Saturday, 31 December 2016

Word Association

As my friend-who-is-a-teacher poured the fifth cup of tea and then took her place on the sofa, my bald weightlifting friend's wife pulled another card from the bag, inflatable hammer at the ready in order to hit people over the head if they faltered. She'd been hitting her husband a little harder than everyone else.

"Black," she offered.
"White," offered Mane Jr.
"Whiteboard," said my bald weightlifting friend.
"Class," said Mane Jr's girlfriend.
"Teacher," I offered.
"Student...?"
"Child...?"
"Adult...?"
"Porn!"

Everyone dissolved into laughter at the existence of the word "porn". We are, after all, about five mentally.

Once everyone had coughed themselves back into something approaching a respectable position, Mane Jr's girlfriend - who had met us all a few hours earlier and was coping pretty well with the whole thing - was given a topic. My bald weightlifting friend's wife fished around for another subject and pulled out...

"Teabag!"

It took a while to get my friend-who-is-a-teacher back into her sitting position. I suppose it's the small pleasures in life.

"Whose go is it now?" she choked.
"I think it must be yours," I offered.
"Okay, please give me a topic that doesn't have any sexual connotations or we'll never get this finished!"

And she poured herself another Baileys while another slip of paper was grabbed from the bag.

"Baps!"

One hour later and we were still laughing.

Tuesday, 27 December 2016

Baton

For two and a half years (or more) of my three years at university, I spent two evenings a week playing in a band that had very few fans. It was a large ensemble - I'm more suited to rock, as 47 will probably tell you, or folk or something that doesn't require a lot of musical talent, like indie pop. My university, however, was woefully lacking in facilities for the creative arts. It didn't even have a society for musicians until my third year, when some very enterprising musical students started one (and a band to go with it). The only way I could play music was by joining this ensemble.

So I joined.

I didn't have much to do. Arrangements of things were sometimes lacking in my chosen instrument, and there were some rehearsals where I played something like eight notes in the first hour or whatever. I developed a meditation technique, sitting at the back of the room with my eyes closed (I was in the middle, at the back, so I was there anyway) and letting the music wash over me. At times, it was magical.

The problems came when I was actually playing. I was nervous, intimidated and aware that I was out of place (I was in a room full of rural Tories and military types; there was one other vegetarian and very few fellow students). I wasn't exactly that bad at my chosen instrument (well, I wasn't great, but I was OK); the environment made me more and more nervy and I occasionally missed my cue or played a bum note - as we all did. I just got picked on for it.

I ingratiated myself as best I could. Went for drinks with the band, got elected as assistant librarian (leading to a memorable evening once with a roll of Sellotape, a whole band's-worth of musical manuscript and Pokémon: Spell of the Unown on the TV for distraction) and offered to take over (redesign, actually) the website for free. As webmaster, I could put my talents to more use, and every now and again, I got faint praise for it.

My section leader hated me. He was an ex-military man with an incredible number of letters after his name, self-serving and shouty and suddenly being asked to share his section with a pacifist vegetarian socialist student. He yelled at me, pushed me aside and, several times, lied about me to make me look bad (or, in more than one case, stupid - despite being a student, he thought I was an idiot). I kept going back, trying to be cool about it and the music being my main draw, but he had no idea about the effect he was having on me. I once ended up in my room, shivering under the bedcovers and talking to my dad about wanting to kill myself because of what he'd said that night.

The conductor started on me as well, and this only continued to get worse and worse, a twice-weekly torrent of verbal abuse, worse than what you'd get from the school bully. I don't know why I stood it - I had no power to do otherwise - but nobody else seemed to want to take him on. I used to self-harm in the bathrooms and go home to scream and hit my head against the wall, occasionally coming out with an intelligent quip that made my friends in the section in front of me laugh, but usually in too much of a tizz to do anything else. He once fired the cornet player on whom I had a crush and forbade anyone to talk about or to her ever again, and out of the whole band, I was the only one who disobeyed, e-mailing her immediately to ask if she was okay and if there was anything I could do.

