Tuesday, 30 June 2015


"Is this yours?"

I handed her what, I was pretty sure by that point, was a vibrator. Granted, it didn't look like a vibrator - it was more spherical and I couldn't see any way to turn it on... but maybe that was the point. Some vibrators aren't obviously sex toys to the casual observer. But, since I'm a sex blogger and additionally since this had fallen out of her bag, and she seemed moderately crestfallen that I'd picked her thingy off the floor, I was about 80% sure that this was, indeed, a vibrator: one that she was carrying discreetly just in case she needed it at any point during the day.

It happens, apparently.

I accepted her hurried thanks as she threw it back into her bag and put it from my mind, finishing all my tasks and going for lunch which, thankfully, was laid on for me - although it's not the best food in the world. It's free; that's what matters right now.

In the afternoon, her friend took something which looked exactly the same out of her bag, opened it with a turn, and ran the lipsalve over her mouth.

"Oh, it's lipsalve!" I ejaculated, while the inner me facepalmed about four million times.
"Yes - of course - we all have one. Why, what did you think it was?"
"Nothing in particular," I lied smoothly. "It looks a bit too big to be lipsalve."
"Well, that's what it is."

I turned my back to get back to my work. Nothing lost, nothing gained, I suppose. I just need to stop assuming everything has a sexual connotation.

I erotically picked up my magic wand of paper, unrolled it like fresh bedclothes and unleashed it upon the expectant throng.

"So, as I was saying..."

Sunday, 28 June 2015

The Con is On

"But, but, but, but..."
"Yes?" enquired Esque.
"I'm not overly keen on lesbians," I admitted, trying to surreptitiously hide the copy of Hustler that 47 had bought for me in the sex shop. "I prefer straight things - you know, things with male interaction with females..."
"Oh, there will be some things in there with male and female couples," she said.

I had no idea.

Genuinely none. I was 17. I knew the difference between soft porn and hard porn, having seen both. I'd seen plenty of softcore with boy/girl scenes, and a little hardcore, mostly grainy JPEGs on sites with an all-black background and primitive text-based SEO; it hadn't occurred to me, however, that there would be explicit male nudity in a magazine. As far as I was aware, there was absolutely no penetrative sex allowed in the making of porn, and that all hardcore porn had to involve lesbians, because at least there was no penetration.

Of course I was wrong, but I didn't know that. I'd grown up watching pretend sex on cable television and was absolutely astounded to find that one could buy a magazine showing actual penes, erect, and that this was a thing that happened frequently. I hadn't figured that out until 47 bought a copy of Hustler for me in some sort of "here, have a wank" effort.

Two weeks later I went on holiday to Manchester. Esque was there, as were Farm Boy and the guy with the massive penis, among others. There was also my copy of Hustler, which I don't think I'd taken from my bag since I got it, lest my parents find it and think I was more of a sick degenerate than they probably already thought I was. Nevertheless, I took it to Manchester - well, that, and the pack of erotic playing cards that 47 (or possibly Esque) had also bought; I seem to remember playing poker with them at some point.

The magazine remained unopened for the first few days. I mean, I knew I had it with me: I'd just no idea what to do with it. I was curious, but had never actually read any of it for fear of seeing erect penes and much lesbian sex (I never found out if there was any of either). But there was one guy who was annoying me, and his bunk was next to mine. Halfway through the week, I devised the perfect revenge scheme.

He removed his duvet that night to find some porn on his bed.

Wicked cackle.

Thursday, 25 June 2015


I didn't sleep at all last night.

I waited.

I wasn't going to get any sleep - that was clear. I needed to get up at 5:00 to take Jillian to Victoria Coach Station. It was about midnight by the time I turned the light off and, although I was bedded down, I was intensely restless. Couldn't get comfortabele. Wasn't sure if I was to hot or too cold or just too concerned for my girlfriend.

So I waited until my alarm went off and then set off for Victoria.

