Tuesday, 30 December 2014


I woke up this morning in the honest belief that I had just masturbated twice to two different scenes from soft porn, and that I had assumed I would orgasm from the first, but didn't; also, that my girlfriend was watching curiously from the side; that this had all happened under the bedclothes; and that I couldn't get up to do so because Graeme Garden was sitting at my desk and I didn't want him to notice.

I didn't dream this. It just seemed as if this was what had just happened when I awoke, which is why I sat up consciously aware of my nudity, reflecting on why I didn't orgasm so easily and wondering where Graeme was.

Hooray, Radio 4.

Monday, 29 December 2014

A second of reflection

Whatever my dad's watching in the next room, it's probably one of those old films that are always on aroundandabout Christmas time. The music kind of gives it away. And it's that sort of thing that he watches.

I'm alone. Girlfriend is at work and nobody, not even the cat, is in this room with me. I've spent my day doing miscellaneous minor errands - some of which useful, some of which not - and, in fairness, enough time during the late afternoon playing Super Smash Bros. on my 2DS. My parents have cooked something and none of it's for me, so I'm considering what to cook for dinner myself. And I've just logged on to write a post.

This all seems achingly familiar. For the past two or three years I've spent a long time being unavailable for comment by virtue of being at work or too tired to do anything about anything. To be fair, I'm still tired... but, on account of the fact that I've done virtually nothing today, I almost feel like I'm back in time, sitting on my own writing posts like this one and generally, if not actually, quite enjoying myself, on account of the fact that I'm doing relatively little in the grand scheme of things.

I was always the most content when I got a little time to myself, and more so in our old house, where my room was much bigger and airier and more homely (dear Glod, I miss it). I have flashbacks to times when there was no job, and either no girlfriend to speak of or one who lived out. There were even times when my parents weren't around for whatever reason - in 2007 I had a job which I finished at 12 every day, so cycled home and had a few precious afternoon hours to myself, which consisted mostly of sing, dance, write and wank.

Those were the best days so far. The ones that inspired me. The ones that gave me space... the ones that let me breathe.

And yet every now and again a moment like this comes up when I can just feel everything in the right place at the right time.

It can be glorious.

Saturday, 27 December 2014

Year End Review

So. It hasn't been the best of years, and I haven't written the best of posts, either. In fact, this probably won't be the last post I write this year, but even with one or two more to finish it off nicely, I'll still have written less posts this year than any other (with the exception of 2007). Oh, so close... so close.

But I have been relatively successful in terms of garnering readers, and even though I've not been as diligent as I could be, people keep coming to read my stupid blog and that's a mixture of heartwarming and confusing. If you're here because you saw me in Glamour, ES Magazine or Metro at any point, then I salute you (with my hand, obviously). If you're here because of Rori's list, hello! And if you're a friend, I love you. Well, I love practically everyone, but that's hardly the point.

Despite me being a lazy-arse for most of the year, here's a run-down of memorable bits with relevant posts, just on the off-chance you haven't read EVERY SINGLE WORD I'VE WRITTEN this year. Tsk, tsk.

January: One of the first posts I wrote this year was about wanking. Well done, ILB; very classy. In any case, a lot of my posts - due to my erratic but frankly phenomenal memory - dredge up something or another from my past, and in this case it's about wanking when you're tall with not a lot of space.

February: Clearly I was incredibly lazy in the second month, only writing five posts; however, having said that, I just read all of them and quite like them all, so my bigheadedness makes it difficult to choose just one. So you get two, you magnificent people: my first attempt at Blacksilk's Very Short Stories meme (because there isn't a lot of erotica on here and this is a rare example) and a post about penetration, because fuck yeah penetration.

March: The second weekend in March ended with me tottering through the streets of Bristol trying to fathom exactly what had happened, and the following morning started with me in floods of tears in McDonald's because Eroticon 2014 had finished. Here's a post about it
Oh, and in case you want a fantastic picture of an actress looking very confused, this post's got one.

April: One of the months during which I was a very active blogger and there's nothing that really stands out here, mostly due to the very average nature of this blog. In any case, there are a couple of fun posts here, like the one about running or the weird run about wanting sex without any punctuation... but I really like this one, because I got to use Microsoft Paint and that made me feel about 12 again.

May: Fiction! Wanking! CAMP!

June: This was Adult Sex Education Month and, even though I wrote a post about it (on the very last day of the month - well done, ILB), I'm going to bung a Soft Porn Sunday here, in case you haven't read any of my own silly Sunday meme entries. Why this one, specifically? Well, two things: one, I had a lot of fun writing this one; two, it's not a bad scene; three, there's a reference to a Nintendo game in it.

July: I spent most of the summer in Somerset on something close to a work placement, so blog posts here I expected to have a theme; that didn't turn out to be exactly what happened, but I certainly did get in quite a lot of blogging, considering how busy I was. Here's a post about attempting to circumvent a work-imposed internet blocker, here's one about hands-on activism which got me a couple on incendiary comments, and here's one explaining why one of my teeth has a slightly triangular chip in it.