I was a victim. I know that now, and I kind of knew that then, but I saw nothing I could do apart from quit the band, and I didn't want to do that or I'd have lost my sole creative outlet. And, to be fair, I loved the applause at concerts and the bow I got to take when I played solos. Not every gig was good, but they mostly went well enough.

In my second year, I developed - after a few months of constant abuse and being called a wanker by the conductor - a coping mechanism.

Porn.

I was single and a university student and by this point I'd amassed a fairly large collection of porn. I had my soft porn DVDs (some of which I still have) and was starting to build up what would eventually make up my Discs of Wonder™. I also had a large room in the share house at which I was living, and for the first time in what seems like ever, I was enjoying myself sexually without fear of being caught. I used to get my release by familiarising myself with my sexuality, occasionally doing the sex chatroom thing or reading/writing erotic fiction - even, at some points, discovering sex blogs in their fledgling forms - but nothing so much as just putting on some soft porn and bringing myself off.

More so than ever, my second year was what influenced my tastes in porn, which continues to this day. I had a handy release in wanking; porn was, for all its flaws, my safe space - where no right-wingers could corner me in the library and yell at me for wearing a white poppy. No ex-marine could hide sheets of music so that I couldn't find them and had nothing to play. No conductor could tell me that I had no sense of rhythm because of being a vegetarian. When watching porn, I was untouchable; invulnerable; invincible. I'd masturbate once before going to band, go and rehearse and be shouted at, return and masturbate again before going to bed.

It was my sweet release, the calming embrace of hand around cock more of a relief than crying it all out or chain-smoking cigarettes like the conductor did. At least, as I reasoned to myself, at least I have something all to myself, something I can control which feels good. And, in those moments, I was doing more for myself than I'd ever done.

In my third year, I returned from a contest to find my housemates sitting in the lounge eating dinner.

"How did it go?" asked one of them.
"We didn't do well," I admitted. "Seventh out of eight. We threw it away in the second movement. Massive confidence knock. I'm not too worried," I assured them, as they blanched. "Contesting's not my thing anyway, There's a real gig next week, that's much more fun."
I took a few chips and a slice of bread.
"Conductor called me a wanker," I said after a few seconds.
"He what?!" said the other three.
"Yeah, well..." I said, as I got up to help clear up. "He's got a point."

And returned to my room, where my porn lay waiting silently for me.

Monday, 26 December 2016

And all that jizz...

Friend: "That's the first time I've ever been in that situation, you know, so I think I handled it rather well."
ILB: "I've no idea what I'd do!"
Friend: "Keep calm and carry on!"
ILB: "And all that jazz!"
Friend: [Laughs.] "I had to re-read that!"

ILB: "Why?"
Friend: "I thought it read 'and all that jizz' at first..."
ILB: "Well... that's good too."
Friend: "You know it. That's how the situation ended, anyway. Jizz. With some tea for recovery."
ILB: "All the best stuff."
Friend: "Best Christmas pudding ever."

Thursday, 22 December 2016

Dead Man Walking

Earlier today I updated my about page, which seems to get more and more irrelevant every year, and adjusted my age from 30 to 31, which has actually been the truth since March; I just didn;t want to update my about page until my bloggiversary. That was yesterday, only I forgot about it.

Hooray.

31. I looked at that number for a while and was, temporarily, confronted by my own mortality, constantly reminded that I didn't expect to live past 18 to begin with; 25 was a miracle. 31 is totally a peak; I'd say it's all downhill from here, but realistically, it's been downhill since the age of five.

I'm reminded at this point of a friend I used to have who had met me once at a music event while we were both in the sixth form, developed a crush on me and added me on MSN, although she didn't tell me why. Years later and we were still talking, only by this time she had moved to Portsmouth and attended university, dropped out, and was living with her boyfriend, who was - what seemed to me at the time - unreasonably old.

Cue the sex conversation.

