Sunday, 31 May 2015

On the Case

When I was at school, I used to carry my pens in the inside pocket of my blazer. (Originally, I tried my outside pocket; these then scattered everywhere when I tried to demonstrate "exercise enthusiastically" during a drama lesson about applying adverbs to performance.) I found this a handy way to carry them around, being able to produce a pen instantaneously and not having to have to bend down and ferret around in my bag for a second and a half, thus allowing me to conserve that precious time for the purpose of detesting existence for just a bit longer.

This practice continued until the black biro I was toting around managed to burst, coating the inside of my pocket, the other pens, my keys and the little figurine of Kenny attached to them, and a little bit of paper with my school network password on it entirely in black ink - timed nicely to coincide with the very beginning of a maths test. I sped to the bathroom, scrubbed my blazer as well as I could, washed the ink off keys and Kenny (and my hands), then returned to Maths and did the entire test in the remaining time using the very pen that had burst, which still had enough ink in it to work. And got an A.

Of course I did.

I didn't really bother with a pencil case until I did my A-Levels, both because I wanted to use my blazer pocket for something useful and because I hated pencil cases.

I'll explain.

Pencil cases, for those first few years at school, looked to me to be more like bulletin boards than anything else. They were covered with layers of graffiti declaring who was going to win World Cup '98, venerating the multitude of bands who were popular at the moment (until I pointed out to War Man that P.O.D. were a Christian band and he Tipp-ex'd them off his case) and etching witty remarks like "I woz ere" and "I ?". It was like going to school with Oscar Wilde.

And then, halfway through year 8, there was a sudden shift. Gone were the theoretical musings on who woz there and whether or not Cafu was a capable football player... in were declarations of love.

They were everywhere and impossible to notice. Girls (I never saw any boys doing this) would cover their pencil cases with the name of the object of their affection, often over and over and over again, whether or not they noticed (I even spotted my own name on a pencil case once; I never really followed that up) - in most cases this was Leonardo DiCaprio, so he was pretty much guaranteed not to notice - but, for the girls that had boyfriends, their pencil cases would LET YOU KNOW ABOUT IT.

One of my friends, who I sat next to in geography and eventually went to church with, was in a very physical relationship with my mortal enemy for a rather lengthy amount of time and I have no idea what colour her pencil case was originally. This guy - let's call him "Stu" - was all over the thing. "Stu is FIT," the case said. "Stu is FINE. "Stu is 100% A BABE.  I love STU. STU IS MINE. Stu4EVA! STU!!!" I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd written "FUCK YEAH STU!" there somewhere, only she claimed to be above such language (Stu himself used it as punctuation).

This amused me. Much as I didn't like Stu, I liked my friend and her dedication to her sporadic boyfriend was charming, in a rather peculiar, slightly creepy way. The awkward conversations we had after our geography teacher left before the last five minutes of lesson time mostly focused around what etchings she'd managed to add to her pencil case, apart from that one time when Stu led the boys at the back of the classroom in a rousing chorus of a song he'd written about the size of the girls' tits (and some of the boys').

Eventually, as I'm sure you'll be shocked to find out, they broke up. On Valentine's, if I remember correctly, for reasons unspecified - possibly because he was bored with her or possibly because rumours had started to circulate about them having sex in the bushes outside the school gates; I didn't care to enquire and wasn't really interested - and she was pretty devastated about it at the time, but over the weeks became more stoic, at which point I deemed it prudent to ask if she would be getting a new pencil case at some point.

"Oh, I don't need to," she smiled. "You know there's this new boy I like, called Joe?"
"Yeah," I lied smoothly.
"Look!" she beamed, flipping her pencil case completely inside out, revealing to me - and the world - a completely blank canvas, upon which the very first "Joe is FIT" had already been inscribed, presumably in a black biro that hadn't burst yet.

Tuesday, 26 May 2015

View from the Other Side: 47+1 = 48!

I brushed back my well-coiffed hair (having had to thoroughly wash it in lieu of getting a haircut; PSA: it is impossible to get a haircut in suburban North Wales on a Saturday evening) and adjusted my suit for the 74,000th time as the sun sparkled through the windows of the cathedral, momentarily bathing everything in light. I glanced down at the cushion upon which I was balancing two differently-sized golden rings and flicked through the order of service I'd tried very hard to approve. My eyes roved across the aisle and I caught the gaze of the maid of honour, who flashed a mischievous smile.

Not long now.

