Thursday, 23 November 2017

Not jut, but nearly...

At the age of 17, I had an almost relationship with a cute Danish girl (who, like pretty much all of my exes, has now grown up, gotten married and had at least one baby. Her first child was one she had with her boss' son, although she did stress that it was planned.). I say almost relationship because it wasn't really a genuine one. I was certainly attracted to her, and I think she was to me. We shared a lot too - sent letters to each other with photos, chatted on MSN for hours and compared our woes, many of which centred around the myriad of crushes we both had and how we weren't getting anywhere with them.

As you do.

It took me a few months to realise that I no longer cared that I wasn't getting anywhere with the crushes I had at home, because I had her. Realistically, on account of the fact that she was in Jutland and I was in North London, this wasn't going to go anywhere either. Neither of us entertained the fact that it would, but at the same time, there was this little spark there, something that seemed to suggest that - through some fortuitous circumstance (and the fact that I'd been saving money...) - we may end up together.

At the same time, closer to home, my token black friend had had a bit of a breakthrough, insofar as he'd asked out the girl in our year who he fancied (and who quite clearly fancied him back), and she'd said yes. It took a while to get him to do it, with various tactics involving a steady stream of encouragement from the Manics fan and Lightsinthesky repeating "ask her out, ask her out, ask her out" like a stuck record. He held off all the way through her birthday party and, finally, asked.

"We should organise a multiple date," said Lightsinthesky while we walked back from town after decamping to McDonald's to discuss recent events. I mean, you've now got [here he said the name of my token black friend's new girlfriend], and I've got [here he said the name of his new girlfriend], and you've got [here he said the name of my Danish friend.]"
"Not really," I said. "It's not a real relationship. I mean, it might be. I'm not sure what it is."
"Well, have you asked her?"
"No," I admitted slowly. "We just talk a lot. Most of the time, really. We just stay up late and talk."

At which point my token black friend walked into a wall. He'd been in a happy daze for the rest of the day; it was nice to see him in such a delighted mood.

And so the uncertainty continued. On and on and on it went, with her sending me art she'd made and me sending her photos of my face; discussing politics and religion and the Danish school system took up far too much of my time, which I should have spent doing homework. But it made me feel less lonely and a little more valued, and the fact that neither of us had said it wasn't a relationship kept the option open, if only for a short while.

After a few months she kind of vanished. She still reappeared occasionally, but she spent less and less time online, and rarely texted any more. I was kind of relaxed by this point - had my first kiss with Soldiergirl, my first sexual experience with Esque, and was heading towards my first real relationship with Rebecca - when I saw her pop up online again. I said hello, asked her how she'd been, and was wondering if she was all right, as she'd been quite quiet recently.

She told me that she had a boyfriend. She even showed me a picture.

Now I think about it, I probably should have felt differently. But all I felt at that point was relief. She had moved on with her life just as I'd been thrown headlong into mine. And, to her credit, she was happy, and no longer confused as to what she wanted. She started paying attention at school, went on to college, got a different boyfriend, and what I've heard recently, all is fine. 

As much as I'd enjoyed the uncertainty while it lasted, I was relieved that it was over. Now I knew where I stood... and I was free to carry on with my own love life, which was soon to reach fever pitch. It just hadn't quite happened... not yet, anyway.

Something nobody's ever asked me about is who the girl on my "About ILB" button is. Well, that's her. It's a sketch of her I drew back in the day, when she mentioned being so confused. I sketched her, along with a few other people (realistically, I did a lot of these, including 47, TMF, Louise, Soldiergirl, and myself, but she was the first one I did), and sent these people their sketches by post. She put hers up on the wall.

No point in waiting for someone to ask, I guess. Time to tell the story. So, in fact, I have.

Monday, 20 November 2017


"Okay, if you'll just sit there," I said vaguely, indicating a desk, "I'll get to you in a second. Fill this out, please?"

I handed her the paper to fill out.

"Hey, so, yeah, I didn't know this was happening today."
"You didn't know you were coming here? You should have been notified."
"I was. Today."

"Oh, that sucks."

I vaguely wondered whether my client would call me unprofessional for using the term 'that sucks'. She didn't comment, so I took that as good sign.

"So, yeah, I totally need a pen."
"Hella," I said, passing her a pen.

I surprised even myself for using the word 'hella'. I only really picked that up from my girlfriend, and have no idea what it means. Then again, I also use 'Zounds!', and I got that from Christopher Marlowe. Again, my client didn't comment.

"I got you a present," she said. "Happy birthday."
"Thanks," I said automatically as she handed over the stack of Post-Its I'd accidentally left on the desk. "It's what I've always wanted."
"I know. I'm awesome."
"You are."

Slowly but surely, I'm beginning to engage with people.

Friday, 17 November 2017


Wow, it's been a hot minute since my last post. Whatever that means.

It has been a while, in any case. Much has happened; our house move is still an ongoing process, insofar as we have moved, but my life is now more of a concept consisting entirely of boxes and bags of miscellaneous bullshit I'd forgotten we own. I'm just a flitting idea now, rather than an entity.

My libido has been held back a bit by the fact that I've been suddenly given a lot more work to do, the room isn't as nice to touch myself in when there's still a looming pile of Things To Sort, and I'd lost the power cable for my external HD, which is where all my soft porn is. Perhaps more crucially, although my imagination and my hand are both still operational, I had an accident the other day which - as well as producing some very impressive marks on my thigh - put my right hand out of action for a day or so; specifically the index finger, which had a huge blister forming, making me have to balance a pen between thumb and middle finger when writing longhand.

I'm still typing mainly using my middle finger, since I got used to it.

Masturbation hasn't been impossible - I've had some opportunities to do so and taken advantage thereof - but it has been difficult. Fortunately, however, I have had some spectacular orgasms as a result.

One thing I haven't done yet is take a shower here. I think I have a phobia - whether the fact that it's an unfamiliar bathroom, or the fact that there are two single girls living upstairs and I don't want to appear just wearing a towel, or that I've just been too damn tired (which is probably the real reason), it hasn't happened yet. This occurred to me post-orgasm earlier in the week, when I suddenly realised that I was composed mainly of dry skin, and that I should indeed take a shower. In fact, I really needed one.

