Thursday, 31 December 2015

2015: Year End Review

I think it's fair to say that I've been really horny this year. I haven't had as much sex, or even masturbated as much, as in previous years; nevertheless, I have been - for most of the year at least - very easily aroused, with various results, varying from gleeful to frustrated to my default setting of awkward.

To look back at the year in sexual terms is a completely different task from the usual thing I do in my "other, boring" life, where it's all about jobs and living situations, although the two do collide; the dream I just woke up from involved living in a caravan while complaining about something erotica writers do. So, y'know, there's that.

Here's a restrospective, which is basically a wall of text with too many links. There are a lost of posts, basically, and I didn't want to miss anything out. If you are an insomniac, like me, this is your cure. For context: 2014 ended with me living in my parents' house in North London, with my girlfriend (Jillian Boyd), both parents, and a cat named Willow. 


I spent some of the first week in January on my own, with nothing to do but eat, sleep and wank (which may explain the rest of the year, one supposes), setting me up for being horny pretty much all the way through February. February was, as it turns out, a pretty good month for me, what with my getting back into writing fiction, random condom comparison, and refusing to believe the supposed Blogger ban on adult content (which was, of course, never actually put into practice).

Three weddings happened this year; the first was in March, just after my 30th birthday, for which I ran a competition. March also included the news of several pregnancies in my circle (four, actually) - the babies have all just been born - and I entered the spring on a bit of a high, with some new friends, a new job and an election around the corner (I am stupidly excited about politics) for which I rang doorbells. At the end of April I found out that my boss was a homophobe, but I stayed in the job for a while, taking a college course at the same time.

A real turning point happened at the end of May, with the second of three weddings, only this time it was my bestest friend who got the marrified, and it was a fantastic wedding and a good week overall, really. It also happened in Wales, where I haven't been for a Very Long Time, so that's something too. I also gave my first ever Best Man's speech, which was fun. The third wedding was in June, and it happened just after I finally managed to fulfil my lifelong fantasy of having sex in a tent in the rain, which wasn't as good as it could have been (I need a bigger tent).

Summer came in and the air tasted of electricity. I spent most of July in Somerset, working incredibly hard and almost burning out, and the occasional days of total isolation (Saturdays...?) were an odd mix of relative comfort and anxious boredom. I didn't have much time to blog (well, not much, anyway), but I think that, subconsciously, I was kind of warming up for Eroticon 2015, which happened less than a week after I returned to London - so back West I went!

Eroticon was a little difficult for me this year, and I think in many ways that's my fault. I spent the first day-and-a-bit feeling a little inadequate by comparison, and almost like a spare part - compare the previous three Eroticons, at each of which I felt perfectly harmonious and special. It wasn't until I made it to the cocktail party on Saturday night and actually managed to lose some of my inhibitions (and talked to GOTN about it, I believe) that I actually started to feel more comfortable. Sunday was much better, and I spent the day afterwards in Bristol, rather than going back to work on the Monday morning and crying hysterically in McDonald's because I miss everyone, like I did in 2014.

Looking back on all this now, I had spent all of July being adored to the point of idolatry by a large number of young people. Tired though I was, I showboated to the maximum (in front of hundreds) getting rounds of applause, high fives and gales of laughter. The beginning of August found me being one of many, and I think that was a massive culture shock, having been on my own under the spotlight for so long beforehand. Add this to the insecurity of losing the other two Musketeers to the ether, and maybe it's not so much of a surprise that I felt nervous at Eroticon?

Half way through the year (and a family holiday best glossed over) and I found myself, once again, with raging horn; at around this time, I moved out of my parents' house and into a room in a share house, which was fine for a while until I lost my job and was thrust once again into uncertainty. I spent most of September being quite reflective, and in October I had my three-year-anniversary with Jillian, which involved orgasms.

in October I also wrote my favourite post of the year. It may be an odd choice, but I do think it reads quite nicely...

As for the final two months: with everything having been up in the air for so long, I felt a rather pronounced, dull sense of certainty throughout them. I knew I'd be going to Sexpo and that it would be exactly what I thought of it. I knew I'd be horny, I knew where I'd be for Christmas, and I still know where I'll be for New Year.

What I don't know is what's going to happen in 2016. I actually have very few plans for next year, and I'm not going to make any claims. Positive things at New Year always sound a little jingoistic and insincere to me, and negative things may not happen, so I won't make any hypotheses.