The doors opened and 47 stood on the threshold, in full suit, accompanied by his then-girlfriend-and-now-wife, resplendent in a white dress - floaty but still functional. As we had rehearsed the day before, they walked down the aisle steadily, earning some admiring whispers fromthe crowd and a wink from me as they reached the front.

There was a pause...

...rather a long pause.

"Isn't there... isn't there meant to be someone here?" 47 muttered as the couple stared as the completely empty altar. He was right - there was.

But the vicar was missing.

"Where is he?" he mouthed, turning to me. I shrugged - I certainly didn't know. I'd just walked past him on the way to the bathroom, so he was definitely somewhere in the church. He'd also been there when I'd posed in 47's stead for the photographer. When I'd shepherded everyone in from the shuttle minibus we'd booked. When I'd asked Jilly to hand out the orders of service. When I'd gone to make sure I hadn't left the rings in the wrong place (I hadn't; they were right where I'd put them). He was there every single second. And then, just when we needed him to come in and marry my best mate, he had vanished.

At this point, everyone caught on and there was an incredible shout of laughter, at which point the vicar appeared and looked thoroughly befuddled as the congregation burst into applause at his very presence.

He took the happy couple by the arms and steered them back to the door so they could start again from the very beginning (it's a very good place to start).

"Start as you mean to go on?" I said cheerfully, at which 47's mother gave a laugh.

Nine hours later, everyone sang Bohemian Rhapsody in a circle.

And if that isn't love, I don't know what is.

Tuesday, 19 May 2015

View Before the Other Side

I was going to look for a meme to do today to fill up the space... but I don't really like the TMI Tuesday questions this week. As a summary, my answers would be something like: whatever x 3, whatever x3, don't know (have never managed it), massage, girlfriend and gentle humour, something pithy, yes. There, that'll do.

The reason I felt that I needed to write something today comes from the fact that, from tomorrow until Monday afternoon, I'll be in North Wales (somewhere even more wild than Somerset, so I hear, but with more sheep) attending, assisting with, and generally getting in the way of 47's impending wedding to his lovely, very short, Italian girlfriend and fellow Doctor Who geeklet. I am expecting a few nights of drunken Magic the Gathering and inscrutable video games and I am very much looking forward to it.

Oh, and there's a wedding too. That's quite important, although I'm not getting much from 47 on the subject. A few "probably" replies to my questions. Best kind of reply, really.

I'll write a speech on the train.

So I'm not sure I'll be able to write any blog posts for a while, unless I rugby-tackle 47 to the floor, get him in a chokehold and wrestle a PC from his hands while using my feet to tap the keyboard. But this is an unlikely scenario, so I may have to tweet from my 'phone and see what else can be done. I have a girlfriend who is bringing a netbook with her, so that may have to do (the netbook, not the girlfriend).

In any case, I don't have much to say right now. But I'm living in potentia as a ILBest-Man-in-waiting right now... and I am loving it.

For I am a mighty planeswalker.

Sunday, 17 May 2015

Gone Girl

In order to improve my employability, and thus placate my mother's wrath, I'm currently taking a college course. This is, of course, in addition to the other four higher education qualifications I've got, but it's quite fun, and it's enjoyable, and - crucially - it's incredibly easy, so I'm not taking a massive leap here. Plus, it's only one evening a week and therefore it's not really deducting massively from my time in any major way. And, as I found out on Thursday, it's perfectly possible to blog from the computers in the library.

So, yeah, I'm okay with that.

My classmates are all of a similar age to me, if not a little older in many cases. There isn't anyone of standard college age, anyway; no undergraduates - we're all people who are doing this for something extra (or, in my case, nothing extra). There are also a few European students who are now working in the UK and doing this to gain more skills (this includes the teacher; she's Greek). By and large, they're all pretty nice people.

Thursday evening.

The little group of people I talk to, whose names I can't remember, are always a little late back from stuffing themselves at the café in the little break between lesson halves. We came back in and sat down, taking our things out in an effort to look studious and keen, and yet none of us - not even our teacher - seemed to notice that one of our number was missing. One of our European students - Spanish, I think. Tall, slim, beautiful, nice smile. Laughs a lot. I helped her with her work last week and she's a good talker. But she wasn't there.

Fine, you might say, she's just gone to the toilet. Or lost track of time and she's still in the refectory. Or she's gotten lost - it's a bit of a maze. There are so many possible explanations for this.

But you can see where this is going, right?