Yesterday afternoon I had a three-hour break between shifts at work. With nothing to do that wouldn't cost money - and safe in the knowledge that going home would have been a case of getting there, turning around and going back out again - I took a punt and headed to my parents' house to take a shower.

SH was empty when I got there, apart from Willow (who I fed), so I undressed with relative impunity, threw my pants, socks and T-shirt into the washing machine, and entered the bathroom.

My parents have a shower enclosed within a glass capsule, so it's perfectly possible for one to stand directly beneath it, turn it on and wait for the water to cascade over your naked body. So, of course, that is precisely what I did. Up went the lever, there was a faint gurgle, and then the rain burst into life, covering me in seconds.

I can't explain the sound I made - it was something between an expression of relief and ejaculatory bliss. It was so simple - warm, clean water sliding down my chest, back and stomach (and making all my fresh wounds sting) - but so relieving and satisfying. I grabbed a random shower gel (one of my sister's, I think), lathered up and let the jet wash it all away. Chest,  stomach, legs, feet, crotch, back, even my arse - it all got cleaned. I spent a lot of time on my face, used shampoo and conditioner in my hair (I suspect also my sister's products), and marvelled for far too long on the visual of everything spiralling down the drain into oblivion.

Washing away all manner of sins.

I stood there in the steam for a while, then stepped out onto the bathmat, wrapped a towel around myself, blow-dried my hair, commandeered some of my dad's clothes, and strapped my shoes back on. I said goodbye to Willow, hauled my bag over my shoulder, and set off into the autumnal dusk.

I still have my worries, and I'm still anxious about money, overworked for what I do, and with a mountain of boxes to sort out... but at that moment, scrubbed clean and properly dried, fresh as a daisy and just as powerful as the mighty oak, I felt like everything was all right. I could do anything.

Thursday, 9 November 2017


It was the middle of Freshers' Week and I was throwing shapes on the dance floor in the middle of our student union bar.

Note: "throwing shapes". Nothing I do on a dance floor could ever really be described as "dancing".

Not for the first time since I'd arrived at university a few days earlier, I found myself surrounded by beautiful women in various states of inebriation. Given the huge student body we had, I hadn't committed myself to learning many names... but I'd do so once my course had started, I told myself. None of the people in student hall with me were doing the same course. We may not even have that much in common. I learned a few names, nevertheless.

After a while, I realised that I was dancing in close proximity to someone I vaguely knew from the flat below mine and one other boy who I'd seen around with a different girl on his arm every night. I wrote a blog post about him later that term with liberal use of the C-word to describe him, which gives you a fair idea of exactly how I felt towards him. At this point, I didn't know anything but his name.

The girl from the floor below me, who I'll call Loll, was someone I also knew by sight. She was a little tipsy (as was he), but she was dancing fairly steadily, so certainly not outright drunk. I, of course, was sober. I wasn't reticent to dance with Loll - she was, from what I'd seen, a nice young lady - the main problem was him. Perhaps he saw me as a bit of a threat. He clearly had designs upon Loll, but then she seemed to be more interested in me.

"I'm having a good time," she said, leaning in to shout over the din.
"So am I!" I yelled back. "I've never really been clubbing before, this is new to me! I love to dance!"
"I'm having a good time dancing with you!" she trilled. "Because I like you!"
"I like you too!" I said obliviously. "You're fun! And you're a good dancer!"

I did a 360° turn at high speed for want of something else to do.

He muscled in to separate us a bit, but he didn't say anything, choosing instead to shoot me a look both furtive and challenging.

Loll brushed him aside and leaned across to flash me a smile. Even in the dark of the club, her teeth were dazzling.

"Have you got a girlfriend?" she whispered in my ear.

Here we present a problem. I did, in fact, have a girlfriend. Engaged, actually. This was the first week of university and I'd come secure in the knowledge that I was attached and committed. I also knew, by that point, that she was cheating on me, or at least was heading that way. I didn't say anything about it, not even to her, but I did know. I was sure that this was just a phase and that we'd end up together, me being the forgiving type (and having forgiven her three previous indiscretions), but here was an opportunity for me to do the same thing.

I hardly need to mention that Loll was, herself, very attractive. She had long, dark, shiny hair and mysterious eyes. We became friends in the coming few weeks and I used to go clubbing with her, pretending to be her boyfriend so nobody would come on to her; she liked the security, and I liked the attention. Everyone thought I fancied her at that point - I thought she fancied me. 47, TMF and all my friends who read my LiveJournal seemed to think the same way - TMF asked me if Rebecca had seemed jealous. Now I look back at it, there's probably a reason she didn't.

In any case, the very concept of doing something with somebody else was a little exciting. Despite what one heard about Freshers' Week, I wasn't really expecting to have sex. Maybe I could have snogged her, and then maybe that would have led somewhere. At this point, I didn't know. I'd have other potential leads in this club... none of which would lead anywhere, either.

The beds in our student hall were very comfortable, and I hadn't had sex for a while, and...

"Yeah," I said back. "Yeah, I've got a girlfriend. Engaged, actually."

Fucking hell, ILB.

Despite the flash of something between disappointment and relief that darted across her face, the awkward semi-flirtation continued from that point. We carried on dancing together, and there were a few moments which might have been sweet - she pointed at me, and then herself, and then smiled a bit, before doing some more dancing - but I did feel a little awkward about the whole affair. Obviously I wasn't going to cheat with Loll. Obviously. I wasn't intending to.

Maybe I could buy her a drink, though.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he said, noticing some of my discomfort and jumping in between us.
"Uhm... okay!" she replied, taken a little aback. "I'll be back, okay, ILB?"
"Sure, fine, no problem," I mumbled back. "I'll just be here, er, dancing. On my own."

Three hours passed and, as I made my way out of the club to the strains of Mad World, I noticed them in the corner - empty glasses littering the table next to them and locked together into one of the messiest kisses I've ever seen.

I went back to my room hating him, sat down on my bed and cried until morning.

Wednesday, 1 November 2017


It was 9:30pm and I was on the late bus home from work. I chanced a look at the clock as we mounted the crest of the hill with the church at the top, near where Einstein lives. I'd missed Only Connect and Have I Got News For You, again. I'd have to mainline iPlayer when I got home.

My BlackBerry was out of battery; my iPod, I'd left at home. I'd also packed all of my books for our impending house move, and had forgotten to put one in my work bag. I'd decided to entertain myself by watching the cars out of the window, and following the trails of the raindrops as they spattered against the glass.

