Monday, 30 May 2016

Go West, Young ILB

I've only ever been to Exeter once, and I was convinced, back then, that it was a highly sexed-up place.

Maybe I'm wrong. I have genuinely only been there once. I've done the surrounding places - Bristol, of course, more than once (and I went there before the first Eroticon, too, twice, SO THERE!). I've done Bath numerous times, and even had a bath in Bath, which is less meta than it sounds. I've been further west, too - as far as Land's End. For some reason, however, Exeter just seems to pass me by.

Why am I mentioning it? Well, it came up in conversation the other day. My mother spent some time in Exeter in her youth, and insisted upon showing me bits of it (Exeter, not her youth) when we went there. I was about 13, obsessed with Warhammer and Super Mario 64 and other things; I wasn't particularly interested in lampposts that used to go off if you kicked them at the right point.

I was, however, more interested in the "candy condoms" box that somebody had dropped into the gutter. I'd never, of course, really bothered to find out what a flavoured condom did - I assumed it was like something Willy Wonka may have invented: you put the condom on, had sex and somehow managed to generate a taste in your mouth because of enzymes or chemicals or I know not what. (Nobody had bothered to tell me, so I didn't know).

I was also interested - very interested - in the condom machine in the motorway service station at which we stopped en route to Exeter (via Bath) on the outbound journey (the actual destination was Cornwall). It, too, sold flavoured condoms: minty ones called "After Elevens" (ho, ho) and other flavours given frothy names. I seem to recall spotting a hearty beef and potato one, but that may have just been my imagination.

Then there was the sign in the bathroom in the hostel we stayed in. "Please," it read. "No tampons, STs etc. down this loo. Put into bin." Followed by "please" again, just to make sure.

I hadn't been told what a tampon was - I wasn't even told when I did sex education in the following year, because I was a boy and didn't need to know, or something. I had a vague idea, but assumed it was something to do with sex. As for the mysterious "ST" - well, I had absolutely no clue. My brain got around, somehow, to assuming that an ST was a brand of condom, and that randy guests had taken to flushing them away, necessitating the neatly hand-written sign.

All this in a hostel run by a nice Quaker family. I just wanted to talk about millipedes and how not all cheese is vegetarian, and yet here I was, being constantly reminded of the existence of sex by the remnants littered all over Exeter. I was still a bit weird about sex then, trying to forget all about it, worried that I was some sort of deviant because I'd started to get erections and had sex dreams and stuff. But I couldn't let it go. Exeter just had to remind me.

Maybe that's why I've never been back. I just couldn't stand all the filth.

Sunday, 29 May 2016

Soft Porn Sunday: Valerie Baber & Luke Anthony

Despite the things I love about soft porn (and I do love soft porn; despite any indications to the contrary, I really do!), there are problems with it - as there are with any porn, or any form of media. While I prefer it over mass-produced porn for many reasons, one problem that persists with soft porn is that it can be incredibly sexist.

Yeah, porn can be sexist. Someone call the media.

In softcore, it works both ways. Stories with male protagonists often objectify men by showing them as brainless, but loveable, adventure types with muscles that could be used as a washboard, and women as feisty but ultimately submissive, with a strong knowledge of blowjobs involving hair and thighs that could double as a nutcracker. Those with female protagonists often take the latter and make them more savvy, more self-assured and witty, reducing men to the role of wiser older guy, comic foil, fish-out-of-water-with-whom-to-have-sex or villain.

Whichever way you have it, at least one gender ends up slightly belittled, and shows that have it either way (Bedtime Stories and Co-Ed Confidential leap to mind; I genuinely can't think of any others) are rare. Add that to the fact that you get very little LGBTQIA+ representation (every single female character being bisexual probably doesn't count...) and there's something of an ethical pickle one can get into when talking about this sort of thing.

Which is what I'm doing.

