Wednesday, 24 May 2017

Walk On By

Lightsinthesky unlocked the door, walked into the porch, kicked off his shoes, dumped his bag on the floor (and probably pulled off the stupid hat he used to wear; I don't know, it was a long time ago), and went to hang his coat on the coatpeg.

It was only then that he noticed the peg was already occupied by a coat he didn't recognise. He had a big family, sure, but he knew his mum's coat by sight, his sisters had moved out a long time ago and his dad still wore a blazer (which gives you an idea of what up-to-date and advanced person he was). Nobody else could be home, except his older brother, who either didn't need or didn't want a coat. He owned a SNES and Primal Rage, which made him cool, or something.

This, of course, isn't the sort of thing I'd notice, mostly because my sister appeared to own a different coat every week. Even so, I doubt I'd have been curious enough to go up three flights of stairs and walk straight into my older brother's room, without knocking, to ask whose coat was on his peg. Except this is Lightsinthesky we're talking about, so of course, this is exactly what he did.

In the split-second between opening said door and noticing his brother, naked, spread-eagled on top of a young lady and "goin' at it on the bed" (as Lightsinthesky so poetically phrased it when recounting his escapade to us in the cafeteria the next day), he remembered whose coat it was. Said person wasn't wearing the coat any more. She wasn't wearing anything else, either.

So what do you do when you walk in on your older sibling having sex, specifically someone you don't know they're having sex with?

"Hey," said Lightsinthesky, "so I'm just going to town. Might get a bite to eat and do some shoppin', but I'll be back before dinner tonight. Say hi to Mum when she gets back and tell her I'll bring something from Tesco."

And he walked out.

[Inspired by Girl on the Net's post about the same subject. Go and read that too.]

Saturday, 20 May 2017

Wanking Functional Skills - Level 2

My favourite food item in the world, even more so than sherbet lemons, is the cheese sandwich. It tastes good, and is satisfying and comfortable. It's cheap, quick, and easy, and suits pretty much any occasion. Cheese sandwiches are, basically, the reason I'm overweight. They are glorious in their simplicity.

What I'm trying to get at here, really, is to provide via example some sort of proof that the simplest things can be the best. (I'm drinking very cheap tea from Lidl here, made with two-days-expired milk and reboiled water from a kettle, and it still tastes like tea.) And recently - over the last week, in fact - I've been re-affirming that the same can be said of masturbation. Although not always... still... sometimes.

Much as I like masturbation to be a lengthy experience for me - it takes me a while to settle on something, and then a while more to get into the mood, plus I have stamina, so it takes me a pretty long time to come - my simple wanks have come as something of a necessity. I've recently started a new, second (third? fourth? probably technically fifth?) job, because I am a millennial and just one job would probably result in me dying quietly in a ditch somewhere near Slough, which takes up a fair chunk of my time. Add this to the fact that I've been doing more shifts at my regular job, saying yes to everything because I am a fucking idiot, and doing all the admin that my clients have to do because I want it done properly, and it's pretty clear that, at the end of the day, I'm pretty much in need of some sort of stress relief to stop me cracking under the strain.

Hence the functional wank.

I enter the room and find that my girlfriend is still at work. Curtains get closed; side light on. Off go the clothes, work shirt and smart trousers no more than a crumpled heap on the floor, possibly overlaid with sensible grey knitwear if it's been cold. Satchel (yes, I have a satchel) discarded on the floor, pants and socks lying nearby. Bedclothes hastily assembled and I'm lying flat on my back, cock rigid and held firmly between my thumb and index finger, working my foreskin back and forth. Grasping through headspace for something sexy to get me off, taking deep steadying breaths, peaking when I can, coating my hand and stomach (and chest and neck if I'm superhuman enough) with creamy mess, and finally juddering to a halt.

If I'm tired by the time I get back, that's nothing compared to how I feel afterwards. I've noticed a tendency to crawl straight into bed after cleaning up, although there's something to be said for the notion of falling asleep while still covered in my own cum (this isn't a fetish - it just involves less movement and I am a lazy ho). Either way, I end up dozing - which is, frankly, all I really want to do after what feels like 4,201,510,975 hours of standing up.