I was freezing.

I hadn't put a jumper on when I left for work earlier that day. I'd just decided upon a cotton shirt and a thin, waterproof macintosh, reasoning that that would be enough. I even had the fan on at work, the room being full of warm bodies. But here I was, only three or so hours later, sitting on the bus and feeling colder and colder...

...and that's when my nipples, erect with the cold, made contact with the cotton of my shirt. I yawned, stretched, and felt the thin fabric dragging against my chest.

My libido sprang to life and wouldn't stop hitting me in the head until I did it some more.

I spent the rest of the journey in a sort of exquisite torture, making small movements with my body so my nipples could brush against my shirt. As time went on, the friction made them grow harder and firmer, and my penis began to stir too, with nothing but the haze in my head and the physical sensation growling through my thorax to prompt it. Though, admittedly, such a small sensation as it was, it was enough. I had no distractions - nothing else to concentrate on.

With just my heartbeat, laboured breathing and the continuous rustle of cotton on skin, I sat on that cold, dark bus, and turned myself on without so much as touching myself.

I stopped the bus near my house, disembarked along with rock-hard nipples and a pulsing, firm erection, and met with a wall of rain as I started to stomp home. Three steps, maybe four, and I certainly wasn't hard any more.

Wednesday, 25 October 2017

We're not normal

"What's this?"
I didn't even raise my head. I didn't have the energy, having spent two-thirds of the night lying awake. I'm going to have to tell the doctor that the herbal remedy she recommended can be added to the list of things that doesn't work. My insomnia may have to be cured by someone hitting me over the head with a mallet.

"What's what?" I think I said. It probably sounded more like "whuzwer".
"There's a large collection of porn on this PC, and loads of pictures of naked girls."

Ah, yes...

My girlfriend has recently inherited my dad's old PC. With the hard drive formatted, my dad gave it to me, and for a while, I didn't use it for anything. Occasionally I watched a DVD or two on it, and I even recorded a couple of songs at points, but mostly it sat inactive in a drawer, just in case I needed a spare PC. When her netbook decided to stop working, I donated it to her. She seems to be enjoying it.

"Okay, you know when I went to do my summer job, and they had that firewall, so I had to find a VPN and it took me weeks to find one that they didn't block?"
"Well, I decided to test it by going onto the deep web and downloading porn."

"You went onto the deep web and downloaded porn?"
"Yeah. I don't even think I've ever watched it," I said, truthfully.

"And who are the girls in the pictures? Some people you've been fucking?"
"I haven't been fucking anyone," I said, just as truthfully.

"So who are the girls?"
"More porn," I admitted.

So, to recap: I got a VPN so I could write my blog. I used it for porn, and more porn.


Were this any other relationship, this may well have had a very different outcome.

I love being a sex blogger.

Friday, 20 October 2017


"What are you doing?" I asked a young client. He looked as if he was writing poetry; this wasn't what he was meant to be doing at the time.
"I'm writing poetry," he answered honestly. "I've finished all my work, so now I'm taking some downtime. I'm writing an acrostic."

I honestly couldn't fault him for that. I remember being his age, when I also used to write poetry in my downtime. Even a couple of years prior, when I was still in year 10, I used to write poetry in the school library at breaktimes. Terrible, heartwrenching, gut-punching, poetry of a lovelorn fashion. The silver girl I was obsessed with never actually got to read it. (Or so I think. It's still around and she may have surfed enough to find it. Who knows?)

In any case, it seemed a fair way to spend your spare time, creating a bit of lexical art. And, on top of it all, an acrostic. He even knew the word, unlike my friend-who-is-a-midwife, who still thought it was "cross sticks" at his age (but at least she knew it was something; I hadn't been taught it!). I've long been an admirer of the art form - more so when they've started appearing with the word IMPEACH down the margin. Rebecca even wrote one about me before we started dating.

I got up from my chair, stretched, and walked across to get a cup of water. On my way back, I chanced a look at my client's poem, on which he was still diligently working. Maybe just a quick glance... but I wanted to see what his acrostic was based on.

His message to the world?


It's good to have priorities.

Monday, 16 October 2017

Me too

I'm nervous about saying "me too".

I've seen conflicting views all over various recesses of social media concerning whether it's appropriate for men to say "me too", considering how it comes out of the recent disturbing (but not unforeseen) revelations about Harvey Weinstein, et al., and (as far as I can tell) it's a useful awareness-raiser regarding sexual assault on women perpetrated by men.

It's a truly vital issue. And should not be ignored.

As a man myself, I strive to be as respectful as I can, and as supportive, towards any and all genders. I've even called out people for sexism, homo- / bi- / trans- / whore-phobia, and SWERFing. As a British person, speaking out is hard to do... but if it's your mother, or sister, or boss...!

That doesn't mean I'm blameless. Just as you can't rightfully damn me for whatever certain people of my gender have done, there's still a lot to do. Outing Weinstein is a step, but the fact that it proves to be the tip of a whole iceberg of sexual abuse just goes to underline how much has happened. I feel guilty, really, for not being able to do more.

Having said all of that, here goes.

When I was 16, I was (almost) sexually assaulted. Without going into the details (because they're a little fuzzy, and it's not fair), I'd gone to my sort-of girlfriend's house to lose my virginity. Attracted to her though I was, when the time came, I realised that I wasn't ready. I didn't feel ready, and when I told her so, she asked again. I refused, a little firmer, and she tried.

Though I did, eventually, manage to talk her out of it, she persuaded me to act as if we did have sex that afternoon, just for me to save face (or so she said). I was reticent to do so, but I did, mostly out of guilt for what I saw, back then, as denying her sex. I "confided" in my token black friend, who told Lightsinthesky, whose mouth went into overdrive. My sixth form was ablaze; when, eventually, I told them the truth, nobody believed me. I'd had sex and nothing else mattered.

Three years later, I had sex with her. In the intervening years, we had both grown up. I had had my first relationship; she had become recklessly promiscuous. We had remained friends, and when we eventually did have sex, this time I felt ready.

This is, more than anything else, the reason why I'm nervous about saying "me too". Part of me feels as if I invalidated what happened by having sex with her (fifteen times...), although, logically, that couldn't be further from the truth: every time is different. The fact remains that she tried to force herself on me... and that she cajoled me into lying to everyone.