Among the softcore pantheon that does the thing in a slightly more inclusive way is the Emmanuelle series, although in many cases it also tends to mess up. The original Emmanuelle series has its moments, but I think the male characters are too strong. Emmanuelle 2000 has plenty of admirable female protagonists, but all the men are stupid (even in Emmanuelle Pie, in which the narrator is a young guy); one wonders why anyone at all would want to have sex with them. In fact, the ones with most balance tend to be Emmanuelle in Space (where they're aliens, so their brainlessness is justified and adorable) and Emmanuelle Through Time (which is a comedy). Mostly, though, for a feminist series (feminist insofar as the main character is an independent, hedonistic female - it doesn't go any further than that), there isn't a lot of equality in Emmanuelle, mostly at the expense of men, who are often seen once, have sex and then never spoken of again.

Or get turned into vampires.

Appearance: Emmanuelle vs. Dracula (2004)
Characters: Jennifer & Bruce

This is the first of two Emmanuelle films featuring vampires (the other is Sexy Bite, which comes later, although they are both by the same writer). This is from the lower-budget end of the scale - Emmanuelle's Private Collection - and it's... well, it's not good. It's not the worst, but it's... not... good. It's not even fun - well, some bits are, but very few. It doesn't even have the weird snake goddess from the previous film in the series.

But, yeah, vampires.

He's a vampire.
So. This scene takes place quite late in the film. There isn't a lot of sex in the first half; there's a plot, of sorts: Emmanuelle (Natasja "there's a paycheque in this somewhere" Vermeer) is attending the hen night of her best friend Lucy (Mollie "how did I end up in this film" Green). While the rest of the friends - Mary, Susan and Jennifer - bicker and laugh at inopportune moments, savvy (and suddenly psychic! WTF?!) Emmanuelle manages to notice that Ernesto Perdomo's character - "Robertson", allegedly a stripper, although real strippers turn up later - is in fact a vampire, and proceeds to do absolutely nothing about it, even when he manages to turn Lucy, Mary, Susan and Jennifer into vampires - and even then she has to have sex with Dracula (who turns up at the end) before staking him through the heart!

What is this, True Blood?

For an Emmanuelle film, there really is a lack of simulated penetrative sex in this one. There's a fair amount of nudity; some odd fashback bits; there's even attempted lesbian fumbling. But, in terms of full sex scenes, there are two.

Red like blood! Blood for the vampire!
Jennifer's sex scene with Bruce takes its time to manifest. She leaves the living room with Bruce (who's an actual male stripper, although he's a man, so he's been turned by this point) at 48:21, despite Emmanuelle's warnings, which don't quite amount to "he's probably a vampire!". At 49: 23, they eventually find their way to a bed, at which point Jennifer says, "if I'd have known this was what private dancers were like I'd have started ordering them a long time ago!" - probably the best line in the movie. There's some disrobing behind a lace curtain and kissing with FANGS ON SHOW (because he's a vampire), plus some occasional boobs for him to caress (and suck on, because he's a vampire), but it's not until 51:39 that we actually get the start of the scene.

That's three minutes and a half before the sex starts. Shocking.

Once it gets going, though, it's actually okay. Jennifer has an odd, but kind of sultry, voice while Bruce is a vampire. There's more kissing and showing off but, quite soon after that, something approaching sex happens, Bruce lying on top of Jennifer with her legs wrapped around his hips (a good indicator). While it is true that we don't get to see a lot apart from their top halves - sex for the YouTube generation! - he eventually kisses down her chest, giving us some boob shots, and by 56:19 he's happily thrusting away, Jennifer making some nice sex noises incorporating giggles, moans and the sound you make when you're clearing your throat.

Make the most of it; you won't see any more than this.

From that point in, it intensifies. We got some full-body shots of the two of them, more vocalisations from Jennifer (nothing from Bruce, though, because he's a vampire) and even a couple of staccato pushes-forward on his part accompanied by a strangled cry from Jennifer - very nicely done! This is followed by a jumple of mix shots of limbs and other body parts, overlaid by a "generic sex noises" soundtrack. It ends at 57:49, where - SPOILER although not really a spoiler - he bites her and she gets turned into a vampire.

Because he's a vampire.

48:21 to 57:49. Nine-and-a-half-minute sex scene? Have my prayers been answered?

Boo! Er... boobs.
Well, no, because he's a vampire, and vampires don't answer prayers. The entire sex scene here is intercut with temporary vistas of what's happening to the other girls. Lucy, who's a vampire, is attempting to turn Emmanuelle; Susan is being caressed randomly by the other stripper, who's also a vampire, and Mary is having sex with Robertson, who - as I may have established - is a vampire. I'm focusing on Jennifer here for the simple reason that she's hot, and the fact that Baber is attempting something approaching acting makes me a little more invested in her storyline than that of the dreamlike Emmanuelle or glam-rock outcast Robertson.