I even have a blister on my big toe, which is odd, because my shoes are rubber - you'd think they'd be flexible.

It's a world away from the excessive compulsive flickering or spiritually transcendent vainglory of my usual wanks. It's not intended to be An Experience, a prayer to the altar of internet soft pornography, or even something to generate content (although I'm writing about it now - hooray, content!). It's a swift, functional, down-to-earth, honest-to-Glod dirty wank. Solid, easy, and - crucially - shorter.

The rest of me's too fatigued to do anything else, anyway.

Sunday, 14 May 2017

ABC, easy as 123, easy as do-re-mi...

"Does anyone have their book?" my music teacher asked for the umpteenth time. I'd gotten mine out when she first asked, as had one of the girls in the class who I never really talked to. Everyone else was pretending not to notice, apart from the guy sitting next to me who was busy writing "NO HOMEWORK" on every page of his homework diary.

I never really enjoyed Music lessons at school. I love music; it's a very important part of my life. I sing (poorly), I dance (badly), and I play a few instruments (barely), but I got very little out of the lessons at school. I got more out of being in the jazz band and my weekend violin lessons (and, occasionally, the local youth symphony orchestra). My class, however, were less enthusiastic, and had by this point  successfully seen off four music teachers - none of them had intended to stay for long - responding well to none of them.

The rogues and scallywags on the other side of the classroom were particularly not paying attention insofar as having started an ABC game on the topic of sex. Having started with "aaaaaah!", although I'm sure I could have coming up with something better - "Abstinence", "Asexuality", "Arousal", "Artificial suppression of oestrogen receptors in the ventromedial nucleus of the hypothalamus" - they had moved swiftly on through the alphabet.

My music teacher had given up by this point and was attempting - quite bravely, in my opinion - to give an explanation, to those of us who were still listening, of the Dorian mode. She even asked for contributions, from those of us who would dare to volunteer. I think I came up with Drunken Sailor at some point.

"F is for FUCK," came a spoken chorus from the other side of the room, accompanied by a few titters from the quieter ones upon realisation that the F-word had just been nigh on shouted across an otherwise silent classroom built for ambience. My teacher, who I thought would respond more negatively to this, gave them a weak remonstration for making too much noise - as opposed to focusing on the swearing. Which was possibly a rookie mistake.

Seated at my keyboard, half-making notes on the Dorian mode while composing in my head, I couldn't help listening in. My attention in their ribald discourse waxed, and then waned, and then grew again. By the time they passed L (I can't remember what it was, but it wasn't "Love", to my disappointment), I was all but enthralled.

They were stuck on M. My brain, of course, had instantly thought of "making love" as a possible option, but I wasn't about to get up, walk across the room, sit down in a group of people I didn't like and offer them a way of advancing their sex game. It was, eventually, suggested by one of the bolder girls who giggled a lot, but overruled by a boy who I think won a Spice Girls competition at one point, who suggested "masturbation" - something I still didn't know how to spell at that point, thinking it was spelled "mastibate" and referred to absent-mindedly fiddling with one's penis.

It had been spread around the school that I masturbated. Unlike a lot of the other boys at that age, I didn't.

It occurred to me a few seconds beforehand what would happen when they got to S. Fearing that we would get another rich chorus in unison and observing from a safe distance how flustered our teacher was getting while arguing with one of the girls who insisted that her name was "Dorian Mode", I saw two possible options: take decisive action, which would involve causing a ruckus all on my own in order to stop everything; or do nothing, allowing this word game its freedom of sexual expression at the expense of our teacher.

While I was still trying to decide, "S IS FOR SEX!" rang out across the room so loudly that I think they could hear it in the Maths classroom downstairs. I tried to look scandalised - even though I wasn't; I just tried in case anyone was looking at me - the boy I usually worked with smirked; the guy in the corner continued to write "NO HOMEWORK"; our poor teacher, nary a minute after she'd last asked, was struck dumb. Whether at the defiance of her request or at their blasé ejaculation of the entire concept of sex in unison, she had no idea what to say.