August: There's only really one choice here. I managed to get involved in a multi-blog discussion with the lovely Cara Sutra about sex dolls and review Bath's Thermae during August, but at the very beginning of the month, my oldest friend got married and it was, hands down, one of the best days in the year. He seems to agree.

September: Things seemed to go a bit wrong for me in September, due to circumstances I still claim were wildly out of control. However, I was still having sex every now and again, and because this is a sex blog, I even managed to write about it. I often complain that people don't describe sex enough in their blogs, but this is terrible hypocrisy as I hardly ever do so myself. Here's an attempt to remedy that that probably won't make you horny.

October: A month of basically nothing, during which Alain Siritzky died. Here's my affectionate tribute to him, which includes a quote used without permission and a reference to Victor Zsasz from Batman, and yet still manages to be reverent. I count that as a success.

November: This is one of the most important posts you'll read all year, and yet I'm still surprised I didn't get attacked for it.

December: Hasn't finished yet.
I'm hesitant to choose a post for December because one of the most popular types of post, conversations with my "interesting" friends, hasn't actually made it onto this list, and it should do. There certainly were many amusing moments this year, but I don't seem to have written about them that much. In a couple of days, it's my friend-who-is-a-teacher's annual Christmas dinner, and that's always been amusing before, so there may be something from that...
In any case, as a "so far" placeholder, here's a post about an ongoing project I've started, in which I'm programming a basic sex act roulette. There will, in fact, be revisions of this, on which I'm working, partially because I'm a massive anally-retentive geek and partly because I'm a massive anally-retentive geek who wants to prove BASIC isn't dead.

So as I said... not the best of years, but if I didn't have my blog, I'd probably have gone insane by this point. So thank you for reading, everyone - and please keep doing so. I'd do the same if I were you!

And I've just updated all the awesome blogs in my blogroll on the right. Go read those too.

Wednesday, 24 December 2014

9:30 a.m.

I found myself lying on my back, duvet heavily on top of me, with a soft light from the lamp casting shadows on my ceiling. Presumably it was light outside, but the curtains were shut, so I couldn't tell. That was this morning. I was alone. I was naked. I was ready.

I kept changing positions under the sheets, unable to grasp any sort of comfort, like something just beyond my reach. I should get up, I told myself. I should get a coffee. The day's started; it's Christmas Eve. I should get up and do stuff. But I couldn't. The urge to stay in bed was too great. My body was screaming at me to touch myself - take yourself in hand, it said, and deal with your stress. You need to.

I squeezed my thighs together but couldn't stop my head from spiralling through pictures and sounds like a broken record skipping seconds every now and again. Throb, throb, throb, went my penis, growing harder and firmer than I can remember it being in a long while. If only my girlfriend were in the bed with me... but, as I say, I was alone.

Grasping hold of the shaft of my penis, I started working my foreskin back and forth.

So good.

I kept going. And I kept going and I kept going and I kept going. And as I carried on, lost to the world by now, I grew more and more fidgety, thrashing around in my bed, desperate for just one sweet release; that's all I needed and then I'd go and get coffee and wrap presents and I'd be a good boy just one release one orgasm that's all I need please!


I sat bolt upright, ears pricking up at the sound. Who was it, coming to get me, coming to walk in on me masturbating when I should have gotten up for the aforementioned coffee by now?

Nothing. It was one of my parents. Or my sister. Or my cat. It wasn't anyone going to walk in.

I was still throbbing. Calming down from high alert, I lay back down. I may have even cleared my throat at this point. Flexing my fingers, I wrapped my hand back around my pulsating penis. This time, I told myself, I wasn't just ready... I was close enough. In the zone. In the right frame of mind. Perfectly in harmony with everything. I even pushed my sheets back, exposing my body to the open air.

I could feel it. This time, everything I desired was just within my reach. One final push and I'd be right there.

Grasping hold of the shaft of my penis, I started working my foreskin back and forth.

So good.

Monday, 22 December 2014

I am not a number! I am a free man!

...which is not the first time I've made that joke this morning.

So, as you'll probably know if you haven't been living in a cave for the past few years, is that Rori Sweet (who writes this here blog) has been putting together an annual Top 100 Sex Bloggers - check my sidebar, where I now have TOO MANY LINK BUTTONS, to see which ones I've been in. Spoiler: a few.

I wasn't in it last year, due to my not being a very good blogger reasons unspecified, but I enthusiastically voted this year, and nominated loads of bloggers I like, despite only one person nominating me in turn.


Right, so, on with the list. The top ten this year are in numbered order, whereas the proles are in alphabetical order. Which is one way of doing a list. It kind of makes sense, I suppose.