There really isn't much more to this. Everyone becomes a vampire, Emmanuelle kills Robertson, at which point Dracula rocks up; Emmanuelle has sex with Dracula, and then kills him; everyone turns back into a human and nobody remembers a thing.

At which point Bobby comes out of the shower talking about how terrible a nightmare he had.

While Valerie Baber is very attractive and Luke Anthony is a vampire, I do honestly think they could have done more with their sex scene than have them behind a veil and intercut with other, less appealing, sex scenes. The music that accompanies Jennifer's squeaks and moans is straight out of an 80s video game: repetitive, good background noise but with nothing to really recommend it. You genuinely can't see much, which is frustrating, because there is a lot to be said for the hot peripheral character without clothes on. Short though it may be without all the cutaways, I'd much prefer to see a full sex scene with one character followed by another one with another character. This is just annoying!

So is this a scene I'd recommend? Well, I kind of would, were it not for the rest of the film that's wrapped around it. It is, however, perhaps the best sex scene featuring vampires in the Emmanuelle canon (that's a more impressive statement than it sounds...), so it has that to its credit. And, after all, by 2004 Emmanuelle's done everything else. Dracula was probably next on an ever-diminishing list.

Bruce is a vampire.

Thursday, 26 May 2016

#EroticonLive: Why Not?


I blinked, astonished. I can't, honestly, remember anyone ever asking me that. I do, usually, hear "yes!" or "fine!" or "thank you, God!" - "why?" generally isn't the first piece of vocabulary that comes to the fore.

"Because..." I started. "Because... well..."

But then, of course, without a "why", there can be no "because". I didn't have the answer... and that's what scared me.

I always had the answers.

I tensed, glanced away. He shuffled, maybe uncomfortably, waiting for an answer to his "why". A frantic recce, on my part, of the surroundings. Anything to latch onto? Something to come to my aid?

Scrabbling in my pockets, my hand suddenly closed around the cold metal of the Impulse I held in my jacket.

I stopped, looked him in the eyes, breathed in, and came back with:

"Why not?"

Flash fiction, prompted by and written at Jillian Boyd's session at Eroticon Live! 2016. Say hi again to Louise, everyone!

Wednesday, 25 May 2016

#EroticonLive: Rhyme

I'm not sure if these will work as well written out as they do when read aloud. But, then again, I'm not sure if they work well at all, so that first point isn't really particularly relevant. Great start, ILB. Well done.

Anyway, this was one of my favourite sessions at Eroticon this year. Whether or not that's because I spent half of my time channeling my inner Roger McGough and the other half trying to find some way to mentally bleach my brain so that I could unsee some of the things Ashley Lister was showing us on the screen, who can say?

Anyway, so yeah, I wrote a few (very) short poems. (I can't write long form poetry; I haven't since I was 15 and wrote all that love poetry for the girl in the swimming class with me. Ahem.) I didn't read them all out, so here they are in all their gory glory.

I thought, perchance, I'd never wake
But after shout and shoot and shake
The post-orgasmic pressing issues
Woke me up... to look for tissues.

There is some arse I'd like to tap
But first, I think, I must unwrap
(it's wise, and safe, to wear a cap).

Quatrain 1:
Lube me up and rub me down!
Caress my penis, nips and bum!
Take me to the brink of bliss! 
But for God's sake, this time, let me come!

Quatrain 2:
I don't know if you read
But, if anyone's caring,
My body has needs
And my blog is for sharing.

Prompted by, and written at, Ashley Lister's session at Eroticon Live! 2016. But, then again, I already said that in the introduction to this post. Great ending, ILB. Well done.

Monday, 23 May 2016

#EroticonLive: The box has been opened...

In the house like a box, in our large, empty box, lay our numerous full boxes; the books in a box, the clothes in a box, the sounds and the sights and the scents in a box. On the bed like a box she lay, empty like a box, waiting to be full.