"Uh..." she decided upon.

But there was no stopping them. They raced ahead, increasing in both volume and tempo, until eventually they were brought to a grinding standstill... although by neither teacher nor student. They just couldn't think of a Z.

"Z is for..."

Silence. Nobody, including the teacher, was making a sound.

"Mrs R," I said suddenly, raising my hand, "I've got a question."

And a light bubbling chatter broke over the rest of the room as I swiftly made up something to ask. I have, to this day, no idea if they ever settled on a sexual Z, but I'm fairly certain that, after another ten minutes of chatter, the class had sunken back into their usual torpor.

Tuesday, 9 May 2017


When I masturbate in my computer chair, I usually do so perched on the very edge, feet flat on the floor for support. It's, frankly, a little less hassle to masturbate like this; there's more space to move, I don't need to hunch over as much, and it's easier to reach my penis, whereas slumped back on a chair, I can't spread my legs as easily, so masturbating is a tricky business at best.

What it isn't is comfortable.

I mean, yes, it's comfortable to begin with - and I don't just mean that my penis is comfortable throbbing away between my thumb and forefinger. It's just sitting on the edge of a chair. But, after a while - by which I mean a long time; I usually climax in less time than that, although it varies - it does start to hurt. My arse tends to go a little numb and things begin to seize up - the remedy for which, evidently, is to stand up.

If you're naked and erect, and there's a large window right in front of your desk, this may not be the best of ideas.

Today it took me over an hour to masturbate to orgasm. I mean, I managed it all right, and (as it turns out) I didn't have to put in a lot of effort; I just hadn't engaged my brain properly. Whatever the reason, the net result of this protracted masturbation was that, for an hour or more, I had a full erection in the palm of my hand and a derrière that was rapidly growing more and more numb as I balanced on the edge of my plastic chair waiting for the volcano to erupt. And, as it's summer, it was still light outside. If I stood up someone would have been able to see me in all my gory. Er, glory.

Eventually, I stood up. I didn't have a choice, really - I wanted to orgasm and I wasn't going to do so in SUCH PAIN. So I briefly stood, for a second, shook off the blues, and sat back down.

There was nobody in the street, but just before I sat down, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass of my windows...

...and there I was. Standing there, in plain sight (should anyone have been looking, which they weren't), naked from the waist down, hair a mess and flushed face, with a huge and very obvious erection. Shameless, exposed and brazen. I may not, as I rationalised after the fact, particularly like my body (with the possible exception of my eyes, my hands and my penis), but in that general haze - the combination of being very horny, very excited, and uncomfortably numb enough to want to stand up - my cares had gone somewhere. 

Here's my naked body, London. Erection and all. Take me for what I am, or don't take me at all.

As I sat back down, I felt more powerful than I've felt in a long time.

Thursday, 4 May 2017

Throwback (to reality) Thursday

Whether through fate, practice, misfortune, or just random circumstance, I tend to take a long time to orgasm - even when I'm very horny. This doesn't exactly relate to my physical stamina; I'm not exactly a paragon of peak health - but it does affect my sex life. Specifically, when I'm having sex on my own, the time it takes tends to demand that I have a fair chunk of my day available, especially as I have recently developed the ADD-like tendency to flick at random through audiovisual stimuli without settling.

Unsurprisingly, if I masturbate lying on my back on my bed, it takes me less time. Not much less, but still... less.

With such a big build-up - not to mention the time it takes to make sure there's a tissue nearby, ascertain that I'm alone, and get the swooping, giddy feeling in my stomach that immediately tend to precede a heady session - the climaxes (such as they are) tend to be somewhere between explosive and volcanic, ranging from the simple juddering, jerking ejaculation to a full-on, bone-shattering moment of glory. Occasional moments aside, I like to make sure that my orgasms - at least - are enjoyable. I don't enjoy much else.

Something I've since stopped enjoying, however, is the few minutes immediately following orgasm. I used to like this.