Whether or not this all counts as sexual harassment, I don't know. It didn't feel like it at the time, but looking back at it now, I did endure an uncomfortable, anticlimactic few days, followed by a year of rumours (some of them quite nasty) about my sexual habits.

I'm also willing to wager anything that the fact I stayed friends with her - and slept with her too - isn't a unique characteristic.

I genuinely don't know what I'm trying to achieve by sharing all this. Compared to what some people have gone through, it seems trivial. I certainly don't mean to devalue anything that's happened to any of the women (and any/all genders) following the social media trend. This isn't a "what about the men?" post, either. It is, however, something I did have to share.

So now I have.

With apologies, and no lack of anxiety...

Me too.

Monday, 9 October 2017

When I think about it, I touch myself

Why do we masturbate?

Okay, yes, it's a very loaded question. And it's one to which I doubt I could append a particularly comprehensive answer. There are many reasons to masturbate and I'm not going to interview all 7.2 billion people on the planet to find them all out. And that's not counting all the people who don't.

Over time, I've been through a lot. I didn't start masturbating until I'd had my first sexual experience, and even then, it wasn't for any particular reason other than the fact that I was enjoying orgasms too much to stop. Throughout university, I was getting back in touch with my sexuality - particularly in my first year when I'd just come off SSRIs - and, being free to do what I wanted in my little room, masturbation became a big part of that... both reclaiming an identity and starting to amass my porn collection.

For the last decade, my reasons for masturbation have been as varied as one would expect. Usually it's just to gain pleasure. Sometimes it's an experiment. Or an emergency. Or a way to pass the time. Maybe I'm just horny. I've also masturbated for people. Over people. On people. And sometimes, even though I doubted Esque when she originally told me, it does help me sleep.

But for the past month or so, there's no doubt as to why I've been masturbating.

I've been under an incredible amount of stress. I won't go into the details, because there are far too many (and too varied, and too identifiable...) to mention. Living in the capitalist world as I do, most of the stress is to do with money, but then there's also time and self-image and confidence, and the lack of the same. Work is a slog and seeming like it's too much, even though I was missing it when I wasn't there. There are so many unexpected outside sources that have come from outside - all of them at approximately the same time. Frankly, I'm a bit of a wreck.

It all seems too much. And that's why I masturbate.

As a result of stress, one of the things I've lost is control. I'm not a very driven person, but at least I like to have an idea of what the next short-term goal is. In these situations, it's hardly even possible. I can break things into small chunks, but every time I do, the end goal gets changed and I have to start again from scratch.

But when I masturbate, I take control. It's something I know how to do. It's fun, it feels good, it's healthy, and it's free. Sometimes, it's the only thing I can do, because I have no time, wherewithal, or resources to do anything else.

I know it's silly. I know it's temporary. People say it's not good to run away from your problems. They say it's better to light one candle than curse the darkness. I'm aware of all that, and I know that if I do one thing that I can (and there aren't many that I can do; I am limited where I am right now), that's on thing off the list. But I need it. I need that sweet release; I need to trick myself into believing that everything's all right.

In those few moments, orgasm helps me achieve that state.

Why do I masturbate? Because I need to. Because I need to escape. It's the only way out.

Friday, 6 October 2017


"We should go out," she says, "and get a lot to eat. Then we won't need to graze when we get back."
"What are we going to do when we get back?" I say, although I know the answer.
"Let's watch a DVD."

Okay, that's not the answer I'm expecting.

The lovely couple who have set up this four-star B&B have themed all the rooms. This one's called "Mikado", leaving very few doubts as to what the theme is. It's actually quite restrained - it could have bordered on the offensive - but is isn't. Anyway, I negotiated this room. I suppose the "Camelot" room wouldn't have been so bad, but I wanted this one.

I browse the DVD library that they have also provided, perhaps trusting that those who visit Brighton and are comfortable enough with staying in loosely themed rooms managed entirely by a gay couple won't start stealing things. It's a safe assumption, since all the DVDs are still there. We look for something sexy, or at least something with sexy people in it. I eventually choose Chicago, partially on the grounds that I've never seen it, but mostly because she says the costumes are hot.

"Okay," she says. "Maybe later we can... because the... and we'll want to..."

The rest of her sentence is cut off. Maybe she didn't know what to say, or maybe she was being coy. I don't know. It's my fault. I've pressed my lips to hers.

She responds, wrapping her arms around me and holding me in a kind of semi-aroused, semi-surprised hug. I'm still not sure why she was so taken aback that I was so keen to kiss her. I like to kiss.

I lift her up just a little and put her down onto the bed with a soft flump. We kiss again; I gently lie her back. Looking down at her from my standing position, with her hair a mess against the bedclothes and her breasts straining against the fabric of my favourite blouse, she is impossible to resist. She's always been. I'd be thinking about this, but in the moment, I'm not really thinking much at all.

I hitch up her skirt and tug at her pants. They slide off. Easily. Slick with lust, she spreads her legs for me, grabbing her skirt to stop it slipping back down. I'm growing harder and bigger by the moment. (Now, it looks a little passé. Back then, it was real, and adult, and exciting.) I'm not wearing a belt, so my trousers practically fall off my legs with the lightest of touches. I take her sides, lean forwards just a little, and slide into her.

Her sex contracts around my shaft, fitting around it as neatly as the rest of the puzzle around a missing piece. Standing, I'm unable to thrust as effectively as I would while on top of her; I steady myself as best I can and push my hips forwards. She makes a sound - a positive one, impossible for me to transcribe here - so I do so again.

And again.
And again.
And again.

I stop, hold it for a second, and pull back out. Both our faces flushed, I help her sit up. We swiftly re-dress; she readjusts her skirt, brushes her hair back into place, and takes my hand. We haven't yet explored Brighton; we haven't eaten anything yet. But we have just had sex - at least for the first time this weekend. It'll probably end up numbering about three or so times. At that moment, it's the excitement of not knowing that makes it fun.

We end up in a trattoria. The waiter shows us to a table. I'm still flushed, a little; I've never had sex standing up before. It's a new venture for me. She has a little more decorum.

Lights go down across the seaside town. We go back to the room and watch Chicago. The costumes are hot. I return the DVD to the library, turn, and go back to the Mikado room. By this point, she's already naked. Naked, and ready to finish what I started.