It was our last day in the house. Various (relatively unimportant, but whatever) factors had been impeding us from having sex for far too long, and only when everything (barring a few non-essential items) had been packed away did we - and it was quite sudden - end up kissing, a tangle of limbs holding us in place as our bare skin hissed together.

I didn't know, at that point, what the rest of the night might hold. How my lip would sting as I lifted by head from her wet slit. How her back would arch as her wetness spread across the crumpled sheets. How she would moan and cry and laugh and grapple at my back for support. How I would throb, pulse and press against her, all boxes faded from existence.

I didn't know, at that point, any of this.

But it happened. All of it.

Prompted by, and written at, Hyacinth Jones' session at Eroticon Live! 2016... but it's a true story!

Saturday, 14 May 2016


Sitting, as I was, with my back to the wall, I thought it may be a fairly simple endeavour to slide, like a snake, off the bed: gracefully, like a gazelle. Instead I managed to roll slightly one way and them scream like a banshee, floundering like a fish and proving myself nothing short of a lummox.

The pain in the back of my right leg was excruciating, and it all hit me at once, so for a while I had no idea what to do. I was astounded, blinded, disabled by the pain, and only after some minutes and a few well-timed stretches was I able to continue my journey off the bed. And it still hurt.

This spasm of the skeletal muscle - Charlie horse - has been a problem before, but it's never stopped me.

It happened once, of course, during sex. I was kneeling up behind her; she was bent over in front of me, on her knees, her arms folded onto the bed supporting her head. With nothing else to hold onto for support, I had grabbed her hips, and was steadying myself that way (apart from one moment, when I turned my head to the side and gave myself a thumbs-up via the mirror. Yes, I really did do this.). Balls tight, cock deep inside. She was dripping wetness onto the sheets, glasses askew, hair a mess. In this position, something I'd rarely even attempted before, I was revelling in every moment.

Then, without warning, Charlie horse reared his ugly head. I let out a bloodcurdling scream that I managed, thanks to extensive vocal coaching, to turn into a moan of orgasmic pleasure:


This was, of course, accompanied by a wild spasm of pain, which I managed to magically transform into a hip-thrust forwards. But then, of course, she didn't know I was suffering from Charlie horse...

She thought I was just piling on more enthusiasm. So she kept thrusting her body back towards mine, her bum smacking into my chest, and causing me to rock back onto my heels, in turn flexing the posterior muscles in my leg.

Repeated. Agonizing. Pain.

"Turn over, turn over," I panted through girtted teeth, sounding to sound more masculine and less like a wounded Pikachu. "I want to take you from the front." Obligingly, she flipped around with a grin, legs spread wide... at which point one of her knees bashed the side of my leg. With a howl, a frantic scramble at the air, and pain on both sides of my leg, I finally destabilised, and fell backwards.

Right off the bed. Onto the floor with a thump.

Charlie horse let out a terrrifying death whinny and escaped out of the window. I lay where I was, throbbing all over.

"Wow, that was some orgasm!" she said.

I deemed it prudent, at that moment, not to respond.

Wednesday, 11 May 2016


I rolled over in my state of semiconsciousness and tried, for the umpteenth time, to ignore the fact that my crotch was shouting, at the top of its non-existent voice, at my brain.

It had all worked so well yesterday: the morning horniness, the absent girlfriend, the erection. Half an hour of Pokémon Y followed by 45 minutes of gentle masturbation - coaxing myself towards orgasm without putting a timer on it, or any stress. I got to work well in time, did my thing and then went home, caught up on the sleep I'd been missing and then ended the day making my girlfriend laugh with my penis (she appears to enjoy watching it grow and shrink; it's a mystery).

Or, at least, I thought I caught up on sleep. Last night I barely got any at all, as I appear to have - at a most unfortunate time - caught That Bug That's Been Going Around, and my attempts to sleep were punctuated by random sneezes, coughs in groups of four, and random gropes for scraps of tissue off the bedside table (not to mention my girlfriend's requests for her drink, which seem predestined to happen exactly at the point where I've just fallen asleep).

I'm sexy and I know it.