1. Girl on the Net
2. JoEllen Notte, The Redhead Bedhead
3. Erika Moen and Matthew Nolan, Oh Joy Sex Toy
4. Nikki & Heather, Vagina Antics
5. BD Swain, learning how to tell you
6. Jillian Boyd, Lady Laid Bare
7. Cheeky Minx, Love Hate Sex Cake
8. Lilly, Dangerous Lilly
9. Dr. NerdLove, Paging Dr. NerdLove
10. Hyacinth Jones, A Dissolute Life Means

Adina Rivers, My Tiny Secrets
Aggie, SoloPoly
Apricot, Apricot Creams
Bree Guildford, Bree Guildford Erotica
Charlie Powell, Sex blog (of sorts)
DeepThought69, A Shot of Erotica
d i i r r t y, breviloquence {erotique}
dizzygirl, Toy Meets Girl
Dorothy Black, The Dot Spot
Emily Nagoski, The Dirty Normal
Epiphora, Hey Epiphora
Girl Seule, The ‘S’ Word
Head Swirl
♥ ☆ ♥ Innocent Loverboy ♥ ☆ ♥
Jack and Jill, Frisky in the 916
Jade Melisande, Kink and Poly
Joan Price, Naked at Our Age
Kara Sutra, Sex Ed 102
Kayla Lords, A Sexual Being
Kitty Stryker, PurrVersatility
Marian Green, Creative Noodling
Marie Rebelle, Rebels Notes
Michael, Serafina, & Sinnjara, the Joy of Kink
Mr. A & Miss K, Xtra Curricular
Nilla, Vanilla Mom
Scarlet Dubois, A True Unfolding
Seaside Slut, Seaside Slut Diary
The Happy Hotwife, Adventures of a Happy Hotwife
Thumper, Denying Thumper
Venice and Ryan, Fuck Blogging
Violet Blue, Tiny Nibbles
Will Crimson, The Erotica Writer
Xiao Yingtai, The University of Abject Submission

Okay, that's a good list. I certainly agree with a lot of the bloggers on this list. Some of my old favourites are gone, but then they are old. And a lot of my friends are on it, too. And I'm on it, so it's a fantastic list by default.

And there are some links for you to check out. So go and read those blogs too.

Friday, 19 December 2014

Voyant un peu trop, non?

There's a bit in The Beach where Étienne and Françoise start having sex in one of the network of caves that leads from the beach to the open sea, and Richard is warned not to go there, as he'll disturb them. Maybe it's the late nights I've been having by virtue of my cat divebombing the bed every five seconds, but I ended up drifting to sleep last night with this particular passage in my head.

My dreamscape was a sort of ski resort with chalets up mountains, which makes no sense as I've never been skiing and it's been a fair few months since I read Belle de Neige's book, but in any case, I was out of place. There was a strong sense that everyone there was connected in some way to my sister, rather than me (or including me, clearly, since I was there as well), but in any case, it didn't seem like a sex dream. Evidently I wasn't going to be having sex with anyone.

This is until I was told to go and get Lucie and Mark (I believe this pairing may be based on a real-life couple, but as I've never met the "Mark" in question, I can't really verify that), an Étienne-and-Françoise-like couple (aside from the being French bit), from their own chalet and bring them back to... wherever it was my sister was. I don't think that bit's important. Upon nearing their chalet, I caught the briefest of glimpses of an unclothed Lucie on an outside balcony before she went inside, heard a moan that sounded a bit like pain, and then... nothing.

I crept closer to the chalet over the snow and then, in full view, through one of the windows, as suddenly as a TV being turned on, I saw them having full sex, with plenty of movement and sounds, so fast you'd think it was a VHS on fast-forward. Suddenly worried that I had, in fact, disturbed them - or that one of them would see me watching - I tried to creep silently away, suddenly very aware of the sound my shoes were making. I ended up running away and woke up with morning wood.

This is a weird one, as my sex dreams usually make no sense whatsoever. This one actually appeared to have a coherent plot, albeit for a very short time, and it had what is, to all intents and purposes, a couple being a mixture of real people and lifted from literature having sex (and, I assume, my sister too, although I didn't see her doing so - eww! - that was heavily implied), rather than me. Which, I do suppose, is very refreshing.

And it proves the important bits of me are working. So that's nice too.

Tuesday, 16 December 2014


"So what are your main interests?" asks my new job advisor. My parents ask the same question later on, as preparation for tomorrow's job interview. Exactly the same question was asked at yesterday's interview. It's almost as if people genuinely want to know.

"Well, I write my blog a lot," I say. "My last few posts were about masturbation, fancying a fairy, unwanted erections, porn, overheard sex and penis size. Oh, and I'm writing a program which chooses from a list of sexual acts for you, in case you're not sure what you want to do to elicit orgasm this evening."

Only I don't say that.

I say I'm interested in sex education and that I once taught a session on sex from a Christian perspective. But I don't say that I attend an annual conference with many more sex-related sessions, even if they are all above board, because there's an overhanging feeling that they don't want to know.

I say that I know how to use the web, but I don't say that I spend about half my time online browsing sex blogs and sex websites because I like all the perspectives of sexuality. Sometimes I masturbate to the things people say - sometimes I use my imagination. I say I know how to use e-mail, but I don't say who I e-mail; I say I know about web design, but I don't mention that all my websites look like something from the 80s and that most of my content goes into my sex blog.

