Wednesday, 30 April 2014


sometimes i need mad sex like i have no control over my body sex the sort of i need you and i need you now sex and maybe you need me too sex

the definitely you need me too sex the are you as crazy for me as i am for you sex the confirmation the union the reunion the explosion and all that comes in between our bodies are together and everything else too everything that comes with it the creak of the bedsprings the noises you make the smack smack smack of our bodies as we come together over and over and over again

there is nothing there is nothing except you you are all that there is and i am there inside you you envelop me and there is nothing i can do except become part of you you complete me as i physically complete you

sometimes if you need me so much that makes me need you too and there is all the sex all the sex in the world is in our bed it is inescapable i am in the world inside my head, inside my heart, inside my pulsing erect cock as it erupts over my body and leaves its warmth and i slide away into somewhere which isn't anywhere

and this is how i feel during sex

and you?

Sunday, 27 April 2014

Soft Porn Sunday: Tera Patrick & Paul Logan

Tera Patrick? Is she really in soft porn? I mean, really? This is the lady I've seen sucking off two men until they ejaculate into her mouth in turn and swallowing all of it. I've seen her on her back in the floor with her legs in the air, getting shagged until she orgasms and then continuing on. I've seen her taken from behind up against a bannister. This is the girl whose autobiography I read in which she expresses a massive preference for gonzo porn.

This is, indeed, Tera Patrick. And Paul Logan, who's a bodybuilder. I recognise the name, but probably because I'm thinking of Hulk Hogan.

Or maybe not.


Appearance: The Seduction of Maxine (2000)
Characters: Naomi Grant & Jack Howard

This is the best angle to view Jack's head from.
So I'm going to say this right now: unlike most of these, I haven't actually seen the film which contains the scene. After a bit of digging, I discovered that, although it's clearly softcore, The Seduction of Maxine is actually something of a spin-off from The Bodyguard, incorporating some of the same plot, including the stalker idea. Packaged for DVD as The Stalker for that reason, Tera Patrick's part is played down a little - she doesn't play the lead despite having a good few sex scenes - and it's billed as more of a thriller than anything else.

So not your standard "erotic thriller" that you used to get on Channel 5 on a Friday evening. But it comes fairly close.

This scene happens between Naomi (Patrick), a friend of the main character (played by Tracy Ryan - she of I Love Lesbians 12 and other such classics), who in turn is slightly jealous of Naomi... and Jack (Logan), whose job it is to have sex with her. Look, I don't know the plot, okay? Jack is actually the bodyguard to Ryan's character, but with zingers like "I think this meeting's over" when a meeting's over, I think he'd probably pleased to have someone/thing to do otherwise.

The scene in question happens on a big white bed in a standard white bedroom and is, I hate to say, utterly unremarkable in every single way.

That isn't to say it's bad. It isn't. To its credit, there's no overlong undressing scene; Naomi is naked
Is it just me, or is there a candle in every sex scene ever?
from the start and Jack's got some semblance of pants on which come off after 38 seconds of very fake cunnilingus. The problem with this is that it's a short scene - 2:56 in length - and so you're a sizeable chunk of the way in before any sex happens. I'm not against any oral sex in softcore at all - it's just that in such a short scene, the sex should start instantly!

Okay, so we have sex. Most of the focus here is on the top half of Tera Patrick's body, so we see plenty of face and boobs from Naomi and very little of Jack, but there are a couple of wide-angle shots to show us which position they're meant to be in and convince us that Tera's not just doing an invisible bounce. There's even one shot around the one-minute mark that pans down her body, shows us Jack for about a millisecond, and then zips back at lightspeed to her boobs, like someone who's forgotten their keys and goes back to get them!

We start with Naomi on her back, switch to her on top (which is pretty much as you'd expect, except there's a HUGE MIRROR ON ONE SIDE OF THE ROOM so you get two different angles), and finally we get a bit with her standing up, supporting herself against the bedpost - although it actually looks more like she's pressing against the wall from the way it's filmed - Jack in particular looking very uncomfortable, glancing at the camera/audience for reassurance and gripping her stomach as if he's trying to administer the Heimlich manoeuvre during sex.

Oh, hai audience.
They then switch to the same position, on the other side of the bed. Uhm, what? Why?!