So this morning, once she'd left for work and I had a couple of hours to myself before dragging my weary, wheezing, sniffly, infectious body to work, I rolled over and drifted off into a semi-restful slumber, as opposed to the excitement of Mega Evolution and Foreskin Manipulation that had happened yesterday morning. Five-thirty and I had to get up at eight-thirty, right? That's three hours of something approximating sleep. I could use that.

My penis was NOT HAPPY.

"How dare you?" it screamed. "I'm RIGHT HERE, and I'm REALLY HARD, and you're just going to roll over and leave me alone?" (To be fair, it's probably still hurt about the fact that, when I was 14, I used to deal with erection by curling up into the foetal position and hoping it would just go away.) "Touch me, already!"
Me being the irritating git I am, I turned over, squashing my penis against the mattress, using the increased throb as a kind of metronome to aid my breathing, sending me back to sleep... until I woke up to cough and the entire cycle started all over again.

"Oh, hey, I see you're awake. Why not have an orgasm? I'm right here!"
*rolls over* 
"Hmm, hmm. Cough, wheeze, croak."
*rolls over*
"Hey, stranger! You're awake again! It's never too late, big guy!"

Fortunately, though, in the end I did manage to get to sleep...

...on the bus at nine.

Sunday, 8 May 2016

Music Video Sunday: Will Smith

There are some moments when music gets me harder than any porn, and (as a result) there were also some moments during my youth when I'd rather watch music television on my gran's cable TV than whatever was on Bravo or UK Living or L!VE (although usually during the ad breaks). Some songs made me cry (Viva Forever), some made me dance (S Club Party) and some...


Much as I appreciate, for what it is, the bump'n'grind of Shakira's hips or the sexy dancing of the aging Tim Booth, sometimes all it takes to pique my interest is a look, like the raised eyebrows of the girl at the swimming pool or the dazzling smile of my friend at university. Maybe it's just the right thing at the right time.

I will admit this: I like Will Smith. I think he's a very talented actor, a charming interviewee and game
Will Smith approves of this post.
for a laugh. I'm looking forward to seeing him in Suicide Squad and, although I've never actually watched a single episode (and I INTEND TO KEEP IT THAT WAY), I'm aware of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. (Although only marginally. It sharted showing on BBC2 and I kept tuning in because I'd forgotten they weren't showing The Simpsons any more.) I was, however, never actually into his music too much...

There's a bit at 01:10 of the music video for Will Smith's Miami which is probably the sexiest numerical palindrome in music television. A car with a couple of beautiful women passes by, at which one of them quips "Bienvenido a Miami" while doing something incredibly sexy with her eyebrows. Now that I watch the video again, this is still the most striking bit about the video (I usually switched over after it); there is a delicious, slightly devilish look about her as she sings those three words. It was enough to send teenage ILB into a spin - intrusive sexual fantasising about that one lady, in the car, with the eyebrows.

BRB, going to get a bucket of ice and have a cold shower.

I was also convinced that the song was about sex "all night on the beaches 'till the break of dawn". It isn't, really; it's about the guy from After Earth enjoying himself in parties surrounded by ladies in skimpy bikinis saying something what I'd always assumed was "I'd fuck me" (it isn't). Now that I read through the lyrics, it seems fairly ridiculous: a suggestion that you can go and enjoy yourself in Miami if you happen to have hundreds of thousands of dollars, a nice car, a boat, and are Will Smith.

Which I suppose is the truth. None of these apply to me and I don't think that my cousin's ex-boyfriend being named "Will Smith" counts, so I doubt I'll be going to Miami and spending time with sexy ladies in open-topped cars at any point soon.

I'm going to Bristol; does that count?

"Hi, Will. Men in Black 2 sucked."
This is actually the first time I've seen the Miami video in years. I'd forgotten about the clever camera work, the jogging girls on the strip, the idiots that follow Will around or the fact that there's an (incredibly thin) plot (it's cold so they all go to Miami...). I'd even forgotten the reference to Sly Stallone, the dance breakdown that happens unexpectedly halfway through the track, or the fact that Will ends the video on his knees and they take a few seconds to fade to black from that, so he ends up looking like he's waiting for something.

He'll be waiting a long time, because by that point I've switched off. The lady in the car was enough to get me started, and with the wide variety of soft porn probably available now the advert break has ended, I'll probably be able to finish too.