Work passed in a haze of tiredness and at one point I cried. In the office, alone, but it still counts. It was very sudden indeed, and then just as soon as it started it stopped. I was too tired to cry.

As I staggered home I noticed the first inklings of horn beginning to grow. Maybe they were there all the time and I just hadn't noticed. I dumped my stuff, dtripped off completely, drew the curtains and practically collapsed onto the bed, every inch of my body screaming with gratitude for the softness and the quiet.

Also, I was horny.

And tired. I was a mixture of the two - I knew I needed sleep, or at least rest of some description or another, but my penis was engorged with blood and pounding repeatedly. My intuitive reasoning rapidly decreasing, I had no idea about justification at this point. I needed to satisfy both horn and tiredness, but I just wasn't sure if I could.

I didn't have the energy.

Taking in a short, sharp breath, I wrapped my hand around my shaft. It felt warm and relaxing in my palm, its familiar contours and shape being something I'm used to. Adjusting my grip, I let my eyes flutter closed as I slowly, sexily, started to work my foreskin up and down.

I'm not even sure if I remember what was in my head. I remember is the slap-slap-slap sound of masturbation and my own heavy breathing, the dim sunlight emenating from the side of the curtains. I remember how hard I was and how I was steadily coming to the realisation that I needed this more than I had initially realised. I wasn't being greedy. Or sinful. Or lazy. This is what I needed.

I also remember it being quick. It usually takes a while for me to get to orgasm. This was fast - a few minutes, maybe, although I was well aware that I had all the time in the world to do so. Relaxed, let myself go, and then just after I was fully aware of my body slipping away, I came, my hot spunk shooting out over my stomach and chest and hand.

And at that moment, almost immediately, the heat of the day and the release and the claws of tiredness got to me, and I fell into a restful, dreamless sleep where I lay.

I slumbered where I was, naked, on my back, on my bed, cum still glistening on my body and hand wrapped gently around my penis.

Wednesday, 24 June 2015

Dapper Laughs

"You are not funny."

I'm often at my happiest playing the fool, although I'm far from an idiot savant. A test I once took (on the internet, so you know it's got to be true) placed my humour as "the Wit", which I was pleased with - clean, complex humour with a slightly dark edge to it. I've always, although not intentionally in some cases, tried to find a joke in every situation... if not a light side.

Which is why I was confused to find Moaner Lisa telling me that I wasn't funny. At all. She'd sent me an e-mail to tell me this, after I'd pointed out that some of what I'd been saying to her was in jest. For example...

ML: "Lightsinthesky doesn't love me, does he?"
ILB: "I don't know, maybe not; why don't you ask him? He's your boyfriend."
ML: "Oh, no, wait, that's the PMS talking. But since you mention it, why not?"
ILB: "Hang on, are we going to be having this conversation every month?"

So she told me I wasn't funny.

I immediately rang up everyone I could think of in order to conduct a survey. Everyone I asked told me that I made them laugh - Lightsinthesky had to think for a while before he said yes, whereas War Man told me that I did simply by asking him the question. Music Man said I did all the time, Einstein agreed in his own special, quiet way. Robinson grinned when I asked him the question, and the girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on flicked her hair and giggled a yes.

I then published the result online - 20 yes votes, one no.

Well, I thought that was funny.

Laughter plays a huge part in sex - at least, I think it should. I've always had sex because it's fun - whether for love, or sex, or even just to feel comfortable - the best sex is the stuff that makes you grin widely, or laugh out loud, or burst into giggles during, or (preferably) after. In these dark days of constant transgression, gender politics and porn censorship, I do fear that we are losing our way somewhat: fearing that the sex we're having, that we're writing about, doesn't count if it's frothy and frivolous: it has to be serious. It has to be dark and meaningful. It has to hurt. That's what real sex is.

No it isn't. Sex is what you make of it. Whether it's a morning quickie, a night-long fest of slow, passionate love-making or an afternoon shag full of sweat and grunting... or whatever... it's your sex life and what you do with it is your business.