Besides, I don't want to look to the future. I've just spent 982 words on looking back on the past, and I certainly do seem to be quite adept at that...

Tuesday, 29 December 2015

The Felt Sense

I've never felted the roof of a shed before, so I'm not sure I know exactly what it entails, but I think I can have a pretty accurate guess: you attach felt to the roof of a shed. Genius. I've even seen my uncle's shed, which has the soft material stuck there by numerous tacks, so I'd further imagine that they are holding it there. That ought to take, like, a day, at most, right? Even with the nailing and screwing you'd need to do it hold it there?

The guy in the house next door has been doing his for four straight years. Or at least it feels that way. Every now and again we get a volley of bangs and clashes accompanied by the slight incongruity of a man appearing very obviously on the shed roofs. It's either the man next door, or a really shit version of Batman.

Just before Christmas I took to masturbating on my back (as opposed to sitting up on my computer chair), partially because I'm very lazy in the mornings and don't want to move much, but mostly because it's very cold and my bed, despite the BORK'D mattress, is lovely and warm. Even when lying on it naked, it feels warm, and as long as I had enough time to do so, it was the perfect place to masturbate to orgasm in peace, apart from that one time when I realised I didn't have any tissue to hand and had to waddle to the corner to get some.

Some other time, perhaps.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

It took me a while to realise that the penis isn't meant to do that: it isn't a gun, even if it does shoot [*waits for applause*], so that's not the sound it makes (the closest I can get is "shuck", which is also a huge black dog found in East Anglia). I continued going anyway, unperturbed, until I identified the source of the banging and noticed a balding guy in jeans and a grubby T-shirt in full view at - or at least in view of - the far end of the garden.

I noticed him because our room has large French windows and you can see everything. And, as I realised with a thrill of horror, windows generally work both ways and he could see me as well.

A more sensible person may have instantly gotten up from the bed, put some clothes on, draw the curtains, take them back off again and then continue masturbating, or even surrender the wank completely and do it at some other point in the day, preferably when the man next door isn't hammering felt to the top of his shed. What I did, of course, is just get underneath the duvet and continue masturbating, which probably didn't hide what I was doing at all, but at least would have stopped him seeing everything in explicit detail.

At this point I realised that he probably wasn't looking anyway.

But I kept the duvet on just in case.

Monday, 28 December 2015


She was naked as I came back into the room. We'd picked a lube to try, and we'd even gotten so far as deciding how to test it - after almost a whole month, Lube You Lots was starting. I'd even ferreted around in the general mulch that covered a corner of our room, in order to find more lube, and discovered a LELO bag I'd forgotten I had. I, myself, wasn't naked yet, but I really decided I needed to be; even if sex wasn't going to happen that evening, a little play might, even before the application of lube. That was, after all, the plan.

"So what do I do now?" I ventured, after divesting myself of the trousers without a top button, standard M&S pants, Pokémon T-shirt, socks I got for Christmas and the blue jumper I bought in Debenhams just before 47's wedding.
"Turn me on a little?" she replied, a little coquettishly (or, at least, I thought so, plus: I really like the word "coquettish" and I wanted to use it in this blog somewhere).
"Just... just..." She fished around in the air for something to suggest. "Just... come here."

The kiss was long, lasting, deep and tender, but it gradually got hungrier and hungrier as it refused to stop. Before I knew it, I'd left her mouth and kissed my way down to the nape of her neck, where I was pecking a small line of licks and nibbles, making her giggle and moan in equal measure.

There began a confused mess of tangled limbs, clumsy foreplay and half-moaned declarations of love, list and everything in between. I was, the rational part of my brain said, only meant to be turning her on a bit before we got all scientific with the JO lube; the rest of me, however, had the rational part of my brain in a half-nelson and was hollering at it to shut up and let me have sex. It had been too long... far too long... and here I was, naked, on top of a girl, and not meant to be having sex.


"I can't... I... I want you too much," I managed, pleased that I'd made my intentions clear and even more so that I'd managed a cohesive sentence in my sleep-deprived, food-soddened and sexually frustrated state.
"Mmmmmmph," she said as my penis throbbed and swelled to three times its normal size, "I need to be a bit wetter..."
"But I've been..."
"No, this is fine..."

