top. All the other ratings are more obvious... but R18's there if you look for it.

2. I got a body for very little reason and a face for even less.

Although my eyes look okay.

3. It’s extremely sexy when a girl is a bit sarcastic, and/or pouty.

I don't like confrontations, and I don't want to argue. But I like a girl with an opinion, rather than a simpering one. And I quite like a girl to pout a little (not in the Victoria Beckham way, more in the "what, me smile?" way). And I really like sarcastic humour. Because I get that.

Okay, here's another one because you're totally not supposed to answer the question like that.

3. It’s extremely sexy when a girl looks down.

I really love the "looking down" thing. Why? Because it's beautiful. The almost-closed eyes and air of slight innocence gets me every time. I like eyelids as well. Don't ask me why. It's just something to do with the way they work.

4. Doing anything naked makes me comfortable.

Before you start calling the police, no, I'm not the sort of person who likes to come home, take all my clothes off and then throw myself onto the sofa. But I tend to be naked by bedtime, and I quite like how free it makes me feel, especially considering how my trousers and shirt are usually a bit constricting during the day. I also feel comfortable being naked around my girlfriend, which I suppose can't really be a bad thing!

5. In the morning, I am always world-weary.

I used to be a morning person when I was young. But I've grown out of that ridiculous concept now. I don't sleep much due to insomnia, and I have to get up relatively early to go to work. As much as I'd like to follow Rose's example and have a couple of orgasms in the morning before getting out of bed, I just don't have the time (unlike the young raver), even if the inclination's there... and it often is!
By the time I get onto the train, I've resigned myself to the fact I'm going to be tired all morning. And on and on the mazy dance goes.

6. I would love to make love in the tent I own.

Still not happened!
Although realistically my tent is a bit small. Still, once I shared it with a guy who I'm pretty sure had a crush on me. He also once mentioned wanking in a tent. As the camp we went on together was the first time he'd been in a tent, this leads me to the conclusion that... oh.


Roses are #FF00CC, Violets are #EE82EE, all your base are belong to me!

Monday, 1 July 2013


I gave away some soft porn once.

Only once. I remember selling some in my second year of university. I had The Exotic Time Machine II, subtitled Forbidden Encounters, on VHS for a while, but - disappointed with the fact that most of the sex scenes had been cut from the release - I sold it on eBay, with the proviso "most of the scenes have been cut" on the item description. It went anyway, for a decent price, to a guy named George. I hung onto the rest of my collection, of course, and it's a collection I still have today.

However, when I was 17 I was still in my "it's a very bad thing to own so let's get rid of it all" phase. I had, gleaned from Amazon by virtue of pretending to be 18, two of the Emmanuelle In Space series - Queen of the Galaxy (aka First Contact), the first and probably the best, and Concealed Fantasy (aka There's More To Love Than Sex), the fourth and also probably the best, depending on which mood you're in. These were both, of course, on VHS (I didn't have a DVD player at the time as it was still relatively new when I was 17) - and I watched each of them once before wondering what to do with them.

I couldn't have just kept them. There wasn't a VCR in my room and, although I was at home at certain points during the day (my free periods being a kind of saving grace in the sixth form), I couldn't really watch them in the lounge either, because we had builders in, constructing this room for my sister. I decided to get rid of them, lest they and their 18 certificate should be found.

That and I went through cycles of getting rid of soft porn and then gaining it back again.

So I took them into school.

Yes, really. I'd vaguely mentioned them before in the common room, but according to a lot of people, my sex life wasn't that interesting (although Robinson and co. seemed to think it was). I turned up the following day with two Emmanuelle VHSs in my backpack, mostly to prove I did actually have them. Lightsinthesky, it turned out, already had Barely Legal 18, although I didn't know that until a few years later, when Louise relayed the news to me. In any case, I gave both tapes, almost immediately, to my token black friend.

He was incredibly grateful - or seemed so. I told him he could keep them; he did so. I didn't see them again until I bought them both on DVD when I got to university two years later. Granted, giving them away probably wasn't the best move... but still.

I never asked my token black friend if he'd watched them. They were never even mentioned again, never mind in detail. I wasn't expecting a blow-by-blow account of sex scenes, the plot or cinematography or actors. The best I can hope for, I reasoned, is that he would watch them, and enjoy them. I think it's a safe assumption that he did the first. But I still remain curious, it has to be said... and when I saw him pop up on Facebook today celebrating his sixth month in a row without alcohol, I had the fleeting urge to ask him about it.

Only I didn't. For now, I'll have to make do with a "like". I hope he notices the symbolism there.