I say I'm politically active, but I don't say that I campaign staunchly against restrictions of sexual material (cf. the recent ATVOD fiasco) and am proud to have friends who make pornography for a living. I don't mention that my girlfriend writes erotic fiction and that I always proofread and edit her stuff.

In fact, I don't mention sex at all.

I throw out some random stuff about literature and films and music. Stuff I love and couldn't live without, sure, but there's nothing very unique there. It feels strange to wax lyrical about myself and not mention anything that stems from my life as ILB. But I know that employers don't want to hear. People who have sex are sick. They are predatory. They are unscrupulous. They are eeeeeevil.

Sex shouldn't be shameful. Not now. Not in 2014.

But it is.

Sunday, 14 December 2014

10 PRINT "I am cool!"

If you follow me on Twitter you may have noticed a series of tweets this morning in which I tried, rather unsuccessfully, to link to something for people to download - in the end, I had to use Dropbox, which seemed to work (I do have a download page somewhere, but I keep bringing up a Guru Meditation when trying to access that, so I'll leave that for now).

What is the program? Well, it's the result of something that @seasideslut tweeted off the cuff this morning:

My interest was slightly piqued when she asked for suggestions of a sexual act to perform (listen to the file yourself if you are curious why!). She also suggested, later on, that she needed some sort of roulette to choose... so I programmed one for her.

I need to point out that I'm not much of a programmer. I tried to teach myself when I was younger (much younger) and, although I turned out a few games that I distributed to my friends, I never really got past BASIC and mostly had to use text as I didn't end up using anything to render graphics with. However, programming a sex roulette seemed fairly straightforward - I just needed to use a random number generator and assign values to each number.

It took me ages and several false starts. In the end, I did manage to compile a very simple program which will choose from a list of ten different sex acts for you - and you can download it here!

It's still very basic, but I did enjoy the challenge, and what's more, this is an ongoing project now, so I can certainly add more to it. One thing that I'm hoping to add more of is a wider range of sexual acts - so something like a range of acts involving BD/SM, a number of different sex positions, things like that (suggestions in comments?) - which I can eventually implement into a version 2, if I can do that in BASIC (and I think I can, it just involves multiple subroutines).

Anyway, I had fun making this, even if it was just a way to fill up a Sunday lunchtime, so I hope you enjoy my small amount of ridiculousness too.

Saturday, 13 December 2014


When I was about 17 or 18 I started masturbating. And then I stopped.

I should point out here, for the confused, that I'd been fascinated by sex for the best part of a decade by this juncture in my life. Having felt sexually charged since the age of about 11 and watching soft porn on a weekly basis (or more) since about 12, I'd been wanting sex for as long as I could remember. At the tender age of 17, I finally did have sex, and after that I started masturbating.

I'm aware that it's usually the other way around. But this is how it happened.

Despite well-meaning friends (Esque, to name a name which isn't her name, included) linking me to sites that would "teach" me how to masturbate, I still had no real desire to do so. I could get hard with alarming ease and I knew exactly what worked for me - the scenes and pictures and ideas that still have some resonance today. I enjoyed the sensation of being turned on and how long I could remain erect for (usually until I got bored and curled up into the foetal position crying until it went away), but I never really craved a release. I wasn't even aware of what it involved, assuming that semen looked a bit like piss.

After I'd had sex - even though I'd still never managed to orgasm apart from that one time in my sleep - I went back to the soft porn I had at my disposal - again, the same scenes although that collection has been bolstered somewhat since - only, this time, my hand was involved too. I had no idea, still, exactly what to do - but I eventually developed a way of wrapping my thumb and index finger around my foreskin and rubbing to and fro which seemed to work, along with the time-honoured method of full-screening the low-res videos and sitting as far back from the monitor as possible in order to make it look swish. The first time I made myself ejaculate I don't actually remember, but I do remember it being glorious, and most vividly the subsequent trip I made to the toilet - every night after every orgasm - with my dog sitting outside, fixing me with an accusatory stare.

Presumed guilty.

And then I tried to give up.

Why, when I'd just discovered something fun, free and frisky? I'm still not sure, but I certainly felt guilty. I'd been feeling guilty about watching the stuff since I started - it was, I rationalised in my head, all the fault of the girl(s) I had a crush on, since if I had someone to date, I wouldn't've had to cure my solace by virtue of UK Living and Channel 5 - but I felt much more so about actually taking matters into my own hands, even if it was in a quiet corner of my room where my computer happened to be.

Since I had a girlfriend now, and I was having sex, I naturally assumed that, this time, I could give up. Sure I could. I'd tried before, but found no reason to continue - I'd just live with the heavy feeling of guilt in my chest for the REST OF MY ENTIRE LIFE and engage in frantic prayer in my final moments - but, once I'd found out how to masturbate, I could stop, right?

So I deleted all my stuff.