So I'll quote Simpsons and sing Norman's Song during sex if I want to. Same if I let my eyes roll back into my head and laugh after a particularly powerful orgasm, or if I let her drum Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo from Cinderella on my stomach afterwards. Sex is fun - it should be fun. It's practically crying out to be fun. And it's a shame if it isn't.

Three years after the Moaner Lisa debacle, I ended up reviewing an anthology of comic poetry for a university project. My tutor's only comment, apart from the grade: "Ha ha!"

Nice to know he got the joke... whatever it was supposed to be.

Sunday, 21 June 2015

Soft Porn Sunday: Melina Hanson & Anthony DeVilla (vs. Keri Windsor)

It's been a long time since my first ever Soft Porn Sunday and, accordingly, it's taken me long enough to get to this scene, which is from the same episode in the same series featuring the same characters and probably should have been done earlier in the sequence.

As if there's a sequence. I now choose these by pointing indiscriminately at the screen like Andy from Little Britain and thinking, "there, that'll do."

One of the tropes of soft porn is that, every now and again, two characters will be indulging in hot
Dude! There's a scorpion on your arm!
and heavy action while another character "just happens" to be watching. The princess watches in Dungeon of Desire, the jilted ex watches in The Best Revenge, the student watches in The Sex Files: Creating the Perfect Man, and Haffron's crew watch absolutely everything through rejected Virtual Boy prototypes alien technological VR headsets in Emmanuelle in Space. In this episode, said trope is wheeled out more than once, and gives our peripheral character a chance to rub herself around a bit, in some sort of "LOL more tittilation RN'T U LUKY" effort.

But who cares about her? I like the two main leads a lot more...

Appearance: Passion Cove, Series 2: "Practice What You Preach" (2001)
Characters: Ruth & Nick (and Elizabeth)

I didn't really go into the plot in any great detail last time, so here it is: Dr. Elizabeth Henning, one of those fake doctors who writes relationship help books, is taking time to "relax" before a self-congratulary masturbatory book tour, so she's going to Passion Cove along with three others: Win (Brad Bartram - yes, his name actually is Win; no, he isn't an East Asian character, it's just a ridiculous character name), Ruth (Melina Hanson) and her boyfriend Nick (Anthony DeVilla).

And the options are:
1. Dragons attack and Daenerys turns up to lead them away
2. Elizabeth wakes up in a mysterious room and GLaDOS offers her some cake
3. Nick has to rescue his little sister by traversing the witch's lair with Ruth in his backpack
4. Win and Elizabeth end up having sex

Place your bets now!

See? She's tiny!
But that's not important to Ruth and Nick. Nick's more concerned with showing up, late to the party, completely topless(for no discernable reason whatsoever) and jumping Ruth's bones the second he does so.

As Nick's already topless, we don't get a mass disrobing scene. Ruth's pretty much naked all the time - I'm not even sure if she owns any clothes - and Nick's wearing Remov-O-Matic Jeans - so we start right away (after the necessary "Ruth, darling! You look beautiful!" dialogue) with oral sex, with Ruth on her back and Nick getting stuck in, followed by a kiss, with Ruth on her back and Nick getting stuck in, and then some licks on the body, with Ruth on her back and Nick getting stuck in...

...well, girls love a cheerful giver, so I'm told...

before he takes his jeans off (he doesn't appear to be wearing pants) and she fellates him.

[Upon which point ILB pauses and reflects upon the difference in size between the two participants. While Nick is of average build, Ruth is tiny - short, slim and redheaded - to the point where a tattoo that would be relatively small on a normal person takes up a large portion of her back.]

Because you're worth it.

[ILB also then reflects upon how he himself has never had a sexual encounter with anyone taller than he is, how being six feet tall contributes to this, and how much easier it is to 69 someone when there's a height difference. He then realises he's talking in the third person and decides to stop being so pretentious.]