It's at this point that you notice the soundtrack, which up until this point has been the work experience kid pratting around with a drum machine. At 2:23 it fades out for a bit before coming back in again. Tera tries to fill the space with some very overdubbed moans and the cameraman then goes off for lunch, letting the camera focus on their bums for TEN WHOLE SECONDS before mixing back to the first side FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST MAKE UP YOUR DAMN MIND WHERE TO HAVE SEX! At this point we get more overdubbed moans and a sing grunt from Jack, which I suppose is the orgasm indicator, and then we mix to what appears to be a kitchen. I don't know really, my clip cuts off at that point.

I'll admit that I'd have a difficult time masturbating to this. It ticks all the boxes for a by-the-numbers
Pan up, dude! Pan UP!
softcore scene form the early 2000s - lots of mixes rather than jump cuts, incredibly uninspired music which was probably cheap to make, and actors who look nice but aren't really putting much effort in. Tera Patrick is very attractive, but there's really not much to recommend Paul Logan, specifically sporting that 80s haircut a decade or so late. Neither of them are really trying very much, there's not a lot of variation in the movement and it doesn't really sync up well.

There's some woman wailing a bit in the background, but that also gets lost in the jumble. It's no Virgin Snow, that's for sure.

Sneak peek at the set for YouPornGirl's next video.
I can't, hand on heart, say this doesn't fit in with the rest of the film, because I haven't seen it. But, judging by its merits (and the fact that there's another scene later on with the same two characters which also doesn't work), this is so middle-of-the road that there isn't a formulaic adjective to unoriginally describe how clichéd this bromidic scene is. On its own, it's tired. Compared to a few of my favourite scenes, it's not worth a look at all!

Except I just spent about 40 minutes writing about it. So who's the bored one here, one wonders?

Friday, 25 April 2014

I want to paint / pictures...

It's blue outside.

Are you a visual person? I'm more of a lexical one. My field is with words; nevertheless, if a thousand words can paint a picture, let's try to do so with less.

Out of a half-open window, not ten minutes ago, I heard the soft blowing of the wind in the blue world outside and the single bark of a dog. Imagine, then, the dog. Where is he/she? Is his/her owner with him/her or not? What's the owner doing? Why did the dog bark? Maybe they are being walked. Can you visualise that?  Okay, hold it in your head for a while.

Now can you imagine a single room inside a flat relatively near where the dog is. It sounds cols outside with the blowing of the wind, and looks cold as it's... well... blue. But imagine a room - a warm room. In fact, it's deliberately been made warm. There's a radiator and it's on. There are several convection heaters, too. The room is full of warm colours - all reds and yellows and oranges and browns. From the curtain drawn over the single window (blocking out the blue world) to the bedspread. Got that?

Okay, it's a small room. There's a large double bed in the middle of the room. On top of the bed, a young couple is having sex. It's sweaty. It's passionate. It's intense. He is on top; she is on her back, one hand pressed against the small of his back, pushing him down, further into her. I'm not getting any music. Maybe the occasional siren of an emergency vehicle outside (that's what I can hear right now), a car rumbling past or a dog (the same one?) barking. But there are relatively few other sounds... just the heavy breathing, gasps for air and the very realistic "uh..." noise you make during sex.

Not the screams you get in porn.

Can you visualise that? Yes, you probably can. I've given you a description - your head just fills in the blanks. But what you're seeing is probably not what I'm seeing. I haven't described their faces, or just how small the room is, or even which way the bed is pointing. Or which way they are on the bed, come to think of it. Even if they're naked (but let's say they are). My description of sex is probably different from how you're seeing it.

But I hope you enjoy doing what I did - a cue from the colour of the sky outside, a couple of noises and a wandering mind, leading to a description of sex that may, for all we know, be happening right now, somewhere in the world, just as you have visualised it.


Do I roleplay?

Yes, you guessed correctly... I am referring here to actual roleplaying; the kind where you play a character in a fantasy world, usually effected through rolling dice, stats and scores, combat and treasure. As for roleplaying in bed... well, I've done it, not that I like it. I'm not overly confident with my sexual partner having sex with somebody else - and as the son of an actor, I know all about getting into character!

In any case, why, yes, I do roleplay. Before you ask, no, I don't LARP. I occasionally cosplay, but that - to me - is little more than fancy dress. I used to do - when I was at school - the traditional tabletop die-rolling RPG: AD&D if we are naming names, with me as the DM putting my players (Robinson, Lightsinthesky, Einstein and his brother and another one) through the wringer - "I don't care if you're a dwarf, you've failed your dexterity check; now sustain the damage from falling into the lava and get your arse out of there!" - once every school half term. Warhammer was a thing for a while, too, although I never actually played much - and, when I did, I lost. But then again, I collected Goblins.