But, for that reason, this silly song has a place in my brain (linked via my very fertile imagination to my
Strictly Come Miami
crotch) that will probably never be forgotten, and when I got the chance to watch it again on a large screen in a hospital once, then my mum got scared and said, "you're moving in with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Air." I whistled for a cab and, when it came near, the license plate said "Fresh" and it had dice in the mirror. If anything, I could say this cab was rare, but I thought, nah, forget it - "Yo, Homes, to Bel-Air." I pulled up to the house about seven or eight, and I yelled to the cabbie, "Yo, Homes, smell you later." I looked at my kingdom; I was finally there to sit on my throne as the prince of Bel-Air.

Saturday, 7 May 2016

...if you'll show me yours


Eroticon (Live) is in a couple of weeks and I'm just not ready for it. I've been putting in a lot of effort at work (for no extra pay) and have been thrown unexpectedly for a loop in terms of housing and, to an extent, health. I'm a bit of a wreck right now and, as a result have had very little time for blogging, running, reading, gaming or any of the other stuff that I tend to do to fill my otherwise completely futile time.

I'm not ready for 'con. But at least I have a ticket and a hotel booked. And that's a start.

Here we have, then, as is custom, the generic "introduction" post, hosted once again by Molly Moore... so go and read her post too.


Name (and Twitter name if you have one)

Innocent Loverboy, also known as "ILB" if that's easier to remember. Of course, it'll be on my badge, so in actual fact there's very little to remember... and I probably don't need to fill this bit in anyway, because my name's at the top of the page.

@innocentlb for more of my shoutings into the void.

If you had the opportunity to rename yourself (or your blog) what would you pick?

This is a difficult one, because I didn't actually struggle to come up with "Innocent Loverboy"; it just came about easily and seemed to fit. I'd probably name myself "Hiroki Sugimura" after the character from Battle Royale, as he's a bit of an innocent loverboy himself.

What are you most looking forward to at Eroticon Live and/or is there anything you are nervous about?

Classified. Yes, there is something I'm nervous about, but I'm going to try to forget about it and enjoy the weekend (e-mail or DM me if you're curious).

As with all the previous Eroticons, the thing I'm looking forward to most is meeting up with the community again. Close as we may be, we rarely really physically get a chance to meet face-to-face, and this is the one event I can think of where most people are going to be...!

I also probably owe everyone a hug. Please forgive me if I end up crying over your shoulder.

Have you planned which sessions you will be attending or are you more of a spur-of-the-moment kind of person?

I never really tend to plan, as I go to the sessions I decide upon on the day and/or the ones run by my friends. I'll certainly go to GOTN's session, Jillian Boyd's session and the "ask-a-sex-blogger" panel too.

What essential items to your life will be bringing with you to Eroticon Live?

My wallet, my 'phone, my keys, a notebook and pen, and some clothes... why, what were you expecting?

I came away with a DOXY vibrator last time, so it's what I end up with that might be more interesting.

A new cocktail has been made in your honour. What would be the key ingredient and what would it be called?

Well, it'd have to be a non-alcoholic cocktail, as I don't drink alcohol. Those are usually called "virgin", which is about as far away from an accurate description of me as you can get. My favourite cocktail includes cola and blackcurrant cordial and is known as a Friar Tuck.

My cocktail would probably include lemon and lime (as they are my favourite flavours), vanilla (as I am vanilla, but only in a very small quantity, to prevent it being overpowering) and cherry (as I like The Cherry Orchard), and be called a Slow Fuck. Because I like those too.

Complete the sentence: I have yet to…

...decide upon a way to complete this sentence which doesn't give too much away.

Tuesday, 3 May 2016


He. Was. Still. Hard.
- Alice Clayton, Wallbanger

There are rare occasions when I get a couple of hours to myself. I have a fairly regular working pattern, while hers is a little irregular; the result of this is that - every now and again - one of us finds themself in the room on their own. You may have noticed her confirming that she is masturbating more these days, although I've never seen it. But, then again, I'm at work a lot of the time.

Guess when I masturbate?

This morning was one of those occasions when she went to work before me. 5:15 am and she was out of the door, leaving me dozing in the bed with more space to myself. I hadn't slept well (again...), and sometimes I use the three hours until my alarm goes off to take a concentrated nap, well aware that it's likely to be the only sleep I'm getting that night.

