Thursday, 26 February 2015


My stomach is rumbling more than is physically acceptable by the time I make it to what passes for a café bar, although it's little more than a stand, looking out over the pushy mothers forcing their babies to swim in the pool. It's not been a fun morning, what with my local MP hitting upon the masterstroke of holding a jobs fair in a leisure centre. Sweaty men in corporate suits pushed together as a mass of bodies dripping with desperacy to hire unskilled workers for their hideous mess of companies. The fact that I had to walk through the driving rain to get there doesn't help, either - the atmospheric pressure is giving me a headache.

I shouldn't be hungry, but I am. I'm standing at the café bar, and I'm waiting to see what little change I have can buy me.

The major problem with this situation is that there's nobody there. People are sitting on plastic chairs with a hideous array of beverages and comestible products, so evidently this is operational - unless there's been some sort of mass operation to smuggle food to a bar in a leisure centre - and yet there's nobody serving at the bar. I hover, uncertainly, for a while, listening to - to - hey, what exactly am I listening to?

Smack smack smack smack smack. Rhythmically.

My girlfriend comes over, curiously.
"Just come over here," I indicate, bringing her over to where I've been standing, "and listen..."

Smack smack smack smack smack.

"...and tell me if you can hear somebody wanking in the store room."

Because, by now, I'm absolutely sure this this is exactly the situation. The man operating the café bar has had enough of the atmospheric pressure, the miserable rain, the pushy mothers forcing their children to swim and the sweaty men in corporate suits. He has taken temporary leave of his post, gone to sit in the store room, and is now having a wank to relieve all the stress, as evidenced by the rhythmic smacking of skin on skin, which is the sound you make when you masturbate - or at least it's the sound I make when I do so.

It all comes together, like the final piece in a glorious jigsaw, and I am the one who has solved it.

"Sounds like a dripping tap," says Jillian, causing my entire existence to shatter into a million pieces and vanish into the ether along with all my hopes and dreams.
"Oh, yes..."

At which point the woman operating the café bar re-appears from the direction of the toilets. She gives me a warm smile and asks what I want. I meekly reply that a cup of tea would be fine, and start counting out silver coins from my wallet.

I'm most definitely not hungry any more.

Tuesday, 24 February 2015


Unless you've been hiding under a rock this morning (or don't follow certain people on Twitter, which I'm fairly sure amounts to exactly the same thing), you may have noticed that Blogger are updating their terms of service and are banning certain adult content for public blogs.

Private blogs are excepted, but it's still a form of censorship, in a way.

Some bloggers have received a missive in some form or another, but I haven't gotten one. Still, I looked up the policy and it reads thus:

Starting March 23, 2015, you won't be able to publicly share images and video that are sexually explicit or show graphic nudity on Blogger.

Which sounds awful. There are a number of bloggers out there who use Blogger and, if they want to continue, they'll need to export everything into an XML and transfer over to another service, like WordPress, which I'm sure is perfectly possible. There was a certain amount of hysteria last year on the assumption that WordPress itself was ritualistically deleting adult blogs - which it wasn't; it has an issue with certain affiliate links, though, which also sucks - but I do credit bloggers with the requisite nous to be able to host their writing somewhere safe.

Still, I do support - and will continue to support - bloggers, wherever and however they host their stuff, because it's there to be read, right? I mean, that's what a blog's for... right...?

This brought up the question of what happens to my blog. I've been downloading XMLs of my blog every month since 2012, so that if something does go wrong, I have a backup and will be able to somehow get my writing somewhere. However, having read the new Blogger policy carefully, I'm noticing this carefully-worded bit of prose:

In the coming weeks, we'll no longer allow blogs that contain sexually explicit or graphic nude images or video. We'll still allow nudity presented in artistic, educational, documentary or scientific contexts, or where there are other substantial benefits to the public from not taking action on the content.