After exactly one minute of these shenanigans, they roll around on bed for about a second - seriously
Hugging. With style.
- before Ruth decides she wants to take charge and flips him onto his back so she can ride him in the reverse missionary position - which she does, with gusto - before pushing herself up to full-on astride and really going for it. Nick, for what it's worth, seems to be enjoying all this revelry, taking part insofar as it's possible to take part with your miniscule girlfriend full of your cock...

...at which point Elizabeth, played by Keri Windsor, walks past, notices there's sex going on, removes her towel and starts fondling her own boobs.

Uhm... okay, Elizabeth. Whatever works for you.

The rest of the scene bounces back and forth like a sexual Wimbledon. Ruth and Nick go at it, Ruth in particular appearing to own a pair of youthful piston-powered hips; Elizabeth rubs and touches herself; Ruth and Nick; Elizabeth; Ruth and Nick; Elizabeth. There isn't even an orgasm scene, just a kiss between Ruth and Nick with Elizabeth slinking off having reclaimed her towel from the floor. It's implied - through a mix and fade to white - that the sex is carrying on, which is fine. The next time we see Ruth and Nick, they're also having sex, so... yeah.

Reunions, eh?

"Sounds from next door; someone's getting laid..."
All right, so this is Passion Cove so we know what we're getting: slightly unusual but quite competent camera work - a bit of zooming and angling but not enough to make you seasick - some odd swooshing music but with vocalisations to make it slightly more believable - and a large deal of white: white walls, white bed, white people with (in one case) white hair. Even the music feels white. It's a formula that's worked for a while so there's no reason to change it, and while the voyeuristic not-watching-honest bit isn't really necessary, it's kind of fun, even though it's totally obvious what's going to happen.

This is, in fact, one of my favourite scenes - a staple of my soft porn addiction since university, and
...interesting d├ęcor.
something I've seen at least twice on TV - and it's almost guaranteed to make me hard. Ruth and Nick are both attractive people (Melina Hanson, frankly, is absolutely stunning and one of the characters I write about is physically very similar to her) and, although there's not a lot of characterisation in them, their sexual performance is one of the best - it's fast, it's frantic, and it's hot. I'm not sure I find Keri Windsor that sexually attractive, but her presence here isn't as distracting as it could be, as (amusing as watching her trying to masturbate in a softcore way may be) we know it's going to cut back to Ruth and Nick every time, and that keeps the sexy going.

All in all, this isn't a scene that makes me groan, or snort in distain, or laugh. This is a scene that makes me come.

And I need that sometimes.

Thursday, 18 June 2015

#AdultSexEdMonth: Boys' Toys

Men's sex toys are really shit, aren't they?

Okay. I don't genuinely mean that. Maybe I'm biased on account of the fact that I've tried sex toys before and they don't work

Or maybe I'm upset with the variety available.

I mean, I've nothing against sex toys. I love the sex toy industry and the invaluable service you get from what is, effectively, a niche market. I don't regularly use them because I'm so seasoned with the use of my hand, and I don't own too many (well, I own a few but if I want to masturbate I'm not going to spend aeons ferreting around under my bed), but I know plenty of people who do, and by-and-large they find them effective (although some more than others).

The problem I have is with sex toys for men. Before I started this blog and getting involved with the community, I always thought of a sex toy as a thing designed for women - I knew of the existence of the Fleshlight, but I thought of it as a novelty, rather than something you'd actually want to fuck. Since then, I've discovered plenty of sex toys for men, and even reviewed a couple, but I'm still of the opinion that they need vast improvement.

Imagine you're designing a sex toy specifically for men. Where does it go? Some men can't fit (or don't want to fit) a sex toy up their anus in order to stimulate their G-spot (and I certainly can't due to IBS), so that's out. Maybe you want to stimulate the penis, but your toy doesn't accommodate every penis because either it's too noisy and ineffective or your penis is the wrong shape - has a curve where it's not meant to, or isn't sensitive in the bits it's meant to be in, or (in my case) it's longer than the designer's, and therefore misses out on bits of the toy that are the important bits.