Back she came... with signs that I'm not entirely sure if I'm imagining or not. Bright wide smile, hair a little out of place, and emitting a healthy glow similar to that you'd get in the Ready-Brek adverts from the early '90s. She looked very pleased about something. Of course she did, I said to myself, as I carefully inked "where did she go?" on my hand for future reference.

I counted out the possible situations in my head. Our classroom is right next to the library, and the library's being redeveloped, so there are plenty of places to hide. Boxes and books everywhere - a real mess. It wouldn't be too hard to slip into a corner un-noticed.

And then what could you do there? Would she delicately slide a hand into her skirt, just loosening her belt one notch, deftly stroking her clit to feel the pulses running through her? Would she tease her pussy lips just enough to feel them engorge? Or would she just go full-on, bringing herself to a silent, sneaky climax in the solitude of the evening library stacks?

What if she wasn't alone? Hsd there been someone who'd gone out there with her? Or, even better, someone waiting for her somewhere in the library itself? He - or she - had been quietly standing there in the corner knowing she would emerge around the same time very week. A fumble in the quiet, a little teasing and a lot of skin. Quick, dirty and awkward, and then a shy goodbye as she straightens herself out and skips back to class.

Maybe she was reminiscing right now. She might still have the taste of their lips on hers, a small kiss mark on her neck, or a pulse between her legs, slick with satiated desire or needing more. She may just have been pleased with herself. It's okay, I wanted to tell her, there's nothing wrong with it. It's the sort of thing I'd encourage.

Very briefly, she looked around the room and our eyes met. She flashed me a smile and put her hand to her mouth. I, in turn, adopted an expression of mock surprise and hazarded a grin back... and then glanced at the message on my hand once again.

Scandalous, ILB. Totally, deliciously scandalous.

Thursday, 14 May 2015


[DISCLAIMER: This post is inspired by last week's Sinful Sunday by Charlie Powell.]

As you'll know if you've been paying attention, I live with my parents in a house I've chosen to call SH. Like Charlie's parents, the move to SH is part of an effort to downsize on my parents' part. It also wasn't their intention to have me living here, nor Jilly, either; in fact, when they moved, we were living in a room in a shared house - which wasn't perfect, but more of an effort to be out of their way as they were getting prepared to decamp to SH.

I won't go so far as to claim that I'm unwanted at SH, but it's a small house and I do feel like I'm taking up a lot of space. In our previous house - three storeys including a loft conversion and a garden large enough to contain an entire magical world which I rescued from disaster on a regular basis - I had a lot more free rein: space to walk around in when I wanted including two lounges, a room which doubled as a B&B-for-visitng-bloggers and a rehearsal space for the occasional musician, and a much larger, lighter and brighter bedroom. For the last couple of months, I wasn't too pleased with the environment (it seemed too dull for me, but then it was a very dark winter), but I visited it a few times while ostensibly living in the shared house, and - even though my parents had shifted things around by then - it was still remarkable how much I felt like I was coming home.

A memorable moment happened after camp one year. I came home in ragged clothes, caked with mud and dried rain and things I don't even want to imagine; I was soaked through due to the rain and I walked, not immediately back to my shared house, but to my parents'; I needed to unload and I knew there were some spare clothes of mine in a wardrobe upstairs. I walked straight into the house, and upon ascertaining that neither parent was there, stripped completely naked in the kitchen, bundled everything in my bag (along with the clothes I had been wearing) into the washing machine, which I then snapped on, and then walked - naked - around every room in the house, eventually heading upstairs to root around in the wardrobe for replacement clothes (there was, as it turned out, one of everything: pants, socks, trousers and a T-shirt). I didn't once feel inhibited or indecent: this was the place I had grown up in. I was allowed to be naked.

This was the house which contained the room I had in my teenage years where I played, first with my toys and then with myself. Where I had my dirty flirty conversations and began to discover my sexual self. It also had the room where I came back to after university, watching porn on my laptop balanced on the end of my bed and/or on the desk I had. That was the room where I started writing ILB; it was where I took TD and Catherine and Jilly; it was where I pulled geeky stuff out of the cupboard to show Blacksilk and Crush. I remember the view from the window and the softness of the bed and the low purr from Willow as she napped at the end.

And my SNES. That was good too.

Even though I'm living at SH now, and that is perfectly adequate, I still don't feel like I'm home. It still feels new to me, it still feels a little alien, and I think that this is because, unlike Charlie, I don't have the luxury of being able to call somewhere else home.