There's very little actual nudity on this blog; the most explicit thing you'll get is the occasional snapshot from soft porn and that is for illustrative purposes (which I think falls under the banner of 'artistic'), never mind not actually ever showing any genitalia (that's part of the soft porn regulations to get an 18 certificate, in any case). Words haven't been mentioned at all, and although my writing can be explicit, I don't think I've ever set out to be genuinely offensive.

Blogger haven't actually defined what they (and/or Google) define as 'sexually explicit or graphic' imagery, which is more of a cause for concern, as it's easy for a censor to suddenly turn around and say "well, that's a nude breast, that's clearly graphic; take your blog down, boy!". But, since there isn't really anything on this blog that you won't find on television (sans digital), I am assuming that it will continue to stay where it is.

But I'll keep an eye on events as they unfold...

...if they unfold!

Monday, 23 February 2015

...wash your hands.

In between my first and second years of sixth form I got a blowjob from a girl. It was awkward, in the end, but I enjoyed it at the time.

A week or so later I was walking past Einstein's house when I heard the sound of a cue hitting a pool ball. I curiously moved towards the garage when I heard my name being called, so headed in for a look, whereupon Lightsinthesky (pool cue still in hand) informed me that he had lost his "flashing V" while on holiday that year, with someone that I don't think he ever saw again; while this was difficult to believe to begin with, it did start him on a path towards decadence, culminating in an orgy on his living room floor...

...or so he said.

In any case, he rhapsodised lyrically about it while Einstein simply stood there in polite befuddlement. In between uhms and aahs, I decided to point out that, to a point, I'd had sex in the summer holidays too, although it didn't extend past a blowjob. To a complete novice in the whole being-touched thing, though, that was still pretty hardcore.

It would've come out eventually, though, because everything did. Rumours had been circulating earlier in the year that I'd had sex with Louise (she started the rumours), and I had to work hard to dispel them. This was the truth, so I may as well have been brazen about it to Lightsinthesky and Einstein, albeit probably fully in the knowledge that Lightsinthesky would tell EVERYONE. I just kind of assumed that he wouldn't, or something.

He barely mentioned himself having had sex at all after that.

The reason I'm writing this post is that I heard the word "nosh" in conversation recently and I've always had trouble with that word since the following year. I was subjected to a steady flow of gentle ribbing about "knob cheese" - I'm not sure what the joke was, but it was something to do with Babybel wheels constituted entirely from my semen, the sick degenerates - and every now and again, I got a comment (often from Lightsinthesky, but occasionally Man o' War as well) that contained the phrasal verb "(to) give [pronoun] nosh".

I don't understand either. I got a few comments about "the one who gave you nosh" - which, as far as I was aware, meant food, rather than fellatio: this conjured up an image of her cooking up a delicious meal for me, which I don't recall happening. But I still don't know what my friends' deal was - I doubt it was jealousy; Lightsinthesky eventually put it around that my hair could be used for frying chips - until Lightsinthesky himself started going out with Moaner Lisa, which became the New Thing.

Still, at least I learned my lesson there. If you have sex of any kind, never tell anyone.

Especially not in any sort of public forum.


Friday, 20 February 2015


The car door slams outside and I peek to the left, even though I know who this is slamming a car door. It's the woman who lives next door. She seems nice; brings us fruit sometimes, has an elderly mother who I sometimes help along the path to her house, and is relatively close to the people who live a couple of doors down who own a caravan which I fully intend to steal since that's the only way I'll ever afford to live anywhere else.

I always return her smiles, because I'm pretty sure I've been a dick to her ever since I moved here.

Not deliberately. I'm genuinely a nice person. I find it awkward, sometimes, to talk to people with whom I have very little in common, but I have nothing at all against this woman. She seems nice and my parents like her. And, from what I've seen, she has a nice garden. The problem is this.

We can hear her 'phone.

I don't know how thin the walls are between SH and her house. I don't really wish to know - suburban architectural design isn't really one of my primary interests. But we can hear the rings of her telephone pretty loudly, almost as if it's in my bedroom, which is coincidentally next door to her... you can see where this is going, right?