And so you create another one. Something else to stick up the arse or to slip around your cock. Or, worse, something with a picture of Jennifer Lawrence on it because that's not at all an invasion of privacy. Maybe it's even something like the TENGA Deep Throat Cup, which got a good write-up on Oh Joy Sex Toy, but sparks fears that you'll get chucked out of the Green Party for causing so much waste.

Or maybe you're ILB. Maybe your penis isn't very sensitive and while masturbating you stimulate your perineum, scrotum and nipple as well as moving your foreskin back and forth to maximise the effect. Maybe you need words and/or images to start you off and your fertile imagination stops working when you have to hold a toy in position or it falls down, or falls off, or hurts. Maybe you don't like the feeling of lube and/or silicone and maybe the frustration you feel is perhaps the least sexy thing since EL James wrote Grey.

These are all factors we need to consider.

I can't speak for girls, because I'm not a girl, but I've heard similar things from women too. No, not everyone is the same. Of course not. And of course not all sex toys are going to work for you. But I know plenty of people for whom there's at least one sex toy which does work. I'm not one of those people.

I bet she uses sex toys.
It's Adult Sex Ed Month right now. Despite my bad experiences and lack of orgasms from sex toys, I'm still willing to give them a try. I'm sure that somewhere, somehow, there's one sex toy that will work for me. It's not a challenge so much as an excitement of what may come in the future. And education is a core part of that.

We need education on what works for people. We need education on how people work and what things can feel right on every individual person. We need to educate ourselves, at least on what feels right for number one, so that we know the sex toys we buy are going to be the right choice. And we need to educate the sex toy industry. And we need to be educated as to exactly what choice there is out there.

Because I don't know. I've never been told. I'm a boy; I don't need sex toys.

Sometimes, it's the lack of education that hurts the most.

Tuesday, 16 June 2015

View from the Other Side: You're Gonna Hear Me Roar

1:00 am.

I remove my headphones for a bit and, for a while, there is nothing. Silence. Then my ears retune and I pick it up - a confused mix of sounds. The stomping of feet on floor. The occasional sip of drink. A drunken lyric, sung in a key hitherto unknown to mankind. In the distance, the bar calls. (I fish my wallet out of my pocket, checking for my last residue of change - also producing another sound.)

Making apologies that nobody can hear, I wend my way through the silent disco throng, their noise-cancelling headphones emitting an eerie neon glow, colour denoting the song they're listening to. They are dancing like they never have before - a kind of human interaction that would make a fascinating experiment, were they not all slightly intoxicated.

In the bar, there is more noise. Chatter from those who have decided to escape the silent disco. The man at the bar, who's been up since 7:00 am, fixes me with a forced smile and very tired eyes. He's done weddings before, but probably none like this.

"Two Diet Cokes, please?"
"Right. That'll be £2, please."

My wallet screams in pain as I rip the coins from it and hand them over.

"How are you doing?"
I turn to face the Dutch girl who's been hanging around for the whole wedding, but whose name I've never tried to learn.
"Fine, okay. Tired. Thirsty. I'm not sure I can carry on."
"You can! It's a wedding! Go back and dance!"
I nod. She's right, of course. I take my Diet Cokes and jog back to the dancefloor.

Mane Jr. is leading his brother and the young raver in a silent singalong of something or another. My pregnant-friend-who-is-a-nurse and the also-pregnant Lovely have retreated to the sanctity of a nearby Premier Inn, taking with them MTH and Robinson. Jilly is sitting down to rest her tired feet. Scene girl is dancing with her sister, her eyes closed in a silent scream of glee. My friend-who-is-a-teacher is missing.

The bride staggers in and sits down into a chair at the vacant top table, a neon heart softly glowing above her head - a halo matched only in radiance by mine and the neon lights of the silent disco headphones. She is exhausted by the day's events. I raise my eyes to talk to her; she matches my gaze and grins. The groom, with a little more energy, wanders in and engages her in conversation. I break away from them and put my headphones back on.