And as she frigged her clit I slid myself into her for the first time in months, her sex warm, wet, and surrounding me. A few awkward thrusts and I could feel her body still adjusting to the feeling of me inside her. Pulling her - gently, but nevertheless, a pull - closer to me, I shifted myself too, relaxing into a much more natural position, and (sneaky ILB) something which allowed much deeper penetration. I pushed forwards and filled her up further as she squeaked and grabbed the bedsheets. Getting what tension I could with my feet, I rocked back and forth, sliding in and out of her in more of a rhythm, remarkably remembering how to do this, how to please her, as she growled, gasped and grabbed hold of my back.

"Uuuuuuuhnnnnmmmmmgh, jaaaaargh, hunh?" I asked intelligently as I pulled out of her and fell onto my side with a creak from the broken mattress.

And so that's how you initiate sex, it seems.

You just shouldn't be testing some "tingle" lube just after intercourse. It's these little nuggets of knowledge that keep you learning.

Sunday, 27 December 2015

Girls have boobs.

In my local bit of London - the town centre that everyone seems to have heard of but nobody's ever been to, despite Boris liking it a lot (allegedly) - there's a department store. There are a few, but this one's the main one; it's opposite the market that's been there since Norman Britain and has been around for about as long. It's in a picture from my gran's childhood, so that proves it.

When I was younger, it was filled with own-brand produce and was an outseller of stuff from other companies; today, the ground floor is completely gentrified and looks like something you'd find in Milan, or possibly TOWIE. It is subdivided into small stalls, each selling perfume and makeup (and, it seems, not much else) from increasingly expensive fashion labels, and is populated by young ladies from the 18 - 45 age bracket in terms of both staff and customers.

Which is all fine, except it's not my scene.

In the week before Christmas I fought my way through the glitter and hanging decorations in order to buy some placemats (it's a long story) and, briefly, came face-to-face with a staff member with some of the most well-proportioned boobs I think I've ever seen. I wasn't looking... specifically... but couldn't help but catch a glimpse, and they just seemed perfect. The right size and shape to fit her slight, short frame, and she'd chosen a top which showed them off a little (only a little, rather than the HERE ARE MY BOOBS tops which my ex-classmate used to wear). She was also sporting fake eyelashes that looked like offensive weapons, but overall she was very attractive and had nice-looking boobs.

And I almost hugged her.

Okay, well, not almost. I had my girlfriend with me and we were battling through the crowds who, it seemed, had all had the idea to go Christmas shopping earlier than planned. I was feeling both battered and affectionate and was rather looking forward to going home and clutching my girlfriend's warm body to me as we lay on our bed. I thought I'd give her a quick squeeze, as if to convey all my attentions, and for about half a second my intention was to let go of her hand, and take this staff member in my arms, as if the rôle of "girlfriend" had been temporarily transferred to her. Fortunately for all involved, I immediately remembered who everyone was in this situation, and continued on my way, towed by my real girlfriend, who seemed even more keen to escape the throng than I was.

For a while afterwards, I veered between confused and upset. I'd had my girlfriend with me and had, instead, clocked this poor staff member, who was probably overworked and underpaid and had a fantastic chest and didn't want to be leered at by a tired ILB. I've never really considered myself one to objectify young ladies, and yet here I was, passing by someone I didn't know and considering her someone to hug for about 0.5 of a second. And, for some reason, this perturbed me.

Probably more than it should. Although, now I think about it, I might as well have pointed her out to my girlfriend too; I can't help but imagine she may have, as well, enjoyed the view!

Saturday, 26 December 2015

Fa la la la la, la la la la

[Lights up on a scene in the KITCHEN. ILB is grazing at a selection of cheeses, biscuits and desserts on the table. This is his third or fourth helping (he has lost count). His OLDEST COUSIN is there too, as is HER HUSBAND, although their baby - the newest addition to the family - is not there.]

COUSIN: Are these things vegetarian?

[She gestures at a plate of what looks like Scotch eggs.]

ILB: Yes, they're savoury eggs. Try them, they're nice. How are you feeling, anyway?
COUSIN: Tired, but then I haven't had any sleep for a few months.

[SISTER enters the room, talking raucously with COUSIN WITH LARGE BREASTS, about whatever it is they talk about.]

SISTER: Are there crisps here?
ILB: Pringles over there, although I don't know what flavour they are.
SISTER: [reading from the cylinder] They're barbeque beef, and I think they're... yes, they're vegan!
ILB: Vegan? Load me up, girl!