This also felt wonderful. I was free of my sin and vice and usually celebrated by listening to James ("This is what I'm all about - James! I don't need the porn any more!"), but a couple of days later, I always went back and started the slow, laborious process of trying to stabilise Grokster for long enough to download, once again, the exact same scenes so I could start masturbating to them again. I never saw myself, really, as an addict... because I wasn't: I was a young adult doing young adult things. In the back of my mind, however, I still saw it as wrong - leading to a vicious circle of downloading, wanking, deleting and James that I really wanted to break.

I finally - FINALLY - broke the circle at university. How? By failing to give a monkey's any more. The minute I sat at my new laptop in my tiny room in halls, I racked my brains for ways to pass my copious free time, seeing as how I only had six hours a week of lectured and seminars. Well, if I was going to wank, then I would wank - and damned be the consequences.

And so I quit quitting.

Best. Decision. Ever.

Thursday, 11 December 2014


Last Sunday, through a shocking number of random actions on the part of (mostly) my mother, I found myself in Wimbledon watching a pantomime.

It was my girlfriend's birthday. Through another uncountable number of random actions, it had come to our attention that Tim Vine and some other celebrities, including some woman from Dallas ("Linda Gray", I am told), were appearing in a production of Cinderella - you may have seen the posters if you're one to travel on the Underground - and my mother instantly thought it would be such a wheeze to go and see it (psst - my girlfriend is uncultured, and has never seen a professional pantomime before), and so that became her birthday present.

That, and a copy of the new Stephen King book disguised as RƎVOUTION by Russell Brand, but that was my idea. Comedy gold.

I think I've seen at least one pantomime every year - it's, I am told, a very British thing; I can't imagine life without the idea of the panto. In fact, up until the age of about 18, I was taken to the same one every year: the semi-professional affair at my local theatre, inevitably starring some C-lister who appears to be tired, drunk, or both, plus a load of fresh-faced youngsters fresh out of drama school, doing their best with a script trying slightly too hard not to sound recycled - it's brilliant. Always has been.

That is until I saw the one I was taken to at 16.

It was, as if this matters at all, Snow White. Not the best production of Snow White - that's the one that I was in a few years back, where my job was to cut down trees and make jokes about my big chopper - but an okay one, nonetheless. Like EVERY PANTO EVER, it contained a chirpy rendition of Reach by S Club 7, and the ending sequence was Mambo No. 5, just... because.

I couldn't wait to write in my paper diary when I got home. Not just because I enjoyed writing... but because it was the first time I mentioned girls. Or... one specific girl.

...and, above all, my entry ended, the Spirit of the Woods was played by the most pretty girl I have ever seen!!!

I reflected upon this, and then added some more exclamation marks. In fact, the rest of the page was pretty full of exclamation marks, once I'd finished.

I wasn't too keen on going after that. My mother kept persuading me to accompany the yoof youth of my church to the panto because "that pretty fairy might be there again", but she wasn't. I knew she wouldn't be. Her name wasn't even on the poster, and neither was her picture; in fact, as far as I am aware, she may not even exist. But I know what I saw, and it was enough to make my heart skip a beat and my breath to catch in my mouth.

Nothing that good stays for long... but, back when I was 16, I felt like the most fortunate boy in the world - just to catch a glimpse of this radiant beauty, even from the dress circle.

It wasn't the first time I thought somebody was beautiful... I'd had crushes before then, of course... but this was certainly the first time that I was entranced. And the first time, after all, that I understood the interest in the absolutely unobtainable.

Linda Gray really doesn't match up.

Monday, 8 December 2014


I'm sitting at my computer, hovering halfway between sleep and death, trying to finalise the resignation from my current job - which I've been putting off on account of the fact that it's impossible - when a whole load of things hit me at once. An indistinct memory of coach journeys in the rain, black shapes moving outside the window as I listen to the whole of Gold Mother. A joke half-told but left unfinished. And sex. So much sex. I'm reading words and they blend into the screen, into each other. As a momentary distraction to what I'm doing, I crack open blogs and I skim as fast as possible through what's there to read, as if trying to hide this indiscretion.

I can't tell when it happens, or even why. Other people's desires become mine and I squeeze my thighs together because I know not what else to do. I feel myself getting harder, more and more turned on than I have been for days, because of a few words on a screen and the sexual urges add to the flickering lights in my head. Am I tired? Am I horny? I manage to wrestle my thoughts together to ask myself whether I want to deal with the constant throbbing strain in my trousers or whether I should just ignore it and carrying on with pretending to work.

Part of me wants to do each, tells me not to be too greedy, too lustful, too debauched without debauchery. Most of me wants to just walk a few paces and collapse onto the bed, maybe curling up into a little ball and hiding my head in my arms like I used to do when I felt like this. Or just get under the covers. Or go somewhere and walk... just walk... if my body will allow me to. Physically, I feel like a mess.

And my head screams loud and long inside and I want to feel the burn of lust just as I want to go to sleep, but I know I should be awake and working on not working or in a coach in the rain listening to Gold Mother or writing in my blog or reading yours and it all adds up to much, too much, much too much...