With the exception of a touch of Munchkin here and there since, I don't really roleplay as much as I used to. It's not something I got the chance to do at university, since we didn't have a society... and as much as I enjoyed switching between NPCs as a DM, most of the fill I got was via consoles - I was a massive whore for the Zelda series until Wind Waker, which put me off. Fire Emblem kept me entertained and Pokémon perhaps too much so, and I've also had a go at the Final Fantasys now and then - completing VII once and Mystic Quest about four million times.

Is that really roleplaying? I think so, in a sense. But I'd rather scoot Mario around, given the choice.

However, there's one thing that still gives me the massive sense of heady achievement that roleplaying is meant to provide.

I roleplay on a forum. It's not quite the same pace as the IRC roleplaying I used to so, I will grant you... but, then again, I roleplay on a forum, which allows me the chance to sit and reflect on what my character's doing, thinking, saying, constructing incredibly complex posts, often pages at a time (something I posted today, which I've been wanting to do for a while, racked up 986 words and took about half an hour to write), continuing the stories while packing in as many pop culture references and moderate anachronisms as I can. How else, then, could I say I've jumped onto the head of a massive demon and slain him with my sword? Met a girl who can fly? Visited far off lands without meaning to? Saved a drowning wizard?

I like it. I like roleplaying and I like what I do. It gives me the kick to write, the spark of imagination that I sometimes lack. But if I can start writing on that forum, then I can start writing here as well. There's not really much to say right now - apart from the fact that I had a dream about my penis being large enough to touch my chest... but hey, that's just my average Thursday night.

But I like writing to roleplay and I like writing to blog, so here I am. Writing.

I hope it works, at least.

Wednesday, 23 April 2014

Booster Gold

I noticed both @dirtylittlew and @girlonthenet tweeting this morning about a Belle de Soir article on the new app Nipple, by which you can "track" your sex life, revealing what you do as a handy circular graph you can, I presume, print out and stick on your wall like people at university (allegedly) do. It'd be a handy form or foreplay, showing off your shag chart.

Emma Whispers wrote a pretty comprehensive review of the product for anyone having thoughts, but while you're here, may I suggest a different option?

You will need the following:

Then every time you have sex, you can do this:

I'll admit, this isn't entirely my idea. It's something I picked up from someone Rebecca once knew at school. Rebecca, it must be pointed out, went to an all-girls' school, so I don't know how true this is. I've never set foot in one of those places (apart from once for a dance class; it was in Manchester... this is a story for another time, perhaps).

In any case, the girl in question, who was about 15 or 16 at best guess, had a fiancé. Apparently. And they had sex a lot... allegedly. Which led to rows upon rows of gold stars appearing in her homework diary - once, according to Rebecca herself, there were no less than five stars in a single day. This is, of course, possible - just a little difficult. Mind you, when I was in my late teens I managed to have sex a few times within any given 24-hour period, so yeah... yeah.


I don't use this method. Honest. I really don't. I care to take a guess as to when I last had sex, so it makes me seem a little less like a fail. Nevertheless, it's still a workable system. And it's a little better than the alternative Rebecca herself came up with...

...she used a dedicated uJournal. The word she used to indicate sex? "Meh."

Monday, 21 April 2014

To-Do List

I want to have sex with you.  

I want to throw you down onto the sheets and lie on top of you. I want to kiss you all over your body, making every inch of your skin tingle with expectation. I want to brush you with my stubble, tickle you with my fingers, fuck you with my eyes.

I don't want to do the laundry. I don't want to sort the kitchen cupboard. I don't want to change the sheets or plan for work. I don't even want to water plants unless that refers to the stage I've reached in Luigi's Mansion 2. I don't want to do any of those things.

You. I want to do you. I want to lick your pussy lips until they are soaking wet. I want to stimulate your clit with the tip of my tongue until it throbs with every beat of your heart. I want to feel myself growing harder as we kiss hungrily, the anticipation building.

As opposed to waiting for e-mails which aren't going to arrive. Wanting friends to contact me when they're busy working or away on sojourns to more exotic places of this fair isle. Filling in forms for various official organisations. I don't really want to do any of that.

What I want is to have you spread your legs in front of me. I want to penetrate your vagina with the very tip of my penis. I want to pull my foreskin back and slide the whole thing into you. I want to feel your inside walls contract, sense them tight around my shaft, warm wet pulses sending shivers through my body. I want to move inside you and make you grasp my back and cry out for more. I want to give you pleasure. I want to have sex with you.

That's what I want to do.

I don't want to make dinner either. But I suppose I can start with that.