UNCLE: [entering from stage right and seeing COUSINS 1 and 2 there] Imagine being vegan and a baby at the same time [indicating COUSIN 1] - it'd be very difficult!
ILB: My friend was brought up a vegetarian and she didn't have any meat in the womb either.
UNCLE: Yes, but as a baby you drink breast milk, and that isn't vegan...

[There is a pause.]

CWLB: ...I'm not sure that's right. As far as I can see it, vegan ethics are about stopping the exploitation of all other animals. I don't think voluntary human produce counts, like mothers' milk.
SISTER: So if you eat other bits of humans...?
CWLB: That's not quite what I meant, but...!
ILB: I'm not entirely sure Hannibal would self-identify as vegan, to be fair. But I understand what you mean.
UNCLE: I suppose it's an interesting thought, as to consuming human produce and whether that's vegan or not. I suppose mothers' milk is a good example.

[A beat.]

ILB: I can think of another one.

[Another beat, after which SISTER and CWLB look at each other. They click after a few seconds.]

SISTER / CWLB: Ooooooooooooooooooooooh!

[ILB has left the room by this point...]

Tuesday, 22 December 2015

Confessions of a Christian Sex Blogger

The telltale crashes and bangs of my grandparents' old car heralded their approach as I sat waiting for them. It had never been easy, getting to sleep on Christmas Eve - particularly not for those first sixteen years - but when the concept of going to Mass at midnight came up, I was intrigued. I'd never been to church at night before and had - with a few small exceptions in my younger years - never really taken part in worship of Jesus on Christmas Day (singing Happy Birthday to him doesn't really count). And it would eat up some time. I was keen to go.

That is, until I noticed (while channel-hopping) that Confessions of a Window Cleaner was on Bravo and suddenly felt that what I really needed to celebrate the birth of Christ was some 1970s smut. I also knew, from previous viewings of the Confessions films, that a sex scene was coming up and that I absolutely needed to watch it. I couldn't go to Mass.

My grandparents, having been given a Bowdlerised version of this story which involved me being tired or somesuch, left for the church looking somewhat disappointed. I turned the TV back over to Bravo whereupon I realised that the sex scene I had needed wanted to watch - the first one with Robin Askwith in it which invovles a lot of soapsuds and a bored housewife - had finished. There were more, of course, but I suddenly felt as if I'd missed two things - Mass and sex with Robin Askwith - and even more, when my Mum came in to tell me that I'd have to go to bed if I didn't want to go to Mass, since it was nearly midnight and I didn't need to be staying up all night watching (what she believed to be) music videos on The Box.

I rocked up at church with about thirty seconds to go and threw myself into a seat with my assorted gaggle of family members who make up half the congregation, and then assured my grandparents that I'd decided to come after all; I wasn't feeling tired at all and suddenly perked up at the chance to sit in semi-darkness and sing carols to candlelight; nothing else could please me more.

And, in many ways, that's just right.

Anyway, they were showing Russ Meyer's films the following week.

Monday, 21 December 2015


"You look tired," my sister said when I arrived at her boyfriend's house to pick her up. "What, did you get up before 11 o'clock or something?"
"I got up at seven, actually..." I shot back, " have cybersex," I added in an undertone to her boyfriend, who tried very hard not to laugh too much.

[12 hours earlier...]

In (what seemed, at the time, to be) the most deviant of fashions, I had gotten up at seven in order to have cybersex with a girl in Holland who would, admittedly, be in her office at the time, but also had a bathroom very close-by; the plan was (although I wasn't privy to this until it happened) that I would get her worked up - through The Magic of IRC - until she felt ready to come, at which point she would escape to the bathroom, orgasm, then return and check to see if I, too, had been able to orgasm, and then get on with her desk job, or whatever it is she did (I didn't think to check).

It was quite a good plan, I thought - and, what's more, it was her idea, which I also liked. After all, I wasn't doing much else; I was unemployed, single and horny. I rarely got up before mid-morning and, on the days I did, nothing of any major impact happened, with the exception of more coffee. In the absence of morning sex, morning cyber seemed like a nice compromise.

By seven-fifteen, I was online, and by seven-thirty, everything was going well enough. There had been a little flirty banter going on; action was getting hotter and heavier, and things all seemed to be pointing in the right direction. I felt myself getting closer, and hoped (her text seemed to confirm this) that she was, too.