I put my head in my hands and push my computer back and lay my head down on the desk, slumped like I've been defeated in battle, defeated by my own swirling head and my tired, beaten body

and I blink

and I sit up

and I go to make some tea

and I sit back down and I look back at the screen

and I breathe



and I wonder to myself exactly what's apparent, and what's not, and if there's always something more at work than we think there is.

And so I open a window myself. And I start to type.

Wednesday, 3 December 2014

Coalition-approved list of porn restrictions:

The following sexual activities will be deemed either acceptable or unacceptable at R18 classification level.

Squirting during masturbatory journalism - known as the "Femail Orgasm" - is acceptable if uninformed, intolerant and not delicately researched or taking popular opinion into account. It is also acceptable to infer that this is lapped up by many, even if the moral outrage contained within is simulated.
Swallowing male semen is acceptable because this is the new Coalition policy on how to control the population explosion.

Medical guidance on fisting leads Ofcom to not believe it's dangerous to perform. However, the CPS’ guidelines specifically cite fisting as obscene, mostly because they saw Quentin Crisp make a joke about it once and therefore assume that it's always a gay thing. One representative summed it up as: "eww."

Enemas are acceptable if once they are squirted out they contain faeces which hit the general populace, colloquially known as "shitting on the country".

Vomiting may be acceptable if it isn't performed as part of a sexual act. Why one would put vomiting in porn if it isn't for sexual purposes is not specified.

Public Sex
Should the content feature nudity or anything else at all which might outrage taste and public decency, then clearly it is not acceptable, whatever it is. Exceptions to this rule include George Osborne's cold, dead eyes, Michael Gove's education cuts and anything to do with ATVOD.

Wrestling is acceptable, but only if knock-out moves are not used or if it's a peaceful protester being wrestled to the ground.

Face-sitting without any breathing restriction is acceptable, but the airways must always remain open, so any amount of breathing restriction is not allowed. The rationale for this inflexible rule is that men trying this at home might die. Of course it's never, ever performed on anyone of any other gender, so let's not let men die, shall we?

This will depend on the opinion for which the person is being trampled upon. If it is an opinion promoting less restrictions on porn, it is perfectly acceptable.

Bondage and Restraint
There needs to be an obvious way for the person in bondage to signal to stop. Hence it is acceptable if not all four limbs are tied. Putting an octopus in bondage to circumvent the "four limbs" rule is also not allowed, because octopi can't speak human language and probably don't know the safeword.

If a weapon is used to threaten a participant into perceived non-consensual activity, then it is not acceptable. If it's believable, then this dangerous activity known as "acting" must be involved and stopped at all costs.

Power Tools
The use of power tools is unacceptable, since there is a need to disassociate power tools with violence. It's not like that's ever happened in mainstream cinema or anything.

Is likely to be acceptable as long as freedom of expression is what's being gagged.

[With apologies and sincere thanks to Myles Jackman for putting up what are, sadly, the actual restrictions.]

Sunday, 30 November 2014


A while ago, I started writing the script for a softcore film, partially because I wanted to, but mostly because I wanted to see if I could. I've actually no idea how scripts for erotic films are written, although I do image it varies according to writer/director and what the crew generally want to see.

Anyway, I never really got past the first couple of scenes, probably because I had no idea where I was going with it. Taking another look at it today, I decided that it would probably work best as a short film: about seven or so minutes of laughs, stargazing and sex. So I left it where it was, added a bit of an ending and retooled it as a short.

Since I'm not really about to do anything else with this, I'm putting the script up here (under a Creative Commons license): 

Hooray for the sharing of (un)finished projects! Of course, one day I may have to post some fiction here too...

* If you're getting the "forbidden" message, try copy-and-pasting the link, and/or refreshing the page - it works after a few tries!

Friday, 28 November 2014


In my hotel room
Sounds from next door, someone's getting laid
God's name's proclaimed
The end is on its way

"So tell me," my housemate said, in his far-too-loud-for-decent-conversation voice, "did you hear Rodge and Shell shagging?"

I reflected on what to say. My first thought was to tell him to not mind this and enquire as to how he'd managed to drag himself out of his self-induced stupor and shrug off the human sloth attitude in order to come down to the kitchen. I also thought to ask him about why I hadn't heard him having sex with his own girlfriend. One of her friends, drunk, had wandered into my room once to find me reading a fantasy book. She didn't then have sex with me, of course. Nobody ever did.

Rodge lived in the big room between myself and Mister Human Sloth. He spent most of the time working on his PhD, playing Worms2 against the rest of us and winning, eating inordinate amounts of cheese on toast and banging his girlfriend Shell. He wasn't particularly discreet about it; they usually started having sex at a time in the morning where the French girl who lived downstairs was at the university building across the road and Mister Human Sloth was asleep or playing Counter Strike with headphones blocking out everything except people shooting at him.