So I've no idea how much she knows. Does she hear what goes on in my room if I can hear the incessant bells in hers?

The creaking of bedsprings as we have sex, rhythmically, heavily, with intent?
The soft, deep, rapid breaths from my girlfriend as I bring her closer to climax?
The juddering gasp I tend to give as I bring myself over the edge, brought to an end as I silently orgasm?
The slap of skin against skin? The flump of clothes falling into a heap on the floor? The mix of laughter and chatter as we experiment?

Does she know, when she walks past my window, that I have one curtain closed because I'm wanking behind it? That my ears are fine-tuned to the slamming of her car doors, the tapping of her feet against the pavement outside, in case she comes across something untoward?

Or does she know nothing at all of this? Is this worry just unfounded, and it's just me imagining all of this in my head? Making sex that little bit more elicit, knowing that everything I do carries through the paper-thin walls and beyond? Trying to stifle the moans, the cries, the grunts and shrieks, dreaming of the time in hotel rooms where we make as much noise as possible because it is our prerogative?

I don't want to know. It's much more exciting that way.

Wednesday, 18 February 2015

Fiction: 05:42

"So... this is Say Something?" he asked. "I thought it'd be more... well, marketable."
"No," I corrected him. "This is Say Say Something. It's entirely improvised; it's very..."

I look at him just as the first drum beats sound.

A spark.

A rush.

A build-up - along with the drums.


The word hangs there in thin air. The instant the violin joins it, he has me. His mouth pressing up against mine, my fingers hurriedly fumbling, trying to unbutton his shirt. It can't come off fast enough.

I cascade backwards onto the floor, like my body itself is a glisseo. Off comes my T-shirt, my bra, my belt. He pulls my jeans down and I kick like the kickdrum, trying to get them off faster. He laughs at my squirming body and pulls down my pants. They slide off easily.

Like the slide of my bow. Only I'm not playing any instruments. James are.

I don't see him undressing. I'm too busy giggling and losing myself in the music and the madness and the moment. But the instant I feel it tap against my clit, I feel myself getting slickeningly wetter than I'd imagined, the anticipation of what is coming being the only stimulus I need.

He slides carefully into me as a cymbal crash hits. One, two, three seconds pass, and I feel my inner walls moulding around his shape inside me. He's moving, but he doesn't need to. I have him inside, and I have the music and as everything envelops me (although I, too, am enveloping him), I know that everything will be all right.

Everything is.

"Say Say Something," he whispers.
A grin unfurls on my face, as I press a finger to his mouth.
"There's no need."


As an entry for Charlie Powell's competition on the theme of giving something up - in this case, restraint.

Also inspired by this piece by James. Written entirely in 05:42, the length of the piece.

Monday, 16 February 2015

The Cut of my Rib

Those of you who have been wondering may either be pleased or disappointed to know (but probably, mostly, don't care) that I have, in fact, had sex since the last post I wrote about really wanting to have sex.

This is the good news.

There was a selection of condoms involved.

This is the bad news.

I don't really like using condoms, and most of the people I've had sex with have been on some sort of alternative contraception via swallowing pills or getting a jab, but needs must, and as my girlfriend suggested using a condom this time for extra security, I dug out my bag and riffled through the contents, drawing out the necessary items and creating:


(Which, in reality, comprises eight different condoms, all probably very similar, but with different packaging. I didn't include the fizzy cola ones by Pasante, which is a terrifying thought.)

Foreplay commenced and orgasms were had - completely by accident, she tells me - and sex was clearly on the horizon, so I asked her to pick a condom. She chose a condom with ribs and dots by Durex, purely because she'd never used a ribbed condom before. I have, but I'm pretty sure I can't remember exactly what it was like.

Well, I know now.

I do understand the concept of a ribbed condom. Well, sort of. I know the slightly rippled effect of the condom and the associated Dalek-style dots are meant to enhance pleasure - a bit like the textured inside of a Fleshlight, although I've never used one of those, either. On account of my slightly desensitised penis, I assumed this wouldn't have much of an impact, but I dutifully rolled it down my shaft - "doesn't it hurt?" she asked; I've never really thought about it - and sex commenced.