Immediately the indistinct jumble of noise is replaced by music, filling my whole world with sound. And I dance. In my own world, shared with others dependent on the song. Eventually the bride joins us - Mane gives her his pair of headphones, fishing a replacement pair for himself out of the box. We are all here, united by this girl we've all known for years: she has brought us together to celebrate in glory. And we're all dancing to music no outsider can hear.

I feel empowered. I feel embraced. I feel loved. I feel special.

I feel free.

Katy Perry's Roar starts playing into my ears and I notice people's headphones indicating that they are also partaking.

I thrust my fist into the air and let out a silent roar of appreciation, power, love... and relief that I have made it through yet another wedding.

Monday, 15 June 2015


As the steady drizzle started to increase in frequency and volume, I traced my fingers steadily across her clit, feeling her thighs shiver with lust and soft lips flush with heat under my touch.

I think it's fair to say I was surprised, if not astounded, at just how wet she was. I'm pretty sure she wasn't comfortable; I'd had a fit of gallantry and insisted she lie on the one sleeping mat I'd managed to extricate from the the general mulch in my loft the previous night (assuming that, as a Woodcrafter, I'd be perfectly comfortable on the floor of the tent without anything more than a sleeping bag), but it would be foolish to suggest that she could be considered "comfortable". My tent isn't really designed for two, although putting it up alone would be a stretch.

I sat up with a struggle, my head grazing the canvas ceiling as I did so, and worked her clit with one hand as I gently began to stimulate her perineum with the other, eliciting a long, soft moan. I began to insert one finger, her slick wetness allowing it to slide effortlessly into her sex, her inner walls contracting around it, surrounding it with warm, wet flesh. She began to move, softly but surely, in the cramped space of the one-man tent, against my hands as best she could, while I frigged her clitoral hood, kissing her neck, lapping at her ear a little.

She moved towards me, which was somewhat impractical, so I rolled her onto her back and positioned myself on top of her, sliding our bodies together, feeling our skin touch. Our lips brushed against each other and I felt myself being deftly enveloped in her folds, until I relaxed, fully inside her and feeling beads of sweat forming on my chest and back.

Without much space to manoeuvre or push against anything, I found myself a little lower down than I would usually be when making love to her, but still able to thrust and groan, moving my hips back and forth to dip my cock into her - over and over and over again - as we have done so many times before, the rain now abating to a light haze in the air outside (what was I expecting? a thunderstorm?). A little bump and a fair amount of grind, a sharing of body heat and a bucket of pleasure, and her poor back pressed against the ground maybe a little too hard... and it was over. I fell off her, naked, on top of my own sleeping bag, still hard but ready to rest.

Sex under canvas... at long last!

Overall, it was a fantastic experience, but the lack of space in my old faithful wasn't something I'd foreseen, what with my familiarity with orange Vangos and the like throughout my formative years. Still, there was enough room to move, and despite my initial misgivings, any doubt about that was thrown out of the gauzed window when I felt how wet she was getting.

Next time, we'll use a bigger tent.

Tuesday, 9 June 2015

TMI Tuesday: A Sexual Mixed Bag, Of Sorts

I've been a sad ILB today and I'm going to make no apology for that. I've had a rough couple of days: please do forgive me. And send someone to fix the printer at work so all my troubles will be automatically over.

In any case, I did TMI Tuesday in an attempt to clear my head and get me thinking. The following answers make me sound much more sexually experienced than I actually am... which can't really be a bad thing, one supposes...


1. Have you ever had an orgasm at work? How? Tell us the circumstances.

Yes - quite a few throughout a varied succession of jobs, although the circumstances aren't all that original: masturbating in the toilets during breaks and so forth. There are a couple of posts about it here and here if you want to revel in the filth.