My friend was frustrated. She was in a relationship with this guy who wouldn't have sex with her unless he was up for it, even if she wasn't at that point. It all seemed rather one-sided to me, but according to her, the oral sex was good. She also said that she liked to have sex in the missionary position, but that that wasn't particularly fun, and considering that she'd been wanting sex since a very young age and not getting any until the age of 19, she was a little disappointed.

I asked her what the matter was.

"Well, he's 28," she said, "and his peepee isn't what it used to be..."

I tried to ignore the fact that she'd used the word "peepee".

"...his peepee isn't what it used to be, so it isn't always that good."

It's because of that one conversation that I've always been worried about my sexual prowess past the age of 28, never mind 31. I've probably died by now and haven't noticed yet; I'm just a poltergeist haunting my own corpse or something.

There's an interesting contrast between my friend and her boyfriend with the defunct peepee and the multitude of people I've seen on the blogosphere recently saying that they're having the best sex of their lives in their 40s and 50s. I was always told that, for a boy, his sexual peak was at 16 or 17, whereas for a girl, it started when she hit 40 (hence the "toyboy" fantasies or me having sex with an older woman when I was 21) - but I've since been told that this is, in fact, untrue, and that everyone is different. Who knew?

Certain of my own impending death as I am, I'm surprisingly sexually healthy, I think: I'm still having strong, fairly regular erections that don't need to be physically brought on by my hands (they can be, obviously, but they often aren't). My penis still swells to its full length and seems to be working well enough, all the right pulses and twitches and jerks, and my orgasms are powerful, an ejaculation of adequate proportions or a dry orgasm which shuts off my body for a while, leaving nothing but a faint, untraceable buzz for a bit.

On account of the fact that I'm over the age of 28 and still managing this with fairly alarming regularity, I'm not entirely sure that my friend's boyfriend was being entirely truthful when he blamed the fact that she wasn't enjoying sex too much on his penis. While we were both in agreement that she could feel sexual pleasure and experience orgasm (evidenced by the fact that she spent most of her time downloading porn and masturbating), it wasn't particularly evident. I felt sorry for her, but there really wasn't much I could do.

Before you ask, no, I didn't.

The other day I found her on social media and dropped her a line to see how she was. She was okay, still in Portsmouth, and although she'd lost touch with the random girls who were had been her friends, she was still with her older boyfriend. She didn't mention sex, and I didn't think to ask. But I did ask how he was.

"He's good," she said, "he's always been good. I love him; I've loved him now for a very long time."

And that, I'm reliably informed, is something that can happen at any age.

Sunday, 18 December 2016

Recognising Myself

I sat on the steps of the large building, near the lions, looking out at Nottingham's Old Market Square for a while before turning my attention back to Pokémon Sapphire. I'd caught a Wingull and had decided it was pretty useless, so was attempting to level it up. This was no easy task, and with half an hour to kill, I had decided upon Old Market Square as a good enough place to do so as any.

I looked up, temporarily, noticing that (among others) one of my bandmates was walking towards me across the square.

She had dark hair, dark eyes and full, round cheeks. I don't recall ever seeing her without her 'phone in her hand, surmising (correctly) that she was able to text without looking at either screen or keys. She sat next to me, once, in my class at university, and I'd failed to recognise her that evening when I first went to band until I saw her in the light. So says Mr. Observant.

I kind of knew that she was leaving Nottingham after a year or study, finding that it hadn't really fitted her. She was, however, an excellent musician, and it had been a pleasure to play with her.  This was her last gig, so I had asked if we could travel together.

"Shall we go, then?"
"Yeah. Do you want to take the tram?"
"Why? It's a five-minute walk."
"Uphill. And I've never taken the tram before."


Off the tram stop at the arboretum and through the tree-lined avenue towards the tent. Her thumb hadn't left the keypad of her 'phone for the entire journey.

"Who are you texting, anyway?"
"The fella."


Out of everything I knew about her, from her origins in the North to her silvery instrument to her views on Riddley Walker, one of the things I hadn't quite clocked was that she wasn't single. I'd mentioned her, in passing, to my grandmother when talking about the band we were in, and her response may have been some suggestion that we were about to get married. I wasn't even that attracted to her, but since everyone else in the band was either in a relationship, much older or much crueller (and, in some cases, Tories!!!), I didn't talk much to anyone else.