Needless to say, having sex for the first time in quite a while, I was pretty energetic. And yet I didn't feel much...

...she did. And apparently it wasn't very pleasant.

I can't say exactly what went wrong, if indeed it did go wrong. Maybe I put it on inside out. Maybe it was a bit of a duff condom. Or maybe it just wasn't very good. But the ribs and dots eventually made their presence known (I couldn't even feel them when I first put it on), and although it didn't really bother me much, it bothered her - and so I can imagine; I wouldn't want something initially smooth and firm suddenly being covered with little bumps inside my vagina either.

I pulled out, tied the condom into a knot and threw it as contemptuously as I could into the bin. Not going to be using one of those again, I reasoned.

And then I suddenly remembered why I stopped using them in the first place.

Let's hope that, the next time, she doesn't choose the one that glows in the dark.

Thursday, 12 February 2015

The Scream

Sometimes, when it all gets too much, I just need to fuck.

I just don't. Not very often. I wimp out of asking for sex in favour of other pleasurable activities like going to the cinema or having a lie down and a cuddle - both of which are nice, of course; I am something of a fan of the cuddle while lying down, particularly as a sort of therapeutic recovery from whatever it is you're trying to recover from therapeutically. But sometimes I just really, really need to fuck.

It's sometimes manageable. My girlfriend gets tired easily - and, frankly, so do I. I have trouble ambulating, never mind getting out of bed in the morning; I have to pretend people are watching in order to play my guitar otherwise I just won't bother playing; I can both swim and ride a bike but neither of those are happening because I don't feel the need to. I'm just sure, in the back of my head, that I'm being lazy, rather than just tired - if I can stand on my own two feet for twelve and a half hours straight while working, I am perfectly capable of having sex and making it good.

If I kneel on the floor I can give good oral sex without moving anything more than my tongue.

But sometimes I can't cope. It's like a scream in my head, gradually increasing in pitch and volume, taking the burn from elsewhere in my body and turning it into an endless noise, getting louder every time I take a step. I really need some release. I really need to leave my body. I really need to phase out. I need to fuck.

Calm down, I tell myself. Stay calm. You were single for a very long time and didn't have sex for ages. And you coped with that... you didn't have a choice, to be fair. You don't need to fuck. You're just stressed. Or upset. Or overwhelmed. Or misunderstood. You feel bad about yourself, I tell myself. You're trying to prove something. You don't need to prove anything. You know who you are. You know what you can do. You are capable.

But I can't cope with everything.

I can't shut down all the time.

And I can't stop the screaming in my head.

I need

Tuesday, 10 February 2015

How rare

It's my 30th birthday next month, and my parents suggested we have a party, which is both a fantastic and ludicrous suggestion: fantastic because I love a good party; ludicrous because there isn't a lot of space in this house, and they've suggested this house.

I'm doing it. It will be marvellous.

It is, of course, the weekend before my birthday, as the weekend afterwards is a wedding - but I won't let that all-out action stop me. And, since it's my 30th, I'm inviting 30 people. In fact, I made a list.

Reading through it this morning, I was struck with a sudden self-doubt.

Oh my! What if there's someone on this list that I've had sex with? That'd be really awkward, inviting them to my house in the presence of my girlfriend and my cat! I'd better check through this... Robinson, young raver, Lightsinthesky, H, Farm Boy... Phew! Nobody there!

At which point I was struck with another, more sudden, self-doubt.

Oh my! Why isn't there someone on this list that I've had sex with? That's really awkward, inviting them to my house in the knowledge that I'm so physically repellent nobody's going to want to have sex with me? I checked the list, just to be sure. Nope, not one.

And so I attempted to reach a compromise.

Okay, well, what about kisses? Everybody likes kisses! There's got to be somebody on this list that I've kissed...