I can't afford a cupboard, never mind a room or even a flat. I'd like to have somewhere - anywhere - to retreat and be safe, but circumstances themselves dictate otherwise. I hear my sister (who lives in a flat in Hackney) had trouble paying the rent recently, but she managed to take the step outside, and not be forced back by debt and stress. Fate doesn't afford me that luxury, of being able to make it despite being back in employment now, and I still fail to see how this will ever realistically happen, since every time I make it at least somewhere, something drags me back down again.

But wherever I go from here, I still don't really feel like I'm home. Because I'll only ever really consider one place home... and I haven't lived there for years now. And I still miss it... terribly.

Sunday, 10 May 2015

Not so busy toilet wank

[DISCLAIMER: The following post is heavily inspired by this. Thank you for the cue, Charlie!]

I'd been despairing for a long time. Camp had not turned out like it used to be; the large amount of fun, frolics and laughter had been lacking. I was starting to have nightmares and feel sick. I was enjoying myself, intermittently, but - noticeably - I was spending less time staying up late with my mates and more time sitting in solitude either in the sleeping quarters of our massive boys' tent or wanking in the toilets.

Worst of all, my girlfriend was on holiday in the same area and I'd left that holiday to go to camp.

It seems ungrateful and the overall opinion was one that I wanted to be with her - I eventually did leave camp and returned to the family holiday (sans 47, who didn't go that time) in order to relax much more and feel her up in a jacuzzi. But, of course, I had to see her first...

I arranged for her to come and meet us while we were on the beach in Weymouth looking at pornographic penis lollipops and inappropriate golliwog dolls in seedy shops that hadn't evolved since the '70s. We'd already been there once and I recall hearing the strains of James' Sit Down in the street on the way back to the minibus - I supposed it may have been a busker, but I hadn't time to investigate. My friends were busy building a fort in the sand of the beach and I slipped away quietly.

As I sped through the streets of Weymouth I started to notice a large and rather obvious bulge in my pants. I didn't have any reason to be horny, I told myself; I wasn't turned on or frustrated and I was likely to be having sex that evening anyway... but, I reasoned, I was very, very stressed: I'd been having nightmares and I'd been losing sleep and camp hadn't really been a lot of fun at that point, and my penis was telling me that I needed as much relief as I could get.

So I descended into the first public toilet I could find via some wet metal steps.

It was grey and dingy ahd had some flickering lights, but by the time I locked myself into a cubicle and pulled down my pants, my cock was throbbing, hard and ready to be touched. I closed my eyes, trying to will the bad odours and squalid surroundings away, and took hold of my penis, feeling it pulse and grow in the palm of my hand. Okay, I told myself, I can do this.

I began to work my foreskin up and down over the head of my penis as the immediate surrounding slipped away as effortlessly as a window closes via Alt + F4. I was transported to some of my go-to scenes in my own head, accompanied by a soundtrack of moans, gasps and the slap of skin on skin. My trousers crumpled around my ankles, I pumped my hand up and down, building up a rhythm, my foreskin sliding back and forth with an increasingly rapid pace and my cock bouncing slightly in the air, pink, firm, smooth and straining with every effort I put into it.

I leaned forwards and slapped my free hand against the wall, both with pleasure and frenzy but also to steady myself  as my knees were starting to buckle. I started as the wind banged the door to the toilets shut, but that only proved to me how illicit I was being, pleasuring myself in this most public of surroundings, and carried on, abandoning all senses and concentrating on the increasing hardness of my shaft.

And then, all of a sudden, without any warning, it happened. I oirgasmed violently, my come shooting out in hot spurts, hitting the toilet seat and spilling over onto the floor, over my hand, while my free hand frantically scrabbled at a surface to hold on to. My mouth, I realised, was open, as I took some ragged gasps of air. I leaned heavily against the cistern as my world dissolved back into the dingy world of the public toilet - the buzz of the flickering light, the occasional automatic flushes of the urinals and the clattering and chattering of the public above me all swam back in bits and pieces.

I rearranged my clothes and practically flew up the steps, disappearing into the streets flushed bright red with a curious half-smile on my face.


Friday, 8 May 2015


I have a question.

If you think about it, very carefully, searching through every corner of your mind, do you want me?

You may not even know it. It may have been something someone said - one innocuous comment or a cheeky sideways look, perhaps. You don't even remember it, but part of you remembers it happening. But every now and again, you feel the slightest of moments - a fraction of a second. You draw in a sharp breath or feel a tingle. Maybe a flash in the mind, and then it's gone. Is that because of me?