Wednesday, 4 October 2017


Of all the phenomena that have a tendency to occur immediately following sexual activity, one of the more frequent - and, as an insomniac, can be one of the most useful, is that of post-masturbation sleepiness. Your body needs to recharge after orgasm; the longer it takes before you do, the more you will feel tired afterwards. It usually takes me a while to orgasm, especially when I'm bringing myself off, so I sometimes slip into a semi-dreamlike state immediately afterwards.

It's inconvenient that I then have to get up and clean myself. I'd gladly fall fast asleep while still covered in my own cum - I'm just not sure the person with whom I share my bed would take the same view. I may also end up making a mess of the bedsheets, but I guess that's what a washing machine's for...

I had a few hours off work this afternoon. Finishing at 2pm (well, running an errand for work, but I left at 2:30); back in at 6. With a couple of hours to kill, I headed for home. When I got there, I found my room empty, and bed practically begging to be lay upon. Off went my socks, broken shoes, jumper... and then my shirt, my trousers and my new(ish) pair of pants (although I kept my socks on [yes, I am that classy]). I settled back, stretched out all the tension in my limbs...

Thirty minutes later and my shaft was pulsing a steady beat against my palm, my thumb and index finger still wrapped tightly around the head. I'd come so hard that some of it had managed to hit my chest. I got my neck once, but this wasn't so bad either. Mindful of the time, I sat up, grabbed some serviettes that I'd picked up from Costa this morning (yes...), wiped myself down (including my chest), and rolled over onto my side, breathing heavily.

I wasn't sleepy.

Yes, I'd had an orgasm - and yes, a very potent one. Yet I just wasn't tired. I'd missed that little window of opportunity, using it to clean up. I was aware, yes, that I needed to get back to work at six, but nevertheless, I was surprised at how quickly the soporific effect of orgasmic release had vanished. It was almost as if it hadn't happened at all.

I was right, of course. It just hadn't happened... yet.

Back up. Pants on. Trousers. Shirt. Jumper. Shoes (the ones that aren't broken this time). Sling bag over shoulder. Brisk walk to the bus stop. It was colder, and darker, by this point. What happened to summer? I tend to forget.

The bus came along and I went to sit down (a little gingerly, truth be told, as my cock was still feeling the after-effects...). This was relaxing, I decided. Very relaxing. In fact, it was the comfiest I'd felt all day...


I awoke just in time to stagger off the bus and down the road to work. I sat through the staff meeting with huge bags under my eyes and a haze of tiredness creeping from every pore. But at least I wasn't still covered in cum. I hope.

Wednesday, 27 September 2017

You're not you when you're horny...


Stalin's actions during World War II led to over two million Soviet citizens dying on the Eastern Front, although they did ultimately secure an Allied victory over the Nazis in eastern Europe. Operation Barbarossa was not a great success for the German forces, because of all the places in the world, we have to fool around in your mother's car?

Ooh. Yes, that's a good scene. Maybe I'll watch that when I get home.

You're not going home! You're going straight from here to see Rebecca, remember?

Oh. Of course. (My foot nudged my box at this point, nestled as it was securely under my desk.) Maybe I can watch it there, when she's not looking. Does she have Grokster? Maybe I can watch it streaming from somewhere. Perhaps it will run on RealPlayer...


Nikita Khrushchev referred, in his "secret speech", to a Leninist principle of "collective party leadership," and then went on to say that Lenin's theories were based on Marxism, quoting The Communist I told you, she's not my mother Manifesto. Hearkening back to the iconic quote, "Workingmen of all countries, unite!", what if we get caught?

I really like the way the music works, as well. It syncs up with the movements of Lisa Boyle's body as she rocks back and forth on her character's boyfriend's frame. I like the sort of power dynamic they have going on - she's younger, but she appears to be running the show. The dialogue works well. It's an excellent scene.

Hey! Shut up! You can think about soft porn on the coach on your way up to have sex in the Midlands! You have to finish this and...

"You have half an hour remaining."


Stalin claims in his book Leninism that he was following the official party line, but Isaac Deutscher disagrees, and points to the exile of Trotski and the subsequent purges of Zinoviev, Karmanev, Bukharin and the suicide of Tomski, all as a result of Stalin's paranoia. There's the other scene as well, where she's still in command even though he's on top. It's really well written, how they transition from an innocent flirt to full-on sex on the lawn.


I could link Stalin's paranoia to Fidel Castro and the similar fate of Ché Guevara, but I don't think that was Castro's fault. It doesn't really relate well to European history. They probably study it in Montana. That's an interesting name for her character - "Montana". Montana Stillman. I wonder why she didn't turn up in the sequel.


The sequel stars Paul Michael Robinson. I'm never going to think of him as anything but Haffron.

Shut the fuck up about soft porn and finish your god-damned exam, and I'll let you masturbate on the coach if you bloody have to! Jesus fucking Christ, dickbrain! Tell your cock to shut up and FOCUS!

And therefore it seems from these studies that

"Five minutes remaining!"

to the discerning historian, Stalin's claim that he was following traditional communism

"One minute remaining!"

Lisa Boyle's got amazing tits

"Thirty seconds!"

does not hold up under modern scrutiny

"Okay, finish the sentence you are writing and remain quiet while I collect up your papers!"

and led in the long term to recent events such as the uprising in the Ukraine and discontent in former Soviet states such as Afghanistan and therefore Khrushchev was justified in his excommunication of Stalin once he had assumed the premiership but maybe Richard Pipes would disagree! 

"Have you quite finished?"

Dear Lord, please bless this European History exam, into which I have put my heart and soul, and look upon me with mercy, for I have sinned. Or at least I'm about to.

Okay, now stand up, pick up your box and walk out of the hall.

Stand up? You're joking, right?

The sooner you stand, the sooner you can leave...

But I'm...

You have to get to the station! Your train leaves in twenty minutes!

I was going to...

Go! You'll miss the coach!

I don't want to fail all my A-Levels! What if I didn't write enough about Friedrich Engels?