I carefully combed through the list, discounting everyone I've kissed on the cheek (which, in reality, is most of the girls - I am a rather tactile person) and/or seen naked (ie. Mane; the "Daniel Radcliffe in Equus" costume will stay with you), telling myself that if there wasn't a full-on snog, it doesn't count.

Nope. Nothing. Nobody. Nowt.

Apart from 47. At least then I got close.

Sunday, 8 February 2015

Soft Porn Sunday: Nikki Fritz & Buck O'Brian


Under the recent regulations on video-on-demand-porn by ATVOD, the use of a cane to implement strokes on someone for the purpose of sexual pleasure is banned. No ifs, no buts; whether you agree with this ruling or not, ATVOD makes it very, very clear:

Acts which, if copied by the uninitiated, have the potential to cause injuries more than transient and trifling are extremely unlikely to be acceptable. Only "moderate" pain play is acceptable.

- ATVOD via Myles Jackman

Acts which involve weaponry are also taboo, and as a caning falls under both of those categories, well, it's a very good thing that soft porn isn't video-on-demand, otherwise this would be... you guessed it... banned!!!!!!

Appearance: The Exotic Time Machine (1998)
Characters: Marie-Antoinette & King Louis XIV 

Surrender, for all their faults, can't be accused of not playing with their audience's imagination a bit, even if they do play a bit fast-and-loose with it sometimes. Take this bit of gloss from the late '90s, for example: a time travel epic which manages to shoehorn in pre-revolution France, Chicago under Al Capone, and... erm... Aladdin. All under the guise of trying to save humanity from an alternate future, caused by various meddling in time after an experiment "goes wrong".

"Whoops," as the main character so eloquently puts it.

Gabriella Hall is wondering whether to report this.
Enter Marie-Antoinette, played by Surrender stalwart Nikki Fritz in a ridiculous wig, who is a lot more horny than history lessons (or, in my case, after-school French conversation classes) would lead one to believe. In fact, she is so lustful that she manages to sleep with both her handmaiden Mimi (Tiffany Gonzáles) and lost time-traveller Leon (Joseph Daniels) before getting around to her husband, King Louis XIV (actor Buck O'Brian in an equally ludicrous wig), and even then, she's only doing that to placate him after he caught her making love to Leon.

Okay, that's a lie. I don't know why she's having sex with him. I think they just ran out of plot and had to give Nikki another sex scene, or something. I'm not complaining - she's quite hot. ATVOD may have a different view.

This entire scene has a voyeuristic edge to it (is that banned too?), as it is being watched by female lead Daria (Gabriella Hall, thankfully sans wig). It takes place on the same bed as the previous sex scene with Marie-Antoinette, and it starts with Louis wielding... yes... a cane.


He's actually topless as this starts, running the end of his cane over Marie-Antoinette, who appears to
be tied up(!!!) and wearing some sort of fetish gear (well, an open corset and stockings - I assume latex hasn't been invented yet), and she seems to be enjoying it, although for all his blustering about, he's not actually hitting her with it. You know, yet.

Or at all.

Over the next few minutes of sex scene material, the cane (which appears to be more of a riding-crop, which I suppose it is) doesn't actually get a lot of action. There's a little tap of the thigh here and there, but Louis suddenly and inexplicably gets bored and throws it over his shoulder, before freeing an equally bored Marie-Antoinette by hacking at her bonds with his sword and leaping on her. And then the music starts.

There's quite a lot of middle-of-the-road stuff to follow, what with disrobing from the corset and standard kiss-the-thigh oral sex (while managing to keep the wigs on, somehow!), but a lot of it is just Nikki Fritz' head gurning. By the time there's any amount of serious nudity going on, Louis is already gleaming with sweat and doing some sort of leg-related action which I wouldn't find sexy in a month of Soft Porn Sundays, but they both seem to be enjoying themselves, judging by the amount of kissing that follows.

Vagina. Don't say I never give you anything.