Shell appeared to be quite vocal during sex and the sounds emanated from Rodge's bedroom (and, in one case, the bathroom), resonating around our house and possibly the rest of the neighbourhood. I didn't actually mind them doing so - I wasn't having any sex but I wasn't going to begrudge them having as much as they could, and I used to take their yelps and moans as a cue to put on some porn myself and join in, in my own special, slightly ashamed way.

But the reason my sleepy housemate had asked this question was evident. Of course I'd heard Rodge and Shell shagging. Everyone had. You didn't have much of a choice. But, as far as I'd heard, they'd broken up a week ago.
"As far as I heard, they broke up a week ago," I replied.
"Yeah, I know. Mind you, it was her birthday the other day, maybe they had sex for that."
"Sex for your birthday?"

"Well, would you prefer anything else?"

I considered the one and a half years I'd spent not having sex. "No," I conceded, truthfully.

And so it continued for the rest of the year. I never really asked what the deal was, although our French girl did. She got a non-committal, jocular answer, from what I could tell.

I returned to the same house for the first half of my final year to find that I was the only one left. Rodge had gone. The French girl was in France. The human sloth had gone back home and, oddly, became a policeman, last I heard.

And so I was alone. And it was me making the noises this time...

Tuesday, 25 November 2014

TMI Tuesday: The Thing(s)

I'm not well. I basically fell asleep at work this morning, and upon bringing myself round, I found it very difficult to stand up. Or speak. Or lift heavy objects, which (ironically) is what I spent the following hour doing.

I also can't write. I've got a bit of block going on, so I'm diving back into the murky waters of this blog to try and dispel some of the fog. The theme this week is "taking things seriously"... and I've only just realised the pun.

I must be ill.


1. Think about your environments – home, office, vehicle, what sort of inanimate objects hold special meaning and significance for you. List/name the objects, tell us why they hold a special place. Share some photos if you dare.

I have a good few objects which I treasure, because I'm a bit of a hoarder and abhor throwing anything away. Perhaps predictably, my comics collection, entire bookshelf and large amount of CDs are special due to entertainment purposes. As is my soft porn collection, for perhaps more obvious reasons.

I also have a few fluffy cuddly toys which are special to me, such as one that I made myself (and have remade a few times), and my little cuddly rabbit, which I bought when I was 19. I've had him for ten years now.

And there's some gaming stuff too, including an almost-complete set of Robin Hood figurines, which are now collector's items by virtue of the fact that you can't get them anywhere any more. I bought them yonks ago and they were really cheap!

2. Are any of your treasured items worth a lot of money?

Yes - my retro consoles. I've got a functional NES and a working SNES (as well as an incomplete N64 and a GameCube), and a complete working retro console apparently fetches a lot on the market these days. However, I'm not the only one with such items - my granddad has a Spectrum that still works, to a point, and 47 has a working Atari VCS, which we've played against each other!

3. Would you ever part with that item? If yes, under what circumstances?

No. Nor would I part with my Luigi-design GBA-SP, DS, 2DS, Wii or Pokémon Mini. I like the ability to play any sort of Nintendo game as nature intended. (With the exception of Wii U - yet - and Virtual Boy. Although I can emulate the Virtual Boy.)

Actually, I'd swap my NES for a Virtual Boy - since I only actually have one NES game...

4. What is the oddest or strangest item that you covet and proudly display?

A colour photocopy of my passport with my dad's driving license on top of it. This came about by accident - I was taking a scan of my passport without realising my dad's driving license was in the printer too. I also hit the photocopy button instead of "scan", and so I got an odd piede of impromptu photographic art, which I - in one of my more pretentious moments - decided was representative of the gap between generations. or it just looked cool.

Anyway, I stuck it up on my wall, next to my signed James poster.

Saturday, 22 November 2014


I've been receiving a spate of e-mails recently which are mostly serving to prove my theory that I appear to be on some sort of list. Most of them - despite the fact that I don't do commercial posts or affiliate links, as should be evident from my sidebar - are just kind requests that I respectfully turn down, but some of them are really quite aggressive, of the "have you featured it yet?" type... and then there are the e-mails that only fit into the category known as "bizarro".

Like this one.

We're from Penis Advantage website [link removed - ILB]. We've got a great program that you'll surely find very interesting. It's about a genuine way to enlarge every guy's penis at home - using just their hands! We are going to show you the ONLY way that will GUARANTEE every guy the extra inches they have always wanted.

Which all seems well and good - in a sense, once you get past the fact that (like every other penis enlargement product purported on the Internet) it seems a little hokey and isn't likely to work at all. But what made me laugh was this little gem:

It's about a genuine way to enlarge every guy's penis at home - using just their hands!

I don't know about you, but when I use my hands on my penis, I can already manage to enlarge it pretty effectively in quite a short time period. In fact, I can do that with my brain too - am I MAGICAL?!

The website is pretty good, too - promising, amongst other things, the ability to eliminate the curve in an erection (which they refer to as Bananaman - I suppose that kind of works, if your name is Eric). Not only am I not sure if that's possible, why would you want to?