Friday, 18 April 2014

Good Fruitday

When I was 17 and still kept a paper diary, my parents came into a small amount of money and decided to take the family to Disneyland Paris for a midweek during the Easter holidays. This trip, while enjoyable enough by merit of Big Thunder Mountain, wasn't overly successful for a number of reasons: namely Disney messing up our train ticket by naming it "DISNEY" along with everyone else's and my sister conveniently becoming sick when we got there - the only time I've seen somebody vomit before going on the "It's a Small World" ride.

In any case, I sort of enjoyed myself, and we returned on Good Friday (although I had originally wanted to come back on Maundy Thursday; I'm not sure why). It took us a while to get back from Paris - we took the Eurostar if I remember correctly - and so when we returned it was about 9pm - plenty of time, I reasoned, to have a watch of whatever glossy smut there would be on Channel 5 of a Friday evening.

I wasn't disappointed.

What they were showing was something I don't remember wholly and have never seen again. A strange film billed as a sex comedy but not actually being particularly funny, apparently based (although I found this out years later) on both the author's and main character's real life. Essentially, the plot revolved around a journalist who sought out various conquests and then brought written depictions to her editor, who invariably became incredibly aroused and printed them in his newspaper. I wasn't keen on this framing device or the dog-like sounds the editor seemed to enjoy making, but I appreciated the sex scenes for what they were: a '70s or '80s sheen covered them (which I always found a little off-putting), but they showed a lot of graphic(ish) detail, plus the settings were wonderful - a particular memory happens to be of a scene in the back of a fruit cart, with her hands squashing fruit during full-on sex (something I now find a little distasteful, but I seemed to like back then).

Since then, and it's been about twelve years now, Good Friday always brings back that memory. I know I shouldn't - there are more things to be interested in during Life, and besides, it's a Christian festival; I ought to be in prayer or something - however, me making the invariably "wow, it is Good Friday!" joke at the time seems to have cemented it in my mind. I also haven't been to Disneyland since then, but that's irrelevant...

...although French continental pastries for breakfast the beginning of the day followed by sex and fruit at the end has a nice enough ring to it.

I'm still on the look-out for something perfect. But it's nice to know that these things are out there, and as it is Good Friday now, I'm going to have to go looking for it.

Monday, 14 April 2014

World's Sluttiest Cake!

I'm not exactly why my cake was particularly slutty. It didn't even taste particularly good, but I suppose it did look like a hot mess covered with cum AND THAT'S NOT WHAT IT ACTUALLY WAS HONEST

I knew from the moment I started baking that it wouldn't be a normal cake. I knew this because there weren't any eggs, so I chose to substitute them with milk. But, you know, I thought that would be okay, because I'm a maverick like that. I did grease the cake tin, and I thought that was enough, but clearly it wasn't. I also made half the mixture, because there are only two of us, and that will be enough cake for two. I thought this too. All of these I thought.

I even added shavings of chocolate - that is to say, chocolate through a cheese grater - because I wanted to add chocolate drops and didn't have any. I believed myself to be genuinely resourceful.

Also, I didn't want to bother walking to the shops to buy the ingredients I actually needed. It's cake and cunnilingus day, not walk and shell out money day.

So into the oven went the cake tin and I set about making the buttercream icing. For this I actually did have the correct ingredients, so when it ended up incredibly watery, white but translucent and resembling a bowl of semen (there is no other description, that is what it looked exactly like) I was slightly concerned, but managed to console myself by fooling whoever wasn't listening (there was nobody else in the kitchen) that it would get thicker over time, because apparently that happens.

Then the cake was ready. So ready, in fact, that it refused to come out of the very tin that I'd so carefully greased beforehand. I tried cutting it out with a knife, getting under it with a fishslice, asking it really nicely, and telling it I'd let it lick my stamp collection... but it still wasn't budging. Eventually I tried whacking it really hard from the other side of the cake tin and, in one glorious rectangular action, a glorious rectangle of cake fell directly out of the tin.

Except it wasn't really cake... it was more like biscuit. And it was only half the mixture; the rest had remained in the tin, like a limpet. But I was halfway there.

That's okay, I thought. I can cover this half with buttercream icing, get the other half out somehow, and put it on top, so it's sort of a cakey biscuity icingy sandwich. That'll be easy. I can save the day after all. So onto the top of the cake went the translucent white buttercream icing.