"ILB! The Ocado delivery's here!" my mother trilled from downstairs. "Could you come and put it all away? I'll be back soon!" This was followed by the sound of the front door slamming shut, and a very tense few seconds in which I attempted to weigh up the relative merits of making a Dutch girl achieve orgasm vs. having melted frozen goods on the floor of the downstairs corridor.

The following conversation went something like this:

[Girl] oh god i love this... i'm so close... keep going, keep going!
[ILB] ...brb?
[Girl] hb hb
[Girl] please!

I half ran, half flew, down the stairs, having hastily pulled on the pyjamas that I'd only just taken off. The entire corridor was loaded up with goods of all types and, trying hard to ignore the raging erection I had going on, I attempted to pack the things away at superspeed, starting with the freezer bags, then the 'fridge ones. Ten minutes later and I was left with just the dry goods, but that would take even more minutes, and I was needed elsewhere. Rationalising to myself the fact that dry goods don't need to go into refridgeration at all, I left them where they were, and Billy Whizzed back up to my bedroom and into my computer chair and...

[ILB] Back! Are you still here? I'm so sorry!
[Girl] still here, now keep going!
* ILB grasps at your shoulders, planting a small kiss on the nape of your neck as he slowly eases his smooth, hard penis back into you, feeling himself throb and pulse as you... get the idea.

As she was busy in the bathroom having orgasms, I heard the front door open and close again.

"Oh! You've put the Ocado stuff away!" said my mother as I appeared at the top of the stairs to see if the house-elves had done the rest for me. "But you've left the non-perishable things here! Why's this?"
"Well, I was halfway through it," I lied smoothly. "I was just coming back downstairs to do the rest."
"Why did you go back upstairs in the first place?"

There was a pause.

"Yes... that works! I mean, uhm, she had to... she had to go to the bathroom and I..."
"Me! I had to go the the toilet and that's why I went back upstairs and now I'm back and I'm ready to put the rest of the food away and I'm just about to do that and I will do that now and then I'll go back upstairs because I'm certain that at one point I'll have to go to the toilet again and I'd need to be upstairs to do that and there's nothing suspicious about that at all!"
"No, it's okay, you've done most of it, I'll do the rest," said my dad, who I hadn't noticed until that point.
"OK, bye!" I said, doing a Mario long-jump back into my bedroom.

[Girl] phew!
[ILB] Are you all right?
[Girl] better! i had a great orgasm, how about you?

"Do you want some tea?" came my dad's voice from somewhere outside my door.

[ILB] Yeah, me too! One of the best!

Because, if anything, I do so hate to disappoint.

Sunday, 13 December 2015

The radical self love project

I don't think it's any big secret (or that it's that much different from many other people) that I have an intense dislike for the way that I look. I'm well aware that I have put on a large amount of weight due to a combination of factors over the past year and, although I'm sure my girlfriend would tell you otherwise, I don't like my face. I'm losing hair, my nose is a weird shape and fuck knows what's going on with my thighs - they look like stunted elm trees with Jar Jar Binks' skin hanging in loose folds: it's horrifying.

Accordingly, I don't like pictures of myself either. When asked to choose one for anything official, like an ID card or an application form, I'll choose an older one - on occasion going back to the standardised picture that was taken of me when I was 14 - which doesn't make me look that much different, just thinner and with more hair. I'll specifically go for photos without the beard (I've never got that one right), and usually with my default expression which appears to be a cross between a glower and a scowl. I even have a picture taken on my 'phone when, at the age of 25, I had my hair cut and attempted to take a selfie - this menacing death stare will definitely make it onto any staff ID I get in the future.

And yet, today, my cousin (who's just had a baby) uploaded a collection of pictures of various people grasping at her daughter as if she is some sort of source of life energy (and one of my holding my niece because she is a fucking human being). Among these were thrust a few other pictures, which she took to use up the digits on her camera (one supposes...), and among those was a single picture of my head and shoulders in three-quarter face.

I can honestly say, hand on heart, that - for the first time in about a decade - I thought to myself, "damn, I look hot."

Enjoy it while you can, ILB. It's never going to happen again.

Friday, 11 December 2015

One hundred and seventy-nine!

I've never successfully asked anyone out and, since the first (and last) time I did so, every relationship I've had had either happened by chance, or by someone else taking the initiative, or - perhaps - just assuming that this is the case now, and therefore...