It takes me quite a long time to orgasm at some points and a couple of times it's been commented on how flushed I look ("do you have a fever?") after wanking to a climax in a work toilet. One supervisor asked me where I'd been for twenty minutes. I suppose the most appropriate era for that sort of miscreance involved a combination of a three-hour break in the middle of a split shift and an office building with very wide toilet cubicles. I could check my e-mails, go for a jog, have lunch and have an orgasm all in that time.

2. Do you ever fantasise about your significant other while you are at work?

Indeed I do, but it's usually not sexually; I tend to fantasise more about hugs and kisses than sex when I'm at work, as I'm in no appropriate position to claim them from anyone (I used to hug my colleagues a lot - now, it's not as commonplace as it was!). That's a shame really.

When I was in a relationship with the drinking girl, I used to imagine her singing to me when I was at work. Now I tend to sing to myself instead.

3. How old was the oldest person with whom you’ve had sex?

I was 21, she was 43 (so she'll be in her fifties now - Good Lord!). She was accommodating and had loud orgasms and it was my experience with her that brought back my enthusiasm and vigour for sex after having not had any for an incredibly long time. We had sex a few times, actually: always in her flat and on her bed. I was always on top and everything just seemed to click.

4. Have you ever fallen asleep during sex?

Not to my knowledge...

Two incidents leap to mind, though: once I gave a girlfriend an orgasm while she was asleep, and once a girlfriend fell asleep with my penis in her hand. Maybe that one's not as impressive.

5. Have you ever cross-dressed or worn undergarments of the opposite sex?

Yes, of course I have. I've famously dressed several times as a princess (with a persona to go with it) - often for parties - and I've played a maiden on stage (in a non-speaking part) for which I wore one of my gran's skirts (it was The Marriage of Figaro, in case you were wondering). At a work training week, I played a Southern Belle type (complete with wig) when we were allowed to choose our own characters during a 'murder mystery' exercise.

Oh, and occasionally I've worn girl boxers or some of my girlfriend's underwear when I can't find any of mine.

(I know that the answer I've given isn't what this question is about, really, but I think it's an interesting answer anyway...!)

Bonus: You have the power to banish one person from Earth; who would you banish?

Boris Johnson. I've never liked him - not even his hair. As a Mayor of London, he was adequate, as it's a largely powerless position with a strong London Assembly to make the decisions for him. Now he's an MP again (and a Cabinet Minister sans portfolio at that), he has a grip on power, which is a frightening prospect. Were he to become Prime Minister, he would be genuinely dangerous.

I've also met him. Just bumped into him in the street, so I asked him a question. He actually answered it correctly. Yes, I'm surprised too.

Sunday, 7 June 2015

Addiction XIX: Clubbing

Tim Booth used to go to clubs before they really got started, dance for a couple of hours and then leave relatively early, allegedly after a few disturbing incidents in which he was threatened with knives because people didn't like the way he danced. I danced like a slightly confused version of Tim Booth when I was at university and people stood still to watch me, possibly in admiration.

How times change.

I still dance like that, incidentally, but that isn't really too important. I used to go clubbing a lot... both in the equivalent of a club we had in our union bar every Friday night (which is still the image I have in my head when I think of a club) and out around the city or cities I visited throughout my early twenties. I remember them being hot, dark and full of alcohol, with plenty of people wither too drunk or too aloof to talk - and, besided, they were always too dark to talk anyway, necessitating the use of both Makaton and random gesticulation to get a message across.

And then I graduated, left university, and stopped going.

Yesterday I took part in a hen party (although the badges we wore had cocks on - because, as it turns out, scene girl doesn't know the difference between a male and a female chicken; so: a cock party; no, I am not ashamed of that joke). Though the day lurched through various stages including rowing boats in royal parks, wedding dresses being created from toilet paper, tight hugs from increasingly drunker girls and the young raver's face being entirely covered with talcum powder (don't ask), WBBW's hen cock party ended in Club de Fromage, allegedly London's most popular pop-based club night (although I'd never heard of it).