I then proceeded to attempt to extricate the second half from the cake tin incredibly carefully. It obliged by disintegrating into little pieces, so I ended up crazy paving the top half over the bottom half, trusting that my icing would hold it in place. It kind of did, and when it didn't look so bad after all, I decided to spread the remaining icing over the top of the cake. The result was something that looked like I'd ejaculated over it. I wasn't sure what to do, but after a few minutes I decided that breaking down and crying wasn't going to be a useful way to spend my time. I made a small coffee, sliced off a slab of cake and took both through to my bedroom.

"So, uhm, this cake I made..." I ventured. My girlfriend, who was in bed, assured me she'd try it. I carefully placed both coffee and cake on the side, and then went to my grandparents' house as an excuse for something to do so as to not witness her eating it and whatever her reaction might be.

A few hours later and we've eaten all the cake (hence the lack of picture). The general consensus that it was so sweet, soaked with icing that neither looked nor tasted like icing, and full of milk and chocolate but nothing of any particular consistency, that it was totally irresistible. As my girlfriend put it, it was a very slutty cake. I'm not sure what that means, but I'll take it as a good thing.

There's been no cunnilingus... yet. But I hope that, when it does happen, it's just as messy.

Saturday, 12 April 2014

One born every minute

I'll admit it: I didn't see Sucker Punch with my friends when it came out. I imagine I was busy. I wanted to see it, but they went without me because I was doing something or another at the time. And thus it silently slipped me by for a while. I was, eventually, reminded of its existence at Erotica 2013, at which I signed up for a trial of a kinky sexy dirty geeky cosplay porn site (I still have the videos I downloaded), and on said site lie people cosplaying as characters including, but not limited to, Babydoll from Sucker Punch.

Again, I let it slip me by, until I saw it tweeted about the other day. You probably know where this is going, right... so I watched it. The end.

Let me start by saying that I know it has its detractors. The critics hated it. Mark Kermode, in particular, really hated it. But real people I know loved it. Robinson was a big fan, but then again, Robinson likes EVERYTHING EVER COMMITTED TO FILM, so yeah, there's that. My sister, however, who is of more discerning taste, also loved it, to the point of theming her desktop around Sucker Punch, which both made sense and no sense at all to someone who'd never see it - see also: me.

Yesterday I watched the whole film from beginning to end and I liked it. I'm not ashamed. Well, maybe only a little.

The main complaint I see about Sucker Punch is that it's in some way torture porn disguised as feminism. I don't see it. For the uninitiated, Sucker Punch is set in three different worlds - a real one, in which the protagonist (nicknamed Babydoll) is institutionalised for a crime she didn't really commit, a fantasy one in which Babydoll visualises the asylum she's in as a mob-controlled brothel, from which she orchestrates a plan to escape, and a third one - a fantasy within a fantasy in which Babydoll and her friends from the asylum/brothel become animé-style action heroines with weaponry, with highly stylised fantasy/sci-fi action dequences and colourful CGI backdrops. Unsurprisingly, it's that final world that made it onto the posters (and my sister's desktop background).

And I suppose the first five or ten minutes may be torture porn. But I still don't see that - it's painful to watch and not pleasurable whatsoever. But once the fantasies start coming into play, there's very little of that left. The one genuinely unpleasant character who is the antagonist throughout the film is presented very clearly as a villain with no redeeming qualities other than he doesn't kill anyone (at the beginning, at least). Scenes which show signs of swivelling into darker BD/SM-esque territory always have the five girls, our heroines, taking control. Even during the dénouement, which is pretty horrific in places, there's nothing here that's really meant to turn you on by sick fascination in what's happening.

In short, I don't see why anyone could be turned on by this.

However, that's not what a lot of people have a problem with. Most people claim that Sucker Punch's main crime comes during the action fantasy sequences, in which Babydoll and her friends/allies (Sweet Pea, Rocket, Blondie and Amber - we never learn their real names, if they have them, indeed) are somewhat underdressed, with rather scant clothes and flesh on show, and that their combat is an excuse to show sexualised girls.

I disagree. There's nothing on show here any more than what you'd see in Cutie Honey or in any particular episode of Sailor Moon. The movie version of DOA goes out of its way to show crotch shots during fight sequences (something the movie poster itself picked up on), which Sucker Punch does not. And the outfits themselves aren't really that skimpy - they're outfits for fighting. And the girls fight. That's what they do. Moreover, Babydoll is clearly shown to be 20, with the other girls even older than she is. That's way above the age of consent. If there's any sexualisation here, it's of young ladies, not underage girls.