It's different for people I've had sex with, although not massively so. In nearly all the cases here (barring one - Lilly - which actually half was, so I'll count that too), it was her making the initial move; my reaction was to just turn up and work hard on ensuring a mutually beneficial experience for us both, preferably involving one or more female orgasm. It worked... most of the time.

Like many people (but I won't be so presumptuous as to assume how many), I've also had my fair share of 'near misses'. There are those who don't appear or arrive but then leave, or even those who have come dangerously close but I haven't had the nerve. Some of my more reckless fantasies (which often replace myself with 'faceless male because I don't scrub up that well') focus on what would have happened had I actually had the nerve. Kiss that girl on the lips, rather than the cheek. Don't be so scared. Don't say you have a girlfriend when you genuinely don't. Tell her directly. Don't tell her at all. Ask for hugs and see. Just ask her for her damn number, how hard can that be?! 

My mum (because she's my mum) was, and still is, absolutely adamant that, everywhere I spend a decent amount of time, there will be someone that fancies me. This includes the busy shop where I used to work, the church I used to go to, the university at which I studied, the school where she works, among the random girls I met in the park one Bonfire Night, Woodcraft, and the long-term job I recently had where the staff consisted entirely of married people and my 78-year-old boss. At each of them (the last one notwithstanding), I did indeed have my own crushes, but I was pretty sure that nobody there was at all interested in me, rather than having me as the somewhat peculiar friend who's good for a hug.

Certainly there wasn't anyone who wanted to have sex with me.

But it does, occasionally, get me wondering: what if I'm wrong? I certainly flirt with a lot of people, so what if I'm just misreading the signs of somebody flirting back and they genuinely want to tie me to their bed and ride me like a cowgirl on speed? Or even fall asleep spooning me because it's comforting, rather than worrying what society thinks or what would or wouldn't be right?

So I sometimes wonder what - or who - I've missed. Most of the people mentioned above have since gotten married and/or had kids and/or moved away. Or they've simply vanished into the ether like so many people I know do. And, with no way of knowing or changing past events or a "what-if?" spell, all I'm left with is a collection of tantalising possibilities floating somewhere around me in the ethereal plane.

Not that I complain... too much. I mean, it could have been worse... couldn't it?

Tuesday, 8 December 2015

In all honesty, though, I just want to get laid...

I usually read Metro on Thursdays. It's the best of the freesheets they hand out in London (ShortList notwithstanding, and in any case, it's a magazine) - not that that means it's much good - but if I'm travelling into London on Thursdays, I'll go and pick it up, due to the sex column.

Before you start gathering pitchforks and torches, I don't actually think it's that good a column. Lackadaisical comments either advising a person to see a sex therapist, be tougher and emotionless, or question the entire foundation of their relationship. A group of sex bloggers could write a better weekly column (and, brutally honestly, we probably should!). At one point, I felt compelled to write in offering some of my own advice, and my (edited) tweet ended up on the page itself, garnering a small spike in readers.

Hey, whatever works...

In any case, the first thing I flick to isn't the sex column; it's Rush-Hour Crush. Since I was spotted once in its spiritual predecessor, thelondonpaper's "Lovestruck", I've been wondering if a repeat performance is at all possible, as if anyone would pick out ILB from the 8.6 million Londoners there are milling about. I'd imagine many people reading Metro do the same.

And then last week there was something like this (from memory, I don't have the paper to hand):

[Description of person]. I work in a bed store; I'd like to see if yours is up to scratch.

Cue a glorious vision in ILB's head of a hot girl with pink hair and glasses underneath an average-looking bloke, a wide grin on her face as he thrusts repeatedly into her, having found that his bed is, indeed, of the best quality. It is, without a doubt, that sexiest thing I've ever read at that moment in time, and I'm staring at that brief quote, and all its straightforward, forthright ballsiness - hardly innuendo, and certainly not asking for a drink - like a worshipper at a shrine.

And the multitude of possibilities that await that man, should he spot it and shoot off a reply...

Although, with the state my current bed is in, any indication of comfort is likely to catch my attention.

Hugs, anyone?

Sunday, 6 December 2015

Soft Porn Sunday: Dawn Danielle

Following an incident of unspecified nature involving a dentist removing a giant tooth, unassuming everyday man Bill Teas, played by unassuming everyday man Bill Teas, finds himself able to see every woman he encounters naked, and spends the majority of this film sitting in random places watching naked women.