Not knowing she had a boyfriend, I'd never thought to envision him. But, since I wasn't ever going to see this girl again, I thought I may as well ask her what he looked like. Someone to emulate, perhaps, if I wanted to pull hot girls who played instruments in large ensembles later in life. In response, she tapped her keypad again, and pulled up a picture (quite an impressive feat for 2004).

He was in a uniform.

"He's a cadet?" I ejaculated, before I could stop myself.
"He's a marine," she corrected me. "Don't you recognise the uniform?"
"I don't really know much about uniforms," I admitted, "apart from this one." And I pulled on the flowery waistcoat to which I was referring.

I walked past the sergeant, took my place next to the old guy who used to be in the Marines, and remained seated while everyone else stood for the national anthem.

I've never felt so out of place.

Wednesday, 14 December 2016

Powersauce!

Last week my dad bought me, presumably as an early Christmas present but I suspect more of a hint than anything else, a membership to the gym I go past on my way to work. This is not really an unknown quantity; he goes there too, as does my mother, and it's part of the leisure centre where I used to go swimming, so at least I know where it is.

I was supposed to have a session with a personal trainer (yes, I know!) earlier on this week, but due to lung seppuku issues I failed to actually turn up. Upon talking to my dad about this, he said how helpful a trainer had been to him when working out an exercise régime. Rather than telling him that I don't really want an exercise régime, I just want to look fitter by Eroticon and anyway I just wanted to be on the treadmill while watching My Little Pony on TinyPop, I instead went with:

"Oh, someone I know once had a personal trainer."

Which is true. Except I haven't heard from her for years. Still, one of the things that's imprinted on my mind (and evermore shall be so) happens to be a memory of the time she wrote about having a personal trainer.

"How did it go?" he asked.
"Well, she had sex with him so she had to find another one."
"..."

Which is also true. At least according to her blog on a marvellous post called, simply, "I Fucked My Last Trainer", a short and sweet burst of sexual frisson which went something like:
Therapy or personal trainer[?]. Mind you, the last time I had a trainer I fucked him. "That's why you need therapy," someone remarked.
Followed by DETAILS.

SO MANY DETAILS.

This, obviously, was something I didn't share with my dad; the fact that Naive London Girl fucked her personal trainer was none of his business. However, she did put it up on the internet once, on her sex blog, for the world to see.

Why is this relevant? Because, given the amount of times I masturbated over that one particular post, I am unable to mentally link anything else to the concept of personal trainers. Personal trainers are people who, in my head, have sex with Naive London Girl. That is, clearly, THEIR PURPOSE IN LIFE.

Except I went to the gym today (shouldn't have done so; my chest is RAW) and saw, from afar, the guy who is apparently going to be the trainer I'm talking to this Friday. And I most certainly won't be fucking him.

Tuesday, 13 December 2016

Absence Note

At about 9:30 pm, I abandoned my efforts to stay awake for as long as possible and went for a lie-down, trying to justify this by telling myself that I was actually very sleepy and sick. I joined a gym last week and was going to go yesterday, but (given the hideous rasp that appears to have been coming from my lungs recently) I didn't think this was a good idea.

To be fair, I'd had enough with my stupid body, so I went for a lie-down.

When I awoke at 11pm, I realised that I was shivering, but genuinely didn't have the energy to get up and close the window (in fact, when I did end up closing the window, this was pointless too; I was still shivering). I lay there, inert, shuddering, helpless. It took me about twenty minutes to will my limbs into action, and even then, the only thing I did of any worth was the stripping-off of all my clothes and falling back into bed, under the covers this time.

Except I didn't get any sleep. I was red-hot under the sheets and racked with apoplectic cold shivers when out of them. I had fits of General Grievous-like coughing every time I moved, and despite how bored I was (and I was so bored!), I could hardly have sat up and done something. Sitting up hurt. And then, even when I managed to get comfortable, my pounding headache wasn't going to let me sleep anyway. Of that I was fairly certain; on account of the fact that I could do nothing but lie there and be bored, that's what I did.