Sunday, 24 September 2017

Soft Porn Sunday: Laura Gemser & Gabriele Tinti


It's the only Greek I know. Not that that really matters, but this film from the very brink of the '80s has an opening sequence that really, really, really wants you to know that it's set in Greece. It pans over Ancient Greek ruins and through streets beset with Greek architecture. It then shows Greek people doing Greek things and, just in case you weren't sure where you were meant to be, it lists the crew in huge letters... who are all Greek. Writer and director Ilias Mylonakos clearly has a very defined idea of where this is set.

Of course, it's never mentioned again; neither are any of the cast Greek, nor does anyone speak a single line of Greek throughout the entire 1:30:59 runtime, but I'm perfectly sure that the fact this is set in Greece is relevant.

Although as for how...

Appearance: Emanuelle: Queen of Sados, aka Emanuelle's Daughter, aka Emanuelle: Queen Bitch (1980)
Characters: Emanuelle & Tommy

Black Emanuelle (Laura Gemser) is back - she still hasn't managed to gain a second M in her name which would require the involvement of Alain Siritzky, and she still isn't black, either. She has, however, managed to gain a surname - Brindisi - which is the name of her much older, sadistic husband who delights in having her held to the floor and hitting her with a quarterstaff...

...seriously, that's what happens... she decides to have him murdered. She then spends the rest of a film struggling to evade the hitman Mario (Haris Tryfonas - hmmm, that's possibly a little Greek), who turns on her in an attempt to blackmail her, and take over her late husband's business, all the while trying to keep her stepdaughter our of harm's way. Hence the "daughter" of one of the alternative titles for this thing, I suppose.

Livia had a little trouble with the wind machine.
Livia Brindisi (played by Livia Russo - very imaginative character naming; well done, studio) is actually the best thing about this film. She's smart, sassy, pretty and completely unconcerned that her father is dead, because she didn't like him much either. She's also overly sexualised at points, and even gets raped by Mario later in the film, which is both disturbing and disconcerting, since she's playing a teenage girl who's probably just over the age of consent (she also has sex with her boyfriend Mike, but we don't see that). It's not the sort of thing I'd expect to see in an Emmanuelle film; the fact that this is one of the unofficial Emanuelle series seems to change things about this.

They've also put some actual sex into this one, unlike Black Emanuelle, which doesn't have much.

Despite the fact that she starts the film off married, Emmanuelle doesn't seem to have sex with her husband much, mostly on account of the fact that he prefers hitting her with things and she has him killed within the first ten minutes. She does have sex - immediately after the opening sequence - with the hitman Mario himself, who is actually the participant in most of the subsequent sex scenes in the film. Approximately 50 minutes later (of screentime, it's a week or something; it's not made clear), she meets Tommy, a friend of her husband who immediately proposes marriage, despite the fact that her husband's body isn't cold yet.

Emanuelle declines, but she has sex with him anyway, because...


...okay, I have no idea.

Because it's Greece, and Greece is hot, this sex scene starts outside. Tommy, of course, is rubbing oil
Not a lot of budget went on wardrobe.
onto Emanuelle's skin - because that's totally a sexy thing to do - while she's on a sun lounger; some weird synthy music decides to jump in at this point. It's nothing special, the music - not quite synthpop because the '80s hasn't really started yet, but with some conga drums somewhere and odd loops. But after an hour of this film I've kind of come to expect this music, so in it comes.

The action then moves inside (!), onto a (fake) animal skin rug (!!) on the floor (!!!), where they get down to having sex because clearly they didn't know where the bedroom was. There's a fair bit of foreplay here, with Tommy kissing his way down Emanuelle's back while she pulls her "I'm enjoying this" face; she then flips over and he kisses her boobs a couple of time for good measure, then her mouth, and then - oddly enough - her back again, as the scene jumps back to the beginning and plays the same footage twice!

Haven't I been here before?
When the film decides it's finally time to move on, we suddenly jump cut to a bird's-eye-view of things, which reveals Tommy is actually lying sideways on his front, all the better to kiss his lover, while she lies on her back on an incredibly tasteless lion rug. This goes on for a bit - we get a good eyeful of his bum and her boobs as he's clearly meant to be licking her out at this point (although I've never done so sideways)... but it kind of works, as we get a better impression of what's going on.

Yet more licking and kissing later, via an alarming shift into soft focus like someone's sneezed on the lens and yet more repeated footage, and the two change positions, Tommy lying on his back and Emanuelle kneeling to kiss him all over - eww, he's really hairy - and then, a full five minutes after this scene starts, she finally begins to ride.

YAHOO! Oh, wait, that's the wrong Mario...

I wasn't actually expecting this. Laura Gemser's first sex scene was ages ago and mostly in the spoons position. I wasn't expecting Emanuelle to have sex again (since she spends most of this film being a bitch, and it's more of an action thriller than erotic drama), but here she is, full-on astride, doing it rather slowly as opposed to being too bouncy. But then this is romantic sex, I suppose. She has a great body, so that helps.

A minute or so of this and then they kiss standing up (WTF? What happened to having sex?), again footage that's repeated several times over.

A minute or so of this and then they kiss standing up (WTF? What happened to having sex?), again footage that's repeated several times over.

She's tanned, but she's still not black.
At which point I've lost interest. It's a pretty boring scene. Laura Gemser does have a certain sensuality to her, and after yawning my way through a few sexless Black Emanuelle titles, it's nice to see her getting a few actual sex scenes in. This moves very slowly, there's not much to it, and there's no escaping the fact that you're waiting through five minutes of uninspiring foreplay for about forty seconds of very slow, very unconvincing sex. The whole thing is intercut with footage of Livia and Mike on a date, which is a storyline I'm much more interested in... but seriously? Why intercut it? What's wrong with a separate scene?

It's a real shame, actually. In terms of plot and cinematography, this is one of the best erotic films I've seen. It's certainly the best unofficial Emanuelle film I've seen by a mile - it'll never be as good as the real ones, but at this point the project had stalled - Emmanuelle 7 wouldn't come out until 1992, and the Marcela Walerstein series following in 1993. 1990 was a year without Emmanuelle - for an unofficial one, this bridges the gap nicely, with a storyline that did keep me engaged and a certain amount of thought put into it. It's all very pretty.

Except Gabriele Tinti. I'm sorry, but he's seriously not attractive. That shouldn't be a major problem, but he also can't act. His heart genuinely isn't in this - it's difficult to believe the famously hedonistic, pleasure-seeking, openly sexual Emanuelle - even if she isn't the real one - even considering going anywhere near this bored, bland, unattractive man. Then again, she's also had sex with the hitman at this point, and he's even worse...