There's burlesque here too, somewhere.
That's the plot of The Immoral Mr. Teas. The entire plot. There isn't even any dialogue, just a narration provided by Edward Lasko, and the few musical pieces composed for the film - while initially stirring - become a little irritating after the first couple of rotations, although upon watching it again, they're not as bad as I'd initially thought. One of the pieces wouldn't be out of place in a computer game, which may explain that.


I've been interested, for a while, in the idea of the 'nudie-cutie' type of erotic film: one which involves a large amount of casual nudity but doesn't actually involve any sex - popular, so I hear, around the early '60s and largely assumed to have started with Russ Meyer's The Immoral Mr. Teas (plot summary as above), before this gave way to British sex comedies, Japanese pink film and American sexploitation in the '70s. 

Teas was a hit, being popular with audiences who wanted to see naked women, and it didn't cost too much for RM to make (despite being in colour, which must have cost a fair bit back then). It's responsible for his entire movie career in turn, and by extension of that, everything up to and including Beneath the Valley of the Untravixens (1979), which is responsible for my first orgasm and subsequent self-realisation.

Bill Teas is responsible for my sex life. I feel so dirty.

Appearance: The Immoral Mr. Teas (1959)
Character: Beach Beauty

As a nudie-cutie, there aren't any sex scenes with a pair going at it that I can really talk about. There are a couple of scenes with more than one woman, but they aren't really lesbian scenes, just ladies frolicking in what looks like unsanitary pond water (RM wasn't exactly known for making it easy on his buxom female stars) while Teas looks on. Being the predictable git that I am, I've chosen one which involves the sea, as you're less likely to get diphtheria from swimming in that.

This is a long scene (they all are), and it happens relatively early on in the film - crucially, it happens
Say, "fuzzy pickles"!
before the totally unexplained scenario through which Teas gets his clothing-specific X-ray powers. The Beach Beauty featured here (Dawn Danielle) is first seen as a model, having snaps taken by a photographer (uncredited - there are only five confirmed cast members!) while Teas (Teas) peeps in from the sidelines. She then takes her bikini top off and is snapped a few more times, Teas himself taking a few pictures of his own, before he sneaks off to take a walk on the beach.

The Beach Beauty then re-appears, sans photographer this time, basically to enjoy the water seemingly without knowing how to swim. Danielle runs at full-pelt into the sea and then gets hit by waves a few times, basically doing nothing but laughing and playing with water a little, while Teas (not even bothering to hide) watches with his trademark inane grin on his face. She takes off her bikini once more, but this time you don't actually get to see any boobs, as she covers them with her hands and gleefully runs off past Teas.

I must go down to the sea again.
All of this is overlaid with soporific, hypnotic Wurlitzer-type music, which wouldn't be out of place at a funfair accompanying a carousel were it faster (or a horror movie if slower - I slowed the track down to take screencaps and it was TERRIFYING). This music accompanies every single nude scene, so one does have to get used to it, and to be honest, it isn't awful. It does, however, make you very sleepy, meaning that there's now a genuine rival to Brian Eno's Ambient 1: Music for Airports in that regard. The music, oddly, cuts out during the last couple of seconds, before coming back on - I do wonder if that's deliberate or not.

In some ways, this could be seen as genuinely creepy, almost voyeuristic, as Teas doesn't have his powers yet and is essentially watching something he isn't really privy to, even going to far as to secretly photograph her (while she's being photographed anyway - he could just go and buy the magazine with her in, perhaps, but who knows?). Since there's no dialogue, we don't even know what his reaction to the Beach Beauty's wantonness is, as his facial expression rarely changes much (smile, smile, laugh), but she doesn't seem to be bothered by him watching her enjoying herself in the surf - mind you, she may not even notice him, seeing as she ignores him as she runs past.

On the other hand, however, this isn't how things are presented. Teas isn't really a voyeur and most
definitely not a pervert - he's a single man who's on the beach to appreciate the aesthetic of nature and encounters something he hadn't intended to. It's not even that explicit - I don't think we see anything more than an areola in terms of breast - and there doesn't appear to be any illicit intention on either side. I can't really say I enjoy this scene in any particular way, but there's nothing wrong with it. It's good-natured... and clearly intended to be fun!

But then again, this is a nudie-cutie, and designed to make you smile. It's not designed to make you get off over it.

If you can, tell me how.