When having sex with someone else, it's quite nice. You have the opportunity to come down together and you can cuddle for a while (or, if it's bedtime, you can fall asleep...). There may be a certain amount of clean-up required, but it's not so clinical as it tends to be after masturbation, nor does it follow the buzzy white noise, light-headed transcendence, or slightly spacey derealisation that masturbation affords (well, it might, but those tend to happen more to me when I'm on my own than when I'm concentrating on somebody else).

In fact, it's probably because it follows these sensations that I'm finding I'm enjoying myself less.

Don't get me wrong - I love the post-orgasmic glow. Whether it's quiet or not, the deluge of calm that follows orgasm works on a number of glorious levels, catering for every sense and more. I love lying on my bed, riding the crest of the orgasm and feeling my cum warm across my belly (and, occasionally, chest) - and I used to do so in my computer chair (when I had a better chair, anyway - this one's broken). I love feeling the cares of the world disappear. It's an unbelievably reassuring thing.

What I'm becoming more aware of - and what I'm attempting to write about - is what immediately follows. I clean myself up (as best I can), put whatever clothes I'm not wearing back on (sometimes it's just trousers, sometimes a top, sometimes the whole caboodle), and thus get a rather immediate throwback to reality, accompanied by an odd feeling somewhere between guilt, resignation and melancholy. It's an anticlimax... following the climax.

Is that it? I found myself thinking the other day. I had an orgasm and I cleaned up and... that's it? Finished now? Do I just... go back to my life now? I continued, wandering pointlessly around my room.

I don't like it. I'm greedy; I want more of those sensations. I want more of that time, more of that high. Heck, I want more orgasms. Or at least time to fully enjoy the comedown, savour every moment and then follow up with toast and hot chocolate and a book before drifting off to sleep, fulfilled and satiated. I don't get that. I get the busy atmosphere of today's world - the terrifying political climate, the non-stop rumble of London in the distance and the constant, looming pressures of my increasingly fraught job - back all at once. It's too much.

I masturbate to feel good; I masturbate to relieve tension; I masturbate to express myself sexually; I masturbate to alleviate boredom; I masturbate because I'm horny.

But I also masturbate to escape. Sometimes it's difficult to return at all. And that's the feeling I don't like.

Monday, 1 May 2017


It's the First of May... which is synonymous with fuckin' outside.

And it's May... Masturbation Month. One of those odd meme-like events which, every now and again, rears its head (I was going to say "comes around", but I don't want to make too many jokes...)

It's odd, really. I love the outdoors... usually. I love the idea of the outdoors; I love going to camp, I like hiking, I like to go for walks (that used to be my summer activity; plug in my iPod and go for an unreasonably long walk), and there's even a little woodland at the end of my road that I like foresting in (which leads to a park which I have yet to go jogging in... I'm gonna, though; I promise...). I mean, I was brought up a Woodcrafter. Of course I love the outdoors. In small doses.

And I love sex. For reasons that I've been expounding upon here for almost ten years. I bloody love sex. And, related, I love to masturbate. Maybe I didn't start as early as a lot of other people did (if what I heard at school were to be believed...), but even in my darkest of moments - and there have been quite a few - at least I could still masturbate. Trapped in my little room at university, stuck training for a job I hated, dumped at the beginning of 2011 and losing everything... throughout it all, my sexuality was my saving grace.

Four long-term relationships in (and a couple of others), and I've still never really tied these things together.

I've never had sex outside. I've had sex in a tent (finally...), a caravan, and a motorhome, and I've had a semi-fuck in an outdoor jacuzzi. I've heard people having sex outside, and I may have even seen it... but I've never had it. Never had full-blown, penetrative sex, completely outside.

It's becoming increasingly unlikely, as well, that I ever will. The logistics are complicated - it has to be comfortable, safe, secure and unseen, but in public and outside (and warm, so living in Britain doesn't help...), with a handy escape route if one needs to become available. Then there's the aspect of timing, execution, and the need to have a willing partner with you. Even then, this all sounds a bit planned, and it's the spontaneity aspect that I've always found so exciting.