And is it anti-feminist? I don't know. But I don't think that's the aim, either. There's nothing feminist about leaping into the air and beheading three giant hulking ogres, slitting a dragon's throat, defusing a bomb on a runaway train, or fighting gaseous zombies in a World War I trench. Yes, the sequences are ridiculous. But they're fantasies. The girls here act as action heroines. It's kind of refreshing not to have a collection of men being tough guys... but is gender politics really needed here? The film, like so many others, is a continuous story. Shouldn't you be paying attention to the plot? At least, that's what I was doing.

Okay, so yeah, I thought I was going to like it and I did. But I can see why some people may dislike it. I don't agree, but I can see why. It's just neither the be-all-and-end-all of female-centric action films nor the worst film every produced. That honour's got to go to The Tree of Life.

And is it really any worse than 300? Or are half-naked men perfectly acceptable now?

Oh, wait...

Tuesday, 8 April 2014

What shall we do with the dreaming blogger?

You may or may not know that I used to be in a band. Yeah, musician in a band - a radical concept, I know. In fact, I've been in a number of bands, including 47's band, which played all of one gig (but it was fun), and my own, wherein we managed to stumble our way through a few, but with audiences averaging 6, that doesn't really matter too much.

It does say something when you play a gig and the most interesting thing that happens is the presence of marshmallow foam from Cybercandy.

During my three years at university, though, I played in the biggest band I knew since I'd been in the youth symphony orchestra at the age of about 12. I still don't know why I joined, really, but it was something typical of a wanky art student wanting to get through a creative/expressive block, and since that's the same reason I started this blog it's something that never leaves. I don't even know why I stayed so long, since I was ritualistically bullied by the musical director and my section leader. Twice a week I went to rehearse, and twice a week I waited to be yelled at or humiliated by somebody - for no particular reason; I wasn't too bad at my chosen instrument, even: I was just an easy target.

Maybe I've got a neon sign above my head that I can't see. It's masked by the glare from my halo.

But I digress. I kept going, despite the abuse - I had friends there, plus when it all came down to it, I liked the music. And we played more concerts than I'd have ever thought possible, too.

In the back room of the community centre where we rehearsed, there was a large and dusty library of titles which we had never played and never would, old and broken instruments which didn't work, and a pair of antiquated timpani, which I usually hauled out into the big hall myself since I occasionally played the things once my bullying section leader had left, bequeathing the instrumental duties to the one person left in the section (me!). Countless times I sat at the back of the band waiting to play my few notes, and even more times (could they be counted) I wondered how easy it might be to slip off into the back room for illicit sexual activities while the band was playing its 49th verse of Geordie Jack-Tar.

Particularly in my second year (my first and third were different), my nights were characterised by steamy, sweaty self-indulgence while my brain conjured up images of exactly what one (or two, to be exact) could get up to in such a room, how to do so without being caught, and the logistics of having sex on a timpani. I even considered writing a story about it, although I had no idea how - noting down my nocturnal fantasies always came out like a rather clinical bullet point list.

I haven't forgotten.

My dreams have been stranger than usual recently, although (as opposed to the odd sexual situations they tend to throw at me) they have mostly been concerned with Getting Stuff That I Need To Get Done Done, which is both depressing and worrying and more the sort of thing my mother dreams about than I do. However, two nights ago, wholly without any reason to be doing so, I found myself revisiting that back room, naked, with none other than a famous British journalist I shan't name (because you never name a journalist!) as my sexual sparring partner. While the bank played something in the other room that could have been anything. Possibly the theme tune from Ground Force. I didn't really notice, as I was more concerned with hair, skin and filthy filthy filthy sex.

I've no idea whether this is my body dealing with sexual urges in a healthy way (it wasn't a wet dream - I haven't had one of those for a while) or addressing an unresolved issue, but anyway, it was a nice (if completely baffling) situation to have presented itself. I should start a library of these things.

And then last night's dream involved me in a suit with a clipboard.

My brain is really weird.

Sunday, 6 April 2014

A Space Odyssey

Last night, Mane's little brother had a birthday party. He does that every year, because he has a birthday every year. Shocking concept, I know, but many people seem to like birthdays so much that they make it an ANNUAL EVENT. Mine last month was more of a cue to stick cards on my wall which I haven't removed yet and buy a 2DS because they didn't actually get me one.

In any case, along we went, and thus it began with me walking into a room which already contained Mane Jr. along with his older brother and my friend-who-is-a-midwife (who is also their sister) cooking pizza. I immediately regretted having already had soup, but took some pizza anyway. Already in attendance were my friend-who-is-a-teacher and Einstein, although that's not important, as Robinson and Lovely, the young raver, scene girl and about 4,987,545 others* turned up and started spanking jelly.