This morning wasn't one of those times.

It took me a while to coax my body into a recumbent supine position, and even longer to co-ordinate my hand, mind and penis, but I did it eventually. Getting hard wasn't a problem - yes, I am getting old, but there aren't any problems here - but getting to orgasm was a bit of an uphill struggle. I was dreamy and unfocused, pausing every now and again to run a hand through my unkempt hair or shift my body back into position, pull my foreskin back further and get back to the task at hand. Not having really woken up, I was unsure what to think of as I did so, and when, after a while, I finally did orgasm, it was the most satisfaction I've felt in a while; I lay there on my back, gasping for breath, as my cum dripped lazily down my sides from the pool collected on my stomach.

It's always the ones that take a bit more effort...

I've no idea how I did so, but I managed to clean up and then managed to slip off to about half an hour of sleep (it's better than nothing) before my alarm woke me up and I tried not to throw my BlackBerry at the wall too strongly. I grabbed a pair of pants, pulled them up and...

I was still hard.

Rock solid. Not just hard, but really hard - perhaps even more so than I'd been before when I actually was masturbating. There I was, staring at my UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS with something between amusement and bemusement, and even laughing a little as it proved to be too big to fit into my underpants (I ended up manipulating them around it - also not an easy task). I wasn't even that turned on... I was just really, really, ball-achingly, earth-shatteringly hard.

I did a cowboy walk to the bus stop and resolved to get some coffee once I'd arrived at work... because, I reasoned, if there's one thing I needed at that moment, it was sex.

Coffee. I mean coffee. Honest.

Sunday, 1 May 2016

Crack squad

I was having trouble sleeping.

Nothing new there - I often have a lot of trouble sleeping; it's my primary complaint, along with IBS, nausea, malaise, loss of hair, weight gain, and the propensity to write long lists with Oxford commas. The amount of work I've been doing recently is frankly ludicrous, and the few coming weeks show no sign of slowing up, what with moving house next week and all the related shenanigans, seeing James, watching Eurovision and going to Eroticon all providing regular distractions - plus the large project I have going on at work and my new, painful exercise régime. I barely have time to sleep, and when I try, I don't have the wherewithal.

I was naked. I always sleep naked - I have since I was about 12. I do own pyjamas, but as far as I'm aware I've only worn them a few times, like Christmas mornings and school pyjama days; I also own a second pair, which I've worn twice over a two-day period when I was sharing a room with KW in Blackpool. I was naked, as is the way. So was my girlfriend, which is unusual - she tends to sleep in T-shirts (sometimes hers, sometimes mine), despite being a lady laid bare. I prefer her naked - much softer and warmer. Easier to sleep with.

I lay there with my eyes closed, trying to pretend I was asleep and ignoring the potential situations which tend to play out in my head 24 hours a day. In her sleep, she gave a little sigh and rolled over, her hand drifting downwards and coming to rest in...

My eyes snapped open. The very edge of her hand, for whatever reason, had come to rest in my arse crack. Not really inside - this wasn't accidental anal play - but her little finger had managed to squirrel itself into the little groove at the end of my backthat leads down towards my arse itself. A feather-light touch, perhaps, as she slept... but that was more than enough.

I do like my backside being touched, sensitive as it is, and - aware that this was accidental - I tried to take advantage of it while I could. Not really wanting to move too much - I was moderately comfortable and didn't want to wake her up; a light touch will do so, light sleeper as she is - I tried to shift my body a little so that I could be as relaxed as possible while her hand rested on my bum. (Her thumb, at one point, brushed against a cheek, which nearly set me off.) The sensation - the lightest of touches - brought some ideas to light, although nothing too realisable. I could bring myself to orgasm like this. The release would be good for me. I'd sleep better. I could...

...dawn chorus?

It was morning. Both her hands were on her side of the bed. She was still asleep. I was still hard. My arse, now free of all foreign digits, was back to its relaxed state. The alarm went off after a while and I swore loudly at it.

"Did you sleep?" she said, as I tried to contemplate how difficult it might be to make it through another day.
"Not at all?"

I paused for contemplation.

"Maybe a little."