And then, in your quietest of moments, maybe you feel it, just for a while. You slightly squeeze your thighs together, or jiggle a foot. You're not horny - not quite. But the potential's there. Energy just needs a slight kickstart. Perhaps it's something I've said, however long ago, whatever it was, that's there for you, just when you need it. Maybe it isn't. But what if it is?

Do you wake up at night? Does it invade your dreams? Do you lie in a state halfway between dreams and reality imagining what I could do to you? Can you imagine the weight of my body upon yours, how it feels with your legs wrapped around me? Do you want my insatiable tongue, my tender, grabbing hands, my wanton hips and my soft lips? It happens sometimes that you reach out in bed, wanting to lay your hands on my back and press, pulling me further into you, feeling me pulse and throb inside you as you whisper my name so quietly only you can hear...

And maybe that's me. I did that. I did that for you.

So do you?

Because I do.

Tuesday, 5 May 2015

TMI Tuesday: Yes, I Have A Blog

DirectLine's new ad.
I haven't done TMI Tuesday for a while, so here's the one about this here blog.


1. How long have you been blogging?

Since 2000, but most of that was random LiveJournal-related muttering about how I didn't have a girlfriend. I've been writing Innocent Loverboy since the end of 2007, riding the tail of the first wave of sex bloggers. I'm so old.

2. Tell us about your pen name? Is it a pen name?

No, my parents actually christened me "Innocent Loverboy."


Yes, it's a pen name.

3. What is your blog about?

Ostensibly it's about sex, but there's a lot more than that, dependent on what I feel like writing about. It's still a sex blog, though, so that's the main topic here. Originally, of course, it was about "my odd views on sex", but then I started actually having sex, and it kind of... changed.

4. Do you earn any money with your blog?

No, and I deliberately don't try to, hence the lack of affiliates or sponsored posts (and yes, I have been asked!).

5. What inspired you to blog?

I kind of answered this in my about page, but a short version is "I like writing". A more realistic answer would be "I wasn't getting any sex and I wanted some." The actual real answer is "I'm a massive attention whore" followed by "why don't you love me?"

6. What keeps you blogging?

I actually don't find this one difficult. I sometimes wonder what to write about, but then I'll have some sort of new sexual experience, or dredge up something from my past, or find a perfectly normal situation and twist sex into it somehow. It's the humour and the experience that keeps me blogging, and (of course) the fantastic community.

Of course, I sometimes do random Q&A-based memes as well...

7. Do you have any advice for readers looking for love? Looking to get laid? Looking for a threesome?

Start a sex blog and then start sleeping with sex bloggers. At least, that's what happened to me...

8. Did you do your kegels today? When was the last time you did them?

Okay, confession time.

I do my kegels every day - it's very easy to do them and I commute, so I have a lot of time on the London Underground without much to do. I usually squeeze my kegels about 20 times in rapid succession for no reason other than it's something to do. Really concentrating on it (it is possible to squeeze the kegel muscles absent-mindedly) often gives me a mini-shock of sexual arousal, so I occasionally rear back a bit while doing so.

And I still wonder why people avoid me.

Bonus: Do you have any special sexual gifts or talents or tricks? Tell us about it.

I had to ask my girlfriend about this and she hasn't stopped talking for about five minutes.

Monday, 4 May 2015

This Boy Can

Yesterday morning, my mother went out for a walk and noticed, on her way back, a large desk/drawer combination with a handwritten sign on it saying "please take me!". On the assumption that we could fit this thing into our room (a task further complicated by virtue of her having put a piano in it, thus using up a large amount of space), thus providing us with adequate drawer space for all the shit we appear to have (and there's a lot of it!), she bounded into my path and presented this with the air of Father Christmas pulling an extra-large toy out of his sack.

And so, because we do absolutely everything my mother tells us lest she should have at me with a steak knife or somesuch, we trolled around to the road where she'd seen it and asked if we could take it. We could. And we tried.


After taking all the drawers out on the assumption that this would make the thing lighter, we tried again.

10 metres down the road and I was resting on it for support, with a cramp in my left leg and incredible pain in my wrists and a girlfriend calling me a pussy for not dealing well with weight, pain, or (more realistically) a combination of the two. Self-victimisation aside, this was practically impossible for anyone with strength not matching that of Heracles, or possibly Captain Marvel on a good day. Two slightly crippled sex bloggers who had just spent a couple of hours walking around bits of London for a completely different purpose was probably not the best of ideas.