Uhm, I should probably explain: a large amount of (vegetarian) jelly made its appearance at some point during the course of the evening, toted by Mane Jr.'s mother, at which point somebody produced a fishslice from somewhere and decided to smack the jelly, producing a pleasantly wobbly effect. Evidently, this was so hilarious that we ended up passing the thing around, my turn yielding an immediate flashback in my mind to the last time I spanked someone. My resultant actions were almost too precise.

Anyway, I digress.

At one of these parties, the inevitability is that somebody will stick on the best of S Club 7 at some point (for the curious, this CD actually has a title; it's Best, for some reason). By "somebody", I do in fact mean my friend-who-is-a-midwife, but the again, she owns the CD. After various shenanigans involving doughnuts (don't ask), crotch pumping (totally innocent) and balls in beer (not what you think!) all to the tunes of S Club 7, somebody produced Now 50. And I was 16 again.

I'd forgotten about that year. 2001 was somewhat unremarkable to me, as it was just a year of idleness and inaction. That's all a lie. It contained the first and only time I asked someone out, my first and only rejection and my first suicide attempt, in that order for quite obvious reasons. However, it was also part of my continuing sexual development, although I hadn't started masturbating then, so this mostly consisted of lying on my bed thinking "sexy" thoughts and enjoying the feeling of my penis growing hard and pulsing gently until it felt painful and I reverted to feeling like I had three seconds to live in order to refer to normality.

So, yeah, that's what the Wheatus cover of A Little Respect makes me think of.

Music brings back memories, especially if you're listening to it specifically because of the memories. Green Day's Nimrod does this to me, and probably will again because I haven't listened to it for years. Now 50 brought these things back to me:

- Wondering how the hell someone thought DJ Ötzi singing Hey Baby! was a good idea.
- Marvelling at how many height references Lighthouse Family manage to shoehorn into any track.
- Remembering how Travis singing the word "sing" over and over again sounds like there's been a lot of thought put into that lyric, when the exact opposite is true.
- Being confounded by how desperate someone must be to get into the charts in order to release a song called Because I Got High.
- Despairing at how easy it is to forget all about James when compiling music CDs.

None of which made any difference. For that time, I was 16 again and being surrounded by people I've known since I was 5, including the person I used to hang around with at school the most, made this depressingly realistic.

And then we have Louise Redknapp.

In 2001(ish), one of my friends who I haven't mentioned here before developed a crush on Louise (who, at that point, didn't have a surname for some reason), and kept me guessing for a period of about 45 minutes, mostly on account of the fact that I had absolutely no idea who she was. I still don't get the point of celebrity crushes, but then this guy also seemed to like Melinda Messenger and all five Spice Girls, so maybe he wasn't really that choosy after all. A few months later, I was idly flicking through the newspaper and came across a picture of Louise, and I remember thinking something along the lines of, "oh, right, okay."

I'm not really going anywhere with this. There are too many memories here to focus on and make a coherent post about one or two. And, at that moment last night, there were too many then, as well.

So I went back to spanking jelly.

That seemed to make sense.

* may be an overestimate

Saturday, 5 April 2014


Good afternoon, my name's Innocent Loverboy. I am a white cis male, and I'm very sorry about that.

See? It looks ridiculous when I write it out. I shouldn't need to apologise for the colour of my skin, my sexual identity, or my assigned gender.

Writing that out looks ridiculous too. It's a list of things that people should be taking for granted. Offences which those with conscience fight against - racism, sexism, homophobia, etc. - make the suggestion that members of the public or in the national conscience who don't fit a template they (the offenders) have assigned are not normal people, and therefore should be demonised. This is wrong. And this, we all know.

There's another thing, as well. I'm straight. I've always been straight. I've never been sexually attracted to a member of the same sex. I'm sorry about that too.

I shouldn't need to apologise for that either.

But then there are a few labels that are part of my identity which nobody seems to have any problem with. I've had a few insults thrown at me for "vegetarian", but not that many problems apart from a few odd looks in Yorkshire. Nobody's offended at "socialist". Nor at "Green Party activist", "Woodcraft Folk member", or "James fan".  Are you offended at "Christian"? Depending on who you are, you may be. You shouldn't be, but you may be.