For hours.

I'm not even sure that I'm awake now, to be honest. I've been struggling through a haze for a while and - while I'm sure this post had a point when I started - I'm not entirely sure what I'm trying to tell you.

I'm sick and I haven't been to the gym. There, that'll do.

Saturday, 10 December 2016

Haze

There's an opening scene in an Emmanuelle film where she and Haffron are standing at a window, looking out at some rain. Not liking the weather, she asks Haffron to take her elsewhere, and they go somewhere that isn't raining and have sex.

"Told you it was better without the rain," she says.

I don't agree.

It's a wet winter night. A far cry from the summer rain of years past, but nevertheless, it is wet. Soft rain has been falling all day and it feels, in all honesty, a bit miserable. Rain falls but it's too soft to hear. The ground is wet but you can't see it getting so. The street outside, in fact, sounds busy - people getting in and out of cars, having telephone conversations and doing work. It's not the sort of calm I associate with rainy days.

What I want to be, of course, is elsewhere. Maybe in a hotel room with a hot cup of tea and a soft bed, looking out of the window at the rain. Or in a warm car with a friend, laughing as we set off on another great adventure. Perhaps just on my way somewhere, surrounded by the rain and the night, or anywhere where I can feel protected and safe.

Looking out at the rain.

Looking back into the room and seeing the girl lying on the crumpled sheets. The one I made love to as the rain started to fall, who now sleeps, allowing me to get up, walk around and stand, staring, out of the window, through the rain, through the night, to the nearest source of light outside.

That's where I want to be. In a warm glow. Looking at the wet world of blue from my safe, dry world of yellow.

Summer rain makes me crave spontaneity. Winter rain makes me crave warmth.

With neither, what am I now?

Monday, 5 December 2016

Skip to the good bit

"No, wait, stop."

I stopped, the golden shimmer around my hand still glistening, hanging there in perpetuity, should there be a need to reconnect.

"Stopped! Stopped!"

She shifted her body a little, more towards the centre of the bed, spreading her legs a little wider, little splashes of silver light creating an aurora around her smooth, slick vagina. The red glow emanating from the Womanizer gave off a ghostly effect - slightly less mesmerising, perhaps, but still impressive.

"Okay, keep going..."

She pressed the toy to her clit once again, little spren of pleasure popping all over her body as she gasped and moaned with lust.

"Don't stop!"
"Oh, okay..."

And I took my cock back into my hand, coaxing my erection further towards orgasm, kneeling between her knees as she brought herself off.

Friday, 2 December 2016

Top 100 Sex Blogs: 2016

Let's be honest: 2016 sucks.

It really, really does. I thought 2010 was bad and yet that was just a warm-up for this, the most horrible of annus horribilis I've ever experienced. And there's still another bloody month to go!

In order to quell the terror a little, I'm reposting here Molly's Top 100 Sex Blogs list for 2016, with thanks to her (and Signs) for putting in all the work to compile it. And it's full of great blogs, so go and read those too!

Read mine first.