In between screaming myself hoarse to the likes of One Direction and a multitude of other artists we'd already murdered during the karaoke we'd partaken of nary an hour beforehand (I sang Gangnam Style in Korean - which is never, ever happening again), a few half-buried memories came back to me. On one club night, I kissed 27 girls on the hand merely because I wasn't a threat and I could. On another, I got close to a girl (who eventually became a friend) and would have probably been able to take things further if this guy hadn't cut in, taken her by force and snogged her in the doorway within about three seconds of doing so. (This guy, incidentally, was responsible for a lot of problems from that era - I wasn't so bothered about my disco exploits being disrupted, but I wrote a particularly incendiary blog post about him, calling him a cunt on multiple occasions, after he caused a breakup of a relationship by sleeping with the girl. Yes, I know.) And on another, I stood and watched a guy in a drinking game stand up and shout about what a small penis he had. I wasn't allowed to take part - I don't drink.

For such a dark, messy, confused environment - the sort of thing I'd usually avoid in favour of more pleasant, airy environments involving food, sex, games, words and Super Smash Bros. - clubbing still ignites something in my heart. It's something to do with whatever happens when I close my eyes and dance like nobody's watching (because nobody ever is). It's the fuel of the music, the vibrations that shock through your body, the gradual build-up of energy with every overpriced lemonade you buy at the bar, and the ring in your ears as you exit (in yesterday's case, with scene girl then realising she had to work out a way home for us at 4am).

For a lot of people, including the couple glued to each other's face who walked backwards into me last night, a club is a mating ground, a sort of petting zoo where singles can come together to meet, dance and pull. For me, it's relaxation - throwing my body into unimaginable shapes while not being able to hear is a welcome release from the thoughts that usually distract me from enjoying myself too much. I've never pulled anyone in a nightclub and I probably never will.

But I think it says something that I was the only one left dancing at the end after everyone else had gotten tired and sat down. It certainly does say something, actually, but I'm not exactly sure what that is...

Tuesday, 2 June 2015


I read inthe Metro today, that bastion of quality information that the public needs to know (most of the paper was about some dog or another, I wasn't really paying attention), that a woman has been temporarily jailed for having loud sex. [NB: The ASBO that she breached, from a little further investigation on my part, was for excess noise, but the Metro saw fit to put the 'loud sex' bit into the headline, presumably in order to print the word 'sex' in large type. Anyway...]

But that's not how you do it. Surely not. You do it the way my housemate used to do it or the puppet sex scene in Avenue Q or just about any scene from Russ Meyer's sex comedies of the '70s. You do it with reckless abandon, as loudly and as obscenely as you please, because you... oh.

Oh. That's what she was... what she was doing. Uh. Okay.

Or, alternatively, you make no noise at all. Just like last night...

I was between her thighs, my tongue making repetitive laps at her clit while my little finger dipped alternately between her vagina and her anus, not really entering either of them but making a little brush along the length of her perineum each time I switched. She wasn't making much noise, apart from the occasional "ooh, yes!" and, every now and again, "yes! keep doing that! right there, don't stop doing that!". (I got that about five or six times, despite keeping doing what I'd been doing. Nice to have your work praised, right?)

I was fully expecting a loud, messy orgasm. I could feel her approaching one - we had certainly been playing enough - and she was making all the signs. Shaking thighs clenched around my head, clitoris hard like a bullet and throbbing apoplectically under the ministrations of my tongue, vagina wide open with engorged lips, dripping wet and glowing heat everywhere. She was about to come - I could feel it.

And then, all of a sudden, she did. Silently. No sound, not so much as a squeak, just a few deep breaths and a frantic pat to get me away from her pussy, as she writhed and squirmed her way through what turned out to be, as she said afterwards, an incredibly intense orgasm, one that pretty much knocked her out (we both slept well that night, if I recall correctly inasmuch as one can recall sleep).

And not with anything more than a whisper, either.

So, yeah, that's... that's another alternative. If you're looking to avoid an ASBO, perhaps...