I've long decided, after a certain amount of thought, that masturbating in a toilet tent (or any kind of tent) doesn't count either. Again, this is something I haven't done; I've masturbated while at camp, I've see it happen (even though I wasn't supposed to), and I've even heard it happen. I've ejaculated on the grass inside a toilet tent, into the water in a swimming pool (a private one), and I've even brought someone to orgasm (while in said outside jacuzzi) with the aid of my penis. But, again, I've never had a full-blown, orgasm-inducing, ejaculatory wank outside.

It's not like I have any problems wanking inside. I also have occasional snatches of time outside, and there have been some points where I've felt incredibly horny while having a walk (yes, walk) - I've just never given myself over to Onanism while outside.

But why not? Again, is is the particulars which have stopped me? Finding a time, place, suitable warmth and level of arousal? Making sure that nobody sees, taking care you don't get hurt... even having some tissue about your person, unless you have spectacularly good aim? Or maybe it's just the fact that it's not quite as fun when there's nobody else around to appreciate your masturbatory handiwork?

Or maybe it's the fact that it's just never occurred to me...?

In any case, despite all my blustering, I've come agonisingly close to both of these. Sex outdoors, and a cheeky al fresco wank. Close... but no cigar. (Not like I've ever smoked a cigar. But still.)

Having said that... it's May now. And it's getting hotter. And there's a woods at the end of the road.

[BRB, fulfilling a dream.]

Thursday, 27 April 2017


I woke up this morning at about half past ten. I mean, I'd been awake already, but I must have fallen asleep again - I was at an odd angle, bedsheets in a heap and my body sprawled out in strange places. I ran a hand through what's left of my hair and thought about what to do.

I stripped off my pyjama trousers and ambled to the toilet; just before I flushed, however, I heard a voice I didn't recognise... from directly outside the door.

This isn't entirely uncommon. I knew we had new housemates moving in and, besides, I knew who he was talking to. Her accent gave her away - she was a lady we know who works as a housekeeper. He must have asked her to clean his room since he's moving in (and the Irish Ladd who lived there beforehand may have left it in a bit of a state). I'm the one who showed him the room and the house and all, so it's really my fault.

At this point, I realised something else: namely, that I had stripped off my pyjamas and didn't have anything else on. It's not unusual that I go to the toilet naked - I do it all the time, especially in the middle of the night - but I assumed, new housemate notwithstanding, that the house would be empty this morning. And I was desperate, so I went.

The result of this being that I was trapped in the toilet room, naked, with a new guy in the room directly opposite the door (with his door open) and the cleaning lady (who I've only met once) talking, mostly, about keys... not showing any signs of finishing or going downstairs, even for a moment, to allow me the one second to flash down the corridor and into my bedroom without accidentally showing off my freely-hanging genitalia.

As much as I love my own penis, there's only so far I think I can take that.

So I waited. Leaning against the door, re-reading the volume of Justice League International I had with me, cursing everything I could think of including my own stupidity, seeing how hard I could flush the toilet, and finding myself wishing that my housemates, for the first time, weren't so social, so that he could just wander off and I could flash past while her back was turned. Of course, none of these provided me a route out, and even if I could have fit through the window, that'd have ended up with me being naked outside of the house with no route back in.

I even considered fashioning a loincloth out of toilet tissue, before realising that I didn't know how to do that.

Twenty minutes later and I was trying to activate my dormant metagene, just in case I have teleportation or superspeed or invisibility or anything at all that would allow me to get back to my room without being seen completely naked, when I heard my new housemate asking the lady, who (judging by the sounds) was douching his bed down, if she had a cigarette he could borrow.

Oh! He's a smoker! I thought. Yes, that was genuinely my first thought - it usually surprises me when I find out people smoke - as opposed to maybe if they both go out for a cigarette, I could get out of here! 

Which was my second thought. And my third. And my fourth. Which became desperation as I leaned closer to the door to listen. And then hope as she rummaged in her bag. And, finally, a PLAN OF ACTION, as they both headed down the stairs temporarily. The instant they left, I made my break - wrenched open the toilet door and made ready to break into a run...