Beggars can't be choosers, I suppose.

Wednesday, 20 September 2017

Come along, Pond

I had a sex dream last night.

Despite talking about them a lot on this blog, one does have to take into account the fact that said blog has been extant for almost a decade. I don't have that many sex dreams, and out of those, only one has been what you might term a wet dream... I've always thought "sticky" might be more appropriate, although this one was fairly wet, taking place as it did mainly in a lake.

But I digress. Slightly. The sex dream I had last night also took place in a natural body of water - too small to be a lake, too large to be a pool, so I'll go with "pond" - and, although I was a participant who almost had sex, I didn't actually end up doing so.

Which, I've realised, is a theme. I have lots of sex dreams which involve almost having sex. Maybe there are some kisses, maybe some cuddles. There's usually flirtation, and one person - it's always been a girl so far - who I seem destined to be having sex with. I certainly get close, but it's not the right time, or the right place, or I'm called away to do something else first. Last night's dream even involved me getting my erect penis out (while in the pond) and almost having sex with the lifeguard (yes, there was a lifeguard; yes, it's somebody I know; yes, it doesn't make sense either...), except it wouldn't go inside, since she wasn't ready yet.

She wanted to have sex at midnight. I handily turned off the sun for a bit, but it probably still wasn't right. Plus, you know, there were kids in that pond. So yeah.

I've no idea what this means. The person or the water or the inexplicable fact that people seem to find me attractive. I'm not even sure why I'm getting trolled by my brain into thinking that I'm about to have sex, and then not actually getting to do so because LOL NOPE!

But, despite all this (and despite the fact that it didn't go anywhere, a fact for which I am aggrieved), I was pleased to be having a sex dream. I've been stressed out recently, with serious money worries and lack of physical motivation in the extreme; having a dream about sex - even if I don't end up actually having any - does go to show that the important bits of me are still working. It's a nice reminder, and a bit of dirty frippery, if nothing else.

Of course it's also content to write about too...

Saturday, 16 September 2017

Mote vs. Log

As I walked through town today after depositing my pitiful wage into the bank, I stopped to look at an art installation somebody had put up in the space usually occupied by a funfair. It wasn't much - a load of white signs promoting peace, justice, brotherhood and other things that Tories appear to be against. But I stopped to look anyway. In fact, I was so distracted by reading all the signs that I didn't look exactly where I was going.

Otherwise known as "Mistake Number One."

"Jesus loves you," chirped a young man appearing out of nowhere, "and died for your sins!"
I stepped back instinctively.
"I... I know," I stammered, speaking for the first time in over an hour.
"Oh, you're a Christian?" he beamed.
"Yes," I said, truthfully.

This is what usually puts evangelists off talking to me. The fact that I don't need to be converted is often both enough, and confusing. I don't actually agree with evangelism, ethically, but I wasn't going to tell him that.

This guy, however, was militant. He lobbied me with questions, as to which church I belong, whether or not I was baptised, and if I read the Bible - all of which I seemed to pass. It was only when he asked if I believed the whole Bible that I paused.

No, I don't. But I wasn't going to say that either. I don't even think that he does - Deuteronomy 22:23-24 condones stoning to death a woman for not being a virgin, and Numbers 15 says it's okay to stone someone who works on the Sabbath. (That's Saturday, since this is the Old Testament. Today's Saturday. I wasn't going to stone this guy for working on the Sabbath, but I tend to desist from violence.) I don't think that he believes that stuff.

"I'm not sure I believe every word of the Bible," I said carefully, "but I think that all of it carries a message, even if I don't think it can be taken word for word."
"So what do you believe?" he challenged, making me feel less and less comfortable for having engaged him in conversation after all.
"Uh... well, mostly the Gospels, and most of the New Testament makes sense," I mumbled, "apart from Revelation." Only I added that last bit under my breath.
"Oh, good, so you don't agree with gay marriage?"


"No! No, of course I agree with gay marriage!"
"Do you know any gay people?"

"Yes! I know lots of people of any and all sexual orientation! I'm in a long-term relationship with a queer bisexual woman myself and it's the best relationship I've ever had!"
"But God says..."
"God says a lot of stuff!" I protested. "Listen to Jesus! Why do you look at the mote in your brother's eye while ignoring the log in your own? (Matthew 7:3) Judge not, lest ye be judged!" (Matthew 7:1)
"Paul says, in Romans, that homosexuality is a sin."
"Paul also says in Romans that you shouldn't be so judgemental! You may think you can condemn such people, but you are just as bad, and you have no excuse!" (Romans 2:1)
"But it says in the Bible..."

"I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan!" I shouted. "Very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women! 2 Samuel: 1-26!"

For that one, he didn't have an answer.

"You don't need to convert me, and I'm never going to agree with you," I said, "but I'm already a Christian. If you're handing out tracts, I'll take one."
And I took one.
"I'll pray for you," he said as I walked away.
"I'll pray for you too," I responded.

And on I went.

Wednesday, 13 September 2017

C. R. U. S. H.

Out of all the short-term crushes I had (although I wouldn't really call The Zebra Project short-term), the one that lasted the longest - over a number of years - was also the one that hurt the least.

That's not to say that it didn't hurt at all. It did - all my crushes hurt - but, this time, I was older. As was she. We were both in our late teens. I was also three-and-a-half years older than her, but at that point I didn't care. I first met her when I was 19; she was 16, and she was beautiful. Short girl, with red hair cut into a bob and square glasses. She played the drums. She liked indie music. She was a Woodcrafter. It all seemed to fit into place. She even lived in London.

I spent the years counting down to national Woodcraft events because they were my lifeline, but no small part of that was the fact that I'd get to see her. At every event, her hair colour had changed, but she was always the same - cute mannerisms, odd sense of humour, wonderful smile. I started to leave trails - presents for her via the secret friend system, even if she wasn't my secret friend, with very small hints that it was me. I even snogged her at one point - four seconds, right on the mouth, tongues and everything - but I'm not sure that counts (she was drunk!).