BEHOLD:
1 Domme Chronicles @Ferns
2 Dangerous Lilly @Dangerouslilly
3 Rebel's Notes @RebelsNotes
4 Malin James @MalinMJames
5 The Drew Duality @dualdrew
6 Not So Sex in the City @notsosexintheci
7 The Big Gay Review @thebiggayreview
8 Tabitha Rayne @TabithaErotica
9 My Dissolute Life @nlikes
10 Temperature's Rising N/A
11 Hey Epiphora @epiphora
12 Innocent Loverboy @innocentlb
13 Girly Juice @girly_juice
14 Sexual Destinies @VictoriaVista1
15 Pandora Blake @pandorablake
16 Stranded in Toronto @stranded_in_to
17 Modesty Ablaze @ablazingmodesty
18 Holden and Camille @holden_cammie
19 Love Hate Sex Cake @LoveHateSexCake
20 Penny for your Dirty Thoughts @pennysblog
21 The Other Livvy @theotherlivvy
22 Ann St Vincent @annstvincent
23 Speak With a Suggestive Tongue @Suggestive
24 Denying thumper @thumperMN
25 Teachers Have Sex @teachershavesex
26 Exposing 40 @exposing40
27 oh, that phi @OhThatPhi
28 Melina Greenport @melinagreenport
29 Steeled Snake @steeledsnake
30 Cara Sutra @thecarasutra
31 Ninja Sexology @ninjasexology
32 Goddess Erryn Embers @erryn_embers
33 Domina Jen @DominaJen
34 Miss Scarlet Writes @MissScarletUK
35 Understanding Flutterby @WissPeasel
36 Marvelous Darling @marvydarling
37 BD Swain @RedSwain
38 Happy Come Lucky @ht_honey
39 Chasing Me Chasing you @CollaredMom
40 Horny Geek Girl @hornygeekgirl
41 A Sexual Being @KaylaLords
42 Miss Pearl @OMissPearl
43 You Won't Tame this Sassy Cat @sassycat38
44 Lady Laid Bare @JillyBoyd
45 Formidable Femme @FemmeReviews
46 The Redhead Bedhead @JoEllenNotte
47 Confessions of a Sex Toy Rep @maryqconfesses
48 Poison Pen Dirty Mind @OleanderPlume
49 Exhibit A @EA_unadorned
50 Sex Is My New Hobby @SexIsMyNewHobby
51 Toy Meets Girl @dizzygirl812
52 A to sub Bee @sub_bee
53 Ella Dawson @brosandprose
54 A Femme Cock @AFemmeCock
55 Sex Death Rock'n'Roll @violetfenn
56 Diary of a Married Woman N/A
57 Emmanuelle Maupassant @EmmanuelledeM
58 Scandarella @ella_scandal
59 A Slave to Master N/A
60 Illicit Thoughts @Kats_my_Name__
61 The ins and outs with Erika Lynae @erika_lynae
62 My Tickle Trunk @mytickletrunk
63 F Dot Leonora @fdotleonora
64 Vanillamom's Blog @swirlednilla
65 The Chaste Cyclist @chastecyclist
66 Jerusalem Mortimer: Between the Lines @JaimeMortimer
67 Naked at our Age @JoanPrice
68 Miss Ruby Reviews @MissRubyReviews
69 Emmeline Peaches Reviews @EmmelinePeaches
70 Pieces Of Jade @piecesofjade
71 Cammies on the Floor @cammiesonfloor
72 Maria Opens Up @MSM1647
73 Girl Boner @augstmclaughlin
74 Screw Taboo @screw_taboo
75 Cherrytart Blog @cherrytartblog
76 The Erotic Writer N/A
77 Blissfully Orgasmic @BlissfullyOrgas
78 Thoughts With a Dildo in Hand @thoughtswdildo
79 Sex and Psychology @JustinLehmiller
80 Sexologist Vixenne @DrVixenne
81 Joanne's Sex Machine @joannesreviews
82 Mintie Price @MintiePrice
83 Frisky in the 916 @jackandjillcpl
84 Malflic @malflic
85 Cara Thereon @thereon_cara
86 Nicci Haydon @NicciHaydon
87 Lil Miss Shalla spacecheetos
88 Princess Previews @PrincessPreview
89 Kore Desires @adrea_kore
90 Lana Fox @foxlana
91 Mischa Eliot @mischa_eliot
92 Fiesty Fox Films @taylorjmace
93 The Dot Spot @dorothyblack
94 Monkey in a Cage @LadyM_n_Monkey
95 Janine Ashbless N/A
96 Voluptasse Magazine @Voluptasse
97 Under Contract to My Wife N/A
98 Carnal Queen @thecarnalqueen
99 IckleBookie @ickle_bookie
100 Everyone else!
Hmmm, 12. That's not bad, actually.