"Hang on, I just need to get something from upstairs, I'll be with you in a minute..."

And that's how I discovered I do have superspeed.

Tuesday, 25 April 2017

From The Peak

As I took the biggest gasp of air my wracked body could handle, my hands flew forwards and hit the ground. I kicked my legs, falling forwards, and crawled painfully upwards. Robinson, equally shattered, was right beside me. This was going to take us a while.

"I am never, ever, ever," I lied when we got back to the centre, "doing that again." Picturesque though it may have been, I would have traded the lovely view over the Peak District for a centre on a slightly lower hill. One on a 75% gradient wasn't great for the weary hiker. How they got the minibus up there with all of us on it I'll never know.
"But we have to do another walk tomorrow," Robinson said.
"Apart from tomorrow," I added, holding off from asking what the Romans had ever done for us.

I had, a couple of months back, been almost in a relationship with - and then dumped by - Soldiergirl, and I was still getting over it. All the different factors in my life were starting to combine and I was as stressed out as I could possibly be, but at that point, Woodcraft was - as it always has been - solidly, dependably present. Though I knew my muscles wouldn't thank me for it, I was ready to roam the Peaks for a weekend, even if I did spend some of said weekend shouting "I love you!" at maximum volume in the general direction of Nottinghamshire, even though I knew she was also away that weekend, just in case she heard it, or something.

I returned to the break room after dinner and shouting to find the general mess of people there: Mane explaining for the 4,097,295th time that he wasn't a real porn king, he'd just borrowed Dick's General Erection magazine supplement for a laugh and it had then blown out of the window. Mane Jr. and someone who was, at that point, a very young raver playing table tennis in the corner. Robinson, my friend-who-is-now-a-midwife and the rest reclining on whatever comfortable chairs were available. My sister reading 1984.

A young girl skipped over and asked me to sign cards for everyone. I had no idea this was happening, but I took part, signing everything for everyone, fully aware that my card would have the word "groovy" written in it several hundred times since I'd taken to doing impressions of Ash from Evil Dead 2 and everyone thought this was hilarious. Accordingly, I wrote "groovy!" in everyone else's card.

I got to the final card, which was to someone new. Dick - and his family, who were all there - had invited along a cousin, who was young and pretty, and who seemed to fit the Woodcraft mould like a glove. Feeling that I ought to do something different in her card (since I'd tired of "groovy"), I saw that her cousin had written "love you loads" in it. I put an arrow, wrote "agreed", signed my name, and passed it on.

It was only during the following night that I realised that I'd effectively written "love you loads" to someone I didn't know very well. To make matters worse, I think she may have had a crush on Mane, while my hairy friend had a crush on everyone, possibly if not actually including her. For the rest of the weekend, including the bus ride home (a real treat, considering it didn't involve walking), I avoided her gaze in case she was suddenly under the impression that I was passionately in love with her. She certainly hadn't written anything untoward in my card (among all the "groovy"s, one "funky" because she wanted to be different and "(Porn King)" from Mane), but in the end, Dick's little sister asked me outright if I fancied her cousin.

"No, of course not," I said, truthfully. "Whatever gave you that idea?" And that was that.

Fast-forward a school term and I was standing on the south bank of the River Thames, looking out on the Docklands and attempting to write some poetry. She did whatever the physical equivalent of "sliding into my DMs" might have been in the day and asked what was troubling me. So I told her - a relative stranger - all about everything. About Soldiergirl and school and Woodcraft and walking, and all the other communities I was part of, and all about earlier people like the girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on, and her sister too(!), and all about my worries...

She sympathised, as best she could. And she left me feeling at least a little better.
"Oh, I meant to ask," she said, almost as an afterthought. "Do you fancy anyone else?"
"No," I said, again truthfully. "Why? Did you think it was you?" Although I didn't say that. I did say "no," however.

Soon after that, I had my first sexual experience; soon after that, I had my first girlfriend. In the end, I reasoned, everything kind of moved on.