As the gaps between events became wider and I was increasingly worried that I wouldn't see her again - ever - I wondered whether or not this was still a crush, or whether I was actually in love with her. Our brief MSN chats were all too brief; I talked to a few people about her (who didn't know her, so it was a bit pointless); I even told a fellow Woodcrafter about it. She sympathised - and understood. The sight of her kissing another girl, also while a little drunk, was enough to reduce me to tears once.

As the years went by, and I stopped attending events (at one of which, allegedly, she lost her virginity - in an orgy that took place just one event after I stopped attending - typical!), I started spending time in a confused haze. I was, with increasing and alarming rapidity, writing songs about her; this started with a funk jam that I'd wanted to do for a while and her name just kind of fit, before throwing caution to the wind and writing a full-blown love ballad about her (and some stadium rock...). Even at the age of 21, when I'd left university and hadn't seen her for months and possibly also had a crush on H, I still thought I was a little smitten with her.

Maybe if I hadn't written all those songs, or taken all those pictures, or kissed her...

And then, at the age of 22, I was invited to an event that I could still go to, as the age limit was 23. I didn't know that she was going, but I was pleased to find out she was there - again with a different hair colour, and again with the pretty smile. I was sure, at this point, that I would have moved on - that this whole stage of my life had ended and that I'd found someone else who took my fancy a little more. Surely this wouldn't cause any confusion. Of course not.

For the whole week, I couldn't keep my eyes off her.

Saturday, 9 September 2017


[9am on a Saturday morning. Of course we're still in bed.]

ILB: "Vaginas are pretty."
LLB: "Hmmm?"
ILB: "Oh, I was just thinking about vaginas. They're pretty."
LLB: "They are."

ILB: "..."
LLB: "..."
ILB: "..."
LLB: "Surely you mean, 'vulvas'? Vaginas are the inside bit. You're thinking about vulvas."
ILB: "I'm thinking about both. At least I am now. But yes, vulvas... vulvae?... are pretty. They're both pretty."
LLB: "Yes, they are."
ILB: "..."
LLB: "Well, I'm going to get up now..."
ILB: "Cuddle first?"
LLB: "Mmmm."

Thursday, 7 September 2017

Not quite... but almost

Inspired by Girl on the Net's post. Er, kind of.

While commenting on said post, I was struck - yet again - by the fact that I've never actually had sex outdoors. I mentioned that I've come close, but that one simple act (the one that features in a large number of my fantasies) has eluded me so far. As I get older, I'm almost resigning myself to the fact that it will never happen.

So, in order to make myself not feel completely ineffectual (and because I'm a sucker for a good listicle), here's a list of places I have had sex... even if none of them were in a churchyard, strapped to the side of a truck, in a farmer's field, or bent over on a bridge overlooking a motorway.

Which are all things my exes have done. Glod damn, do I feel undesirable right now.

In a motorhome

Rebecca's father sells motorhomes for a living... that is to say, he did. I'm pretty sure he still does, if he hasn't retired by now. We were on a kind of work-related holiday in Stratford; a lot of the family was there (except 47, who was busy or something), including some people that I didn't know existed. I don't even know much about motorhomes. I'd never been in one before, and the one I was most familiar with was from Sooty & Co. 

A lie she once told came back to haunt me on that trip, so it wasn't one I must enjoyed. But, while sitting in a park picking at grass, she told me how horny she was feeling, and how desperate she was. We stood up, walked briskly back to the big show field, and entered the family's motorhome. Squeezing into the tiny receptacle designed for one person above the driver's seat, we had a squashed, uncomfortable, but very illicit shag. Of course, nobody entered at the time, but they could have.

In a hotel room

But of course.

I like hotels. A lot of the best sex I've had has been in hotels, and even if I've been dumped in one - or left high and dry in another one - there's always a hotel breakfast afterwards. But the story above happened in a luxurious room with a huge window above a twinkly city - a window wide open without the curtains drawn. So, y'know, there's that, too.

In a jacuzzi (almost)

I like swimming. I like water, really; I can swim, I just prefer playing. Even if I can't float. Not keen on the way my body looks in a swimming costume, but hey ho.

I have mixed memories of this one. I remember a coin-operated hot tub (yes, really) that I felt Rebecca up in while everyone else trod lengths in the square pool. I remember a long, protracted snog with the drinking girl while in a "hot whirlpool" at Center Parcs. And I remember my third date with Catherine - at a spa hotel - where she told me that I couldn't slip my hard cock into her while we sat together in an outdoor jacuzzi. But that didn't stop her bringing herself off with it.

In a car

I almost didn't remember this one. That week at the beginning of 2001 is all a blur in my head; I hardly recall any of it, apart from all the heat and all the skin. Plus a fair amount of music and quite a lot of swimming.

Louise drove me around some of the pretty bits, on the fringes of some greenery and down some dirt roads (as well as many more well-maintained ones). It took up a whole day of a break which wasn't intended to be mainly shagging, but ended up being so. Horny girl as she was, she didn't want to exit the car as we pulled back into her driveway; she just hitched up her skirt, straddled me, and didn't stop bouncing for about ten minutes.

In a restaurant's disabled bathroom

With Louise again, only this time it wasn't because we were particularly horny. It was because the waiter took offence to our appearance and we wanted to do something fun just to piss him off.

In a tent

Yes! Achievement unlocked!

On a golf course

No, not really.

Those of you who have been reading for a fair amount of time may remember an incident at a house party which resulted in me writing a story about bouncy sex. I don't recall ever writing about the party, really - about the host (scene girl), or her guests, the fact that I did the dance to Single Ladies fairly accurately, or the massive clean-up effort that Robinson, Mane and I did together (as a surprise to her, so she wouldn't have to wash anything at the end of the party). I had my 'phone with me, though, so I may have tweeted it...

Anyway, her back garden (behind the trampoline) leads onto a small stretch of woodland... the sort you go crashing through when everyone's drunk and also members of an organisation who do a lot of foresting. It emerges, as I discovered that night, onto the local golf course, which is in fact a private one, for members of the posh club.

I didn't have sex on the fairway. I certainly ran the length of one, and picked up the girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on from a puddle on the green. I carried my sister's shoes for her, as she kept falling off the heels, and I joined in a lusty sing-song which we did just because we were on a golf course in the middle of the night. I cheered on the young raver as he ran off into the distance (and back again). But no actual sex occurred.

Which may be a shame. But you never know. I now know how to get into the golf course...