Doing the rounds on the blogosphere, the sex-positive community, the left-wing edge of Twitter and within the sex blogging community as a whole, one does chance across things which, without meaning to, use "white cis male" as a catch-all term for a sexist, misogynistic, boorish and ignorant white cis male. There's no pretence made as to the idea that all white cis men are like that - of course they're not; I'm not, at least - but it does seem that, for whatever reason, that doesn't need to be clarified. Journalists who write articles about feminism, gender issues, race, gay rights and other ethical issues often come out as erudite and well-reasoned, whereas those who oppose them appear the exact opposite - but that isn't always the case. I once read a Guardian article by a black man entitled "of course all white people are racist." I saw his point, but I felt offended.

The problem I have with this issue is that not a lot of people actually bother to read this stuff. Seeing someone who's been abused by men contributing to the #KillAllMen hashtag or write an article about female empowerment doesn't equate to "all men abuse". Someone being racially attacked in the street for being Asian, as happened in my local area last year, doesn't equate to "all white people attack". The guys who stand in the street with "ask me about Jesus" shirts who spend a lot of time telling people they're going to Hell doesn't equate to "all Christians are fundamentalists". I don't even believe in Hell.

But this isn't often clarified. Taking a stand is to be applauded, whether or not anybody agrees with you, even. But it's going a bit too far when I start to feel like I can't say much because I'm just a white cis male and therefore I have to be inherently prejudiced.

I'm not apologising for white men because I don't speak for all of them.
I'm not apologising for heterosexual men because I don't speak for all of them.
I'm not apologising for cis men because I don't speak for all of them.
I'm not apologising for Christians because I don't speak for all of them.

I am one of them. I am not a bully.

I've been bullied, almost always by women, but I don't for one second believe that all women are bullies.

I make no apology for who I am. Whatever someone else does is not what I do. I am a white cis male, and I'm OK with that. You should be too.

Tuesday, 1 April 2014


Yesterday's post by Girl On The Net mentions the concepts of energetic sex and physical exercise. She even managed to tie the two together, smart girl as she is. I find I'm not able to do that... because I don't really see much of a link...

That's a bit simplistic. Let me start again.

I've recently started running again. Last time I tried, it wasn't particularly successful - I got about halfway through the programme before deciding that playing Pokémon Sapphire was a better use of my time than suffering the stares of confused families, amused children, braying secondary school students and ubiquitous small dogs as I exploit the parks of the local area for my own selfish self-destruction. However, partially on account of the fact that I didn't feel comfortable in my own skin at Eroticon (but mostly because my mum told me I was fat the other day) I've restarted the programme.

And so I run: legs screaming at me to stop the ritual abuse, moobs doing some sort of Highland fling while my heart beats an Edinburgh tattoo against my chest roughly translated as, "Let me out! Why are you doing this? I don't know where the priests are hiding!", with my mouth sagging half open as if I've just been drugged, my feet falling flat against the pavements and paths that I manage to stagger onto on an almost daily basis. Laura chirrups in my ear that I'm doing really well and may even get a gold star from the Headmaster if I keep it up.

And then there are dogs.

After all this (and as I progress through the plan) I'm too tired to do just about anything, never mind fuck, so energetic sex is pretty much out of the question entirely since I've managed to expend about a year's worth of energy through pounding the streets while needing the toilet.

Having said that...

I have had some incredible energetic sex. The last time I had some "what the fuck are you on?" sex was about a month ago, but it's not the only time. York, Suffolk, Brighton and Hampshire have all also had their fair share of sex with a long burst of incredible exertion on my part. In pretty much every case, it seems that being on holiday is what gets me moving - and that's in no way a coincidence, when one considers the fact that you can make noise, use all the space you want and generally misbehave in appalling ways when you've booked into a room somewhere and horny. But then that's holiday sex. It's often energetic. Often loud. And often really, really good.

I've also noticed I'm more energetic the first time I have sex with people. That doesn't include my first time, which was akin to playing living statues with the aid of a condom as thick as Gibraltar - but, ever since then, the first time I've had sex with someone new has always involved as much thrusting, grunting and gung-ho push/pull action as I can put into it. And the more it seems obvious that I'm about to have sex, the more energy there is that gets generated. My body is a coitus dynamo, or something.

But for all that, what's with all the energetic sex? Exactly who am I trying to impress? Nobody's watching. I may do my duck-footed wheezy runs on public display, but sex with all guns blazing every single time... is it really necessary? No, of course it isn't. Slow sex is great. Lazy sex is great. Penetration and just holding it there for a while... well, some people may disagree, but I think that's great too. I'm not in porn, so why want to be vigorous each and every time?

Doesn't mean I'm not going to try, though. 

Sometimes I just can't stop!