It's not always been easy since then. But I hope that, at least for a while, everything was - if I may say it one more time - groovy.

Sunday, 23 April 2017

Soft Porn Sunday: Mia Zottoli & Bobby Johnston

No change, I can't change, I can't change, I can't change, but I'm here in my mould, I am here in my mould. But I'm a million different people from one day to the next. I can't change my mould, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Ahem. I'm so sorry. I've spent several years with this sex scene lurking around on my HD and every time I watch it, I am turned on, probably orgasm, and then spend the rest of the day singing goddamn Bitter Sweet Symphony. I suppose it's fortunate that I don't have my violin with me (I left it in my parents' attic), otherwise I'd be constantly playing that too. I just can't get rid of it - I need to hear some sounds that recognise the pain in me, yeah.


Appearance: Scandal - (2001)
Characters: Melissa & Jon Griffith

It took me a long time to actually get around to seeing this one, and in that time, I always assumed that was a "clever" way to "disguise" the title from being something more than Sex with Students, and that the e-mail address was just a clever way of being down with the kids, yo. Maybe that's the only road they've ever been down. In fact, there's very little of the perceived student/teacher sex dynamic (although that's a plot point, sure...) in this, and the main plot - stay with me here - is mostly to do with cybercrime. The fact that the female lead is a student, and the male lead her teacher, causes a bit of a scene...

...presumably the "Scandal!" of the title...

...for about five minutes; then it's promptly brushed aside in favour of a hilarious caper involving a version of the Internet from about 1985, and some stuff to do with politicians. I don't know; I wasn't paying attention. I was here in my mould.

Anyway. This scene.

Mia Zottoli - who is in this film since she's Mia Zottoli - plays the imaginatively-named Melissa, a hypersexual English Literature student ("I have a big sexual appetite... boys... girls...!") who unwisely lives with Christina (Regina Russell), a webcam girl who spends her time recording EVERYTHING EVER because that's totally what webcam girls do - including herself and Melissa having sex. She's probably just trying to make ends meet. Melissa then, even more unwisely, seduces (although he doesn't take that much persuading) her teacher Jon Griffith, and has sex with him over the back of the sofa.

Jon gets fired, then they all decide to become sex workers (!), blackmail a corrupt politician who's a slave to money then he dies, have a threesome which Christina records (!!), have some escapades, go to Hawaii for some reason, and then get Jon his job back (!!!) and everyone goes back to Hawaii, where Jason Schnuit plays the hotel porter. Through this confusing fuzz of sex and violence, melody and silence, come the usual crowd - Robert Donavan, Brad Bartram, Kim Dawson, Micah Bradshaw and "good ol' Jason Schnuit", who's a million different people from one day to the next.

Although somebody forgot to pack the clothes, so you'd better like skin if you're going to watch this.

This is the final sex scene, and it features Jon and Melissa because I'm a predictable twat.

No change.
What you can't see (or, more accurately, hear) during this scene is that, during the first half, a scarily familiar yet slightly dischordant strings section is playing the violin part from Bitter Sweet Symphony with a few wrong notes. It's played over something which would be quite sweet if Bobby Johnson wasn't so creepy - Melissa and Jon are kissing passionately in Jon's kitchen (because he's a teacher, of course he can afford these things, while she disrobes in the "wheeee, soft porn, clothes are so irrelevant, I threw it on the ground!" way. 

This is quite speedy, and at least they're using the set to their
I can't change.
advantage - putting stuff on the kitchen table, sweeping it off for no real reason but hey ho, and leaning against it when they need something to lean against. It's a nice touch for sure and there are some technically pleasing cuts, mixes and top shots which make this quite a nice piece of cinematography. If only I wasn't listening to the music so much I'd be paying slightly more attention.

Tonight I'm on my knees, yeah.
At 01:11 there's the odd choice of a 'fridge as a sex prop. Mia Zottoli is giving a soft porn blowjob (ever been down, Melissa?) while Bobby Johnston is leaning against an open 'fridge - why, but then again, why not? - and he mugs for a few seconds before the sex starts and...