I love my erection. My penis has a slight curvature to it, which not only makes it firm and good to handle, but also allows for deep penetration, G-spot stimulation and something on which to hang one's towel (seriously, I can do this; I've been doing it since the age of about 14). Call me a traditionalist if you will, but I'm not sure sticking a ruler into a vagina is really that sexy (unless, of course, you're into that sort of thing. YKINMK, innit).

So I don't think I'll be picking this one up, do you? After all, when we're talking about penis growth, there are so many other things that I'd rather be up.

Wednesday, 19 November 2014

You're not as fly as you think you are

It's International Men's Day and, as a man, I am scared.

Scared of what people might say. Scared of what people might do. Scared of the reactions, scared of what people are capable of. What I'm capable of. I am genuinely scared. I'm like this every day. And I'm like it now, because I'm writing a blog post post on IMD.

My original plan for this post was to make a graphic composed entirely of abusive things that have been said to me over the years with the caption "men get abused too." But I can almost taste the backlash I'd get from that, and besides, I'd probably burst into tears at all the bad memories I'd bring back. So I've abandoned that idea. Because I was scared.

What I really want to say is this:

I'm a man. I was born male and have had no desire to change or ever define myself as anything else. I'm sure we can all agree that there's nothing wrong with that.

I also try, as hard as I can, to be the best person I can be. I, like everyone, am flawed. I have made mistakes - we all have. I'm not perfect - nobody is. But, to my credit, I've always tried as hard as I can to make things right. I don't like to fight - I like to resolve - I try to be selfless and helpful as much as I can. I'm not an absolute saint, but I like to think I'm generally a good person. But, as a man, I still feel guilty. Because of my gender.

This doesn't need to be how I feel.

I'm aware of the fact that people like Dapper Laughs and Julian Blanc, with their boorish overmasculinity - portraying men as emotionless idiots and women as meek, abused creatures (I know that wasn't the intention of their stuff, but that's what the effect was) is nothing new. But, for some reason, it adds to the brush that - intentional or not - men are being tarred with. As much as I want to disassociate myself from these people, I can't. I'm the same gender. And so I am damned, too.

Is this a generalisation? Absolutely. But I can see it happening more and more. I've heard my uncle talk about how his company actively hires women because they're not men, and for no other reason. I've seen the political party I support reopening nominations for internal votes because there wasn't a female candidate standing for a seat. I myself have been turned down for a job - more than one - in favour of a pretty girl. And my sister, who is a radfem, talks at great length about her feminist society, where men aren't allowed in - because men can't be feminists, oh no.

This doesn't help gender equality at all. It's quite the opposite - it seems to insinuate that women need a helping hand in order to get this status, rather than doing so under their own steam. It even goes so far as to reinforce the idea that men are in power and women only get their through male acquiescence. That's not meant to be the message!

The reason I have a big hang-up about this whole gender debacle is the fact that it really shouldn't matter, but it does so much. I've always been taught that everyone is equal, but I can't say anything about half the population of the planet because I'm so fearful of the repercussions. I can't say "not all men" - hashtag or no hashtag - because of the (unfortunate) association of that phrase with misogynistic jackasses on social media. I can't call myself a "men's right activist" because I'll get something like "well, men have had all the rights for 2,000 years, it's nothing new." I can't even promote IMD as a thing, even though it was originally set up to promote gender equality, because I'll get comments like "along with the other 364 days of the year".

And yet if I don't say anything, it looks as if I don't care.

I can't win. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. Because I am a man.

The concept of IMD, as far as I understand it (and Wikipedia says so, so it's got to be true), is to promote the idea of gender equality from a male point of view - a bit like #HeForShe, if you'll pardon the comparison. But the media thrusting people like Julian Blanc into the spotlight because of their misogyny is a scary thought. It's insulting to men because we are not all like that, but I can't say that, can I?

Or can I?

This is the reason I haven't waded too far into the "not all men" debate. Because I'm scared. Misogyny insults. Misandry hurts. Nobody wins here because there's no clear side to pick. The people we need to be highlighting because of their incompetence are the male "pick-up artists" who portray women as targets for sex and the power-hungry females who see men as enemies to be beaten. We need to highlight abuse from all sides. Helping or hindering one gender - or both genders - isn't going to help.

Because we're better than that.

And this is why we need an IMD just as much as we need an IWD. There are single fathers, there are male nurses. There are male artists, male thinkers, male heroes and there are just plain nice men. There are men - myself included - who will call the misogynistic idiots out on their bullshit. But I think I also have the right to take umbrage against misandry too. Because, however you want to spin it, two wrongs don't make a right. And if the idea is that everyone is equal - because everyone is - then why does there have to be any conflict at all?

So the next time you get annoyed or upset because of a story about someone getting abused or someone being an idiot on TV, take a look around. Look at your friends - I'm sure you'll find more than one gender there. And look at your family - I'm sure you have two parents, in many cases.

And take a look at yourself. Do you really want to be defined by the rest of your gender?

And writing all this, because I felt I needed it, is why I am scared.

Do you still want to #KillAllMen?