Still, we'd started so we needed to finish. It was only about half a kilometre, if that, and once we'd gotten the hang of moving this thing, it really wouldn't take that long.

40 minutes later and we were at the front door. I was sweating so profusely that my jumper was beginning to fuse to my skin, with red welts on my palms and fingers from the weight pressing down on them, feet that were practically worn to the bone and the rest of me in a state of nervous collapse. My 65-year-old dad, thoroughly amused by the whole thing, basically carried it on his own through to our room and put it at the end of our bed.

So now we have a random bit of furniture blocking the main walkway in our room and lots of empty drawers which are, in all probability, going to end up with smut in them à la the bottom drawer of my desk at university, reserved purely for poor-quality VHSs gleaned from eBay and a well-worn copy of Emmanuelle: Queen of the Galaxy (the top drawer was for sherbet lemons). And all it cost me was the expenditure of three times the usual daily energy from my body and a large amount of pleading, swearing and crying under the judging eyes of a suburban public enjoying their Sunday afternoon.

Hooray, free stuff.

Saturday, 2 May 2015

Shorty Folky Bobbins

"I just had to wait," said this girl, "for somebody to ask me out. There were years when nobody wanted to go out with me, but it happened eventually."

I got up from the paint-flecked blue stool that doubled as my computer chair and paced around the big empty space in the middle of my room (which I kept empty in order to be able to pace around in it, and occasionally to lie spread-eagled on the floor and pretend I was having sex). I'd never really exchanged more than a few words with this girl - although what I had had been pleasant, of course; we'd shared an umbrella once. But here she was, telling me Things Over The Internet.

"I may as well tell you, then, that I fancied you for a very long time, in fact, over the last few years," I typed, "but I didn't ever do anything." I waited a few seconds, and then continued my pacing, a little more agitated now, both emboldened and abashed at my ability to admit such a thing over the internet. I'd have to see her again at school, of course, but I doubt I'd ever be able to mention it again. I thought she ought to know.

I still wonder whether I was stretching the point. For the past few years I'd nursed a secret affection for a few girls - from a little crush to a Manics fan to the Zebra Project - and, although it was suspected by a few people (notably the Manics fan, who asked me outright, and at one point told me) - I would always deny, rather strenuously, that I didn't fancy this girl. I would admit, though, that she was incredbly pretty, and that nobody could deny, although again nobody could really point out why.

One thing that stood out about her was her incredibly unique haircut. She had incredibly thick brown hair, styled into a bob with an incredibly straight edge, the effect of which being that one could run one's finger in a circle around her head (at around the same height as her mouth) and her entire haircut would be the same distance from your finger all the way around. Of course, it wasn't just that which was attractive - she had a cute nose, pretty blue eyes and a lovely smile; she was also clever, quiet and friendly and secretly admired by quite a few more boys than just me (and the one who asked her out, who by this point was her boyfriend).

"What's she got that I haven't?" was the only negative thing I ever heard about her, which was from Moaner Lisa, most likely in some sort of mix of jealousy, curiosity and outrage.

I turned my attention back to the screen.

"Hey! It wasn't you who sent me that extra Rolo, was it?" she asked. (My school had the idea of sending Rolos to people on Valentine's for a small fee... to fund the school's buying of Rolos for this purpse, I suppose.) She'd received three - three! - Rolos from various people at the same time (three more than most people got!) the previous year. I'd noticed this, but hadn't thought to wonder about who they were from.
"No, it wasn't me," I said, truthfully. "It was meant to be a secret crush. Wasn't it your boyfriend?"
"No, it wasn't him," she said. "He told me. Do you know who it was?"

Now that I think about it, as a matter of fact, I probably did. It may have been Lightsinthesky, or the portly boy that nobody liked, or my little Indian friend who fancied everyone. Or Lightsinthesky again. He may have sent all three, considering how keen on her he was.

"No, I've no idea!" I said, very pleased that she hadn't blocked me and moved away from town in utter revulsion at being fancied by ILB. "How very odd."
"Hey, do you know who I think is pretty?" she said, throwing me off guard. "My friend Lauren. Isn't she pretty?"
"Oh... yes," I said, again being truthful. "She's a very good-looking girl. I don't know her as well as I used to, but yes, you're right. Then again, she's your best friend, right? So you would say that..."
"Well, yes!"

There was a pause.

"How is your new job going? I heard you work at Waitrose now?"
"No, I only work on street corners but that's mostly at the weekends!"