Did their royalties run out at this point? Because, at this very moment (and I suppose it's deliberate, to indicate that there's meant to be penetration happening or something), the music insta-fades to be replaced by some twat hitting drums frenetically, followed by a completely different piece of music, which sounds more like a timed bonus level from a SNES game than a classic British indie rip-off. Maybe they didn't want to get sued, but whatever the reason, the airwaves are clean and there's nobody singing to me now.

Oh right, the sex. Yeah, this is hot. Jon has sex with Melissa on top of a kitchen counter, with a
Well, I never pray...
spirited performance from Mia Zottoli (who's always good value even when she's playing someone half her age) and the right amount of movement from Bobby Johnston. At least they both look like they're enjoying themselves, and they've gone for the trope of her not taking her shoes off at any point, which I've always liked 'cause I'm weird like that. We also get sex on a desk, with Melissa on her back and Jon seemingly having joined the Team USA gymnastics squad, followed by what is (I presume) the kitchen table (although you can't really see because this bit's in X-TREME CLOSE-UP!, all of which is overlaid by occasional very soft female moans, presumably provided by Melissa even though she has her mouth closed for most of this.

Glod, I notice the stupidest details.

No no, no no, no, no, no no no.
For whatever reason, I really like this scene. It's one of my favourites, actually. Because Mia Zottoli is hot, and I like the characters (and, having seen it, I quite like the plot; it's not the generic student/teacher forbidden love thing I was expecting á la The Sex Files: Creating the Perfect Man, which is), and I really like the way this is filmed, using the set (and its accoutrements) to their full advantage. It's clever, it's sexy, it's really stupid, and it always, always gets me hard - in that place where all the veins meet, yeah?

But it wouldn't be anything like as good without the music - the strings section which plays at the start with unmistakeable verve, or the token-collecting anthem at the end. They both work, although in odd ways, and they are - genuinely - instantly recognisable in my brain, which is wired to get ready for MASSIVE MASSIVE SEX by the very presence of those few notes... which is what soft porn music should do. It should turn you on. I've been writing this entire review with noise-cancelling headphones on, shutting out the world outside my little softcore bubble, which probably tells you more about me than it does about

What can I say? I let the melody shine. It clears my mind. I feel free now.

Tuesday, 18 April 2017

Addiction XXI: Fantasies

I've said for years, and will continue to say (one supposes...), that I don't really have "fantasies" - not as such.

That is to say, I don't have "fantasies" inasmuch as British TV described them during my formative years, or people in sex chatrooms describe(d) them. Active and creative as my imagination is, I don't tend to construct improbable, or impossible, idealistic sexual situations in my head with the tentative aim of getting me off. I've heard, in great detail, about some people's sexual wishlist - from a married man who wishes to be tied down and taken advantage of by two much younger girls to an older woman who is attracted to muscular construction workers. Even a former partner of mine who had the "uncle" fantasy.

These are things I don't have. I spent a long time in my late teens worrying that I didn't have a fetish. I don't do the celebrity crush thing out of moral value, so the associated fantasies there were out, and essentially all I wanted to do was have sex - which I have, since, done.

However, this doesn't seem to make much of a difference in those sleepy early hours of the morning - those where I'm sort of awake, but not really. In those, I do have fantasies. They are - for want of a better phrase - admittedly vague.

The other night, I was seized by a desire - halfway through yet another sleepless night - to have someone ride me. It hasn't happened for a while, although I quite like said position and think it's fairly hot to be able to see and touch the person you are making love to. I thought about how nice it would be to have sex with a girl while she sat astride, and how deep I would be inside her, and how I'd feel with my thick, firm cock caressed by her soft folds... you know, the usual stuff... and that's where it ended. It wasn't a story or a situation. It wasn't even a specific girl. It was just a concept.

As are they all. All the "what-if?" scenarios where I've been in some situation and inches from getting somewhere play out exactly as they did in real life. All the "if only..."s where I remember a word or phrase that got me suitably aroused but would remain an impossibility. Most of the YouPorn-in-my-head that