Some sort of tribal drum beat chimes in with MOAR COWBELL! as Louis indulges in some superfluous nipple-sucking - they're like little Eiffel Towers already, yer Maj. - followed by her licking his chest for a change. And, to be fair, I actually do like this bit. It's quite sensuous if you can get past the silly makeup, and the music does kind of keep the tension going - adding layers of bass, percussion and strings in sequence to indicate that things are heating up. By the time someone remembered to add the electric guitar riff, I found myself actually quite tense, genuinely wanting these two to have sex - not something I tend to find in scenes with too much build-up.

Stop giggling like that, slave-king.
And then, suddenly, the cane is back!

Only this time she's wielding it, kneeling behind Louis' prone form, but not actually landing any strokes - she sort of chews on it at some point, but we don't see her hitting him much, the film choosing instead to show us a bit of woman-on-back bump'n'grind, which may well be hot, it's just not even sex! Instead of going back to caning, we then mix to doggy style sex without exploring the possibilities here - wasted opportunity, perhaps!

At least the sex is hot: all gripping sheets, gritted teeth and frantic movement, with accompanying guitar stabs like boss music in a Final Fantasy game, with a variety of positions and the time-honoured trope of "keeping your stockings on", which never really gets old. And, although I like Nikki Fritz, I don't suppose Buck O'Brian - despite the goofy name - is that bad either: he's not to my taste physically, but he's certainly trying very hard, so points for that. They kiss to finish off and vanish out of sight as we get a fade to black on the very traditional soft porn candle in the background.

So why use a cane?

It's a serious question - softcore is soft, I'll grant you, but there's nothing in The Rules to say you can't
Om nom nom.
depict kink in it: 1995's I Like To Play Games has both bondage and wax play, and some mild spanking, and nobody seems to question that! There's definitely caning on the cards here, but (apart from a couple of light taps which don't leave any sort of mark) it's mostly used for decoration, rather than as a sex aid. And, more to the point, if Louis throws it away before the sex happens, how does Marie-Antoinette get it back? Does she just have an identical one under her pillow? I think we should be informed.

So, after all that, this wouldn't be a problem at all under ATVOD! There's a cane involved, but there's no actual caning with it, so no problem whatsoever...

... but the wigs?

Ban this sick filth!

Wednesday, 4 February 2015

Boys are stupid, throw rocks at them!

Message to boys! What is the size of your dick? (from a girl)

The writing was relatively neat, straight without a slant, small but still legible and with a little circle (rather than a dot) over the lower-case letter i. Certainly the handwriting of a girl in her early teens. But, as I was in my early teens too, that was to be expected.

I was sitting at my seat at the back of the class, the only one paying any attention to the teacher. Among the graffiti on the desk in front of me was a little table, "I like RE / I hate RE", in which the "hate" column has been filled up with ticks. Dutifully, I added a tick to the "like" column, both well aware that I wasn't meant to be writing on the desk and that I wanted to make a stand for RE as an enjoyable subject. Well, I enjoyed it, anyway.

100 INCHES from RICHARD, said the message underneath in a different biro colour. It was scrappy, but legible. Also huge. The "R" in "RICHARD" was about the size of my thumb; I was both doubtful of this dubious claim and amazed that he hasn't followed it up with any number of exclamation marks. Whether or not the girl who had written the first message in her fine hand would be genuinely interested in the size of his dick once seeing that was a matter of conjecture, but there was a message from her below.

I'm a girl. What year are you?

On account of the fact that these missives had transformed the school table into a bulletin board by this point, some others had joined in with the conversation - a little bit like Reddit, but somewhat more eloquent. A Bitch looking for Sex, claimed one, while another, appended to the end of the conversation, enquired:

Message to giRLs WHAT is the siZe of your PUSSY HOLLE (from a boy)

As no more of these messages were answered, I covered them all with my exercise book in order to do the work that I was supposed to be doing. And, although I did return to the same desk afterwards to catch up with this fascinating exchange, it had by that time been wiped clean. I can't say that was, particularly, a shame - although lascivious philanderers would have to find their own way to communicate.

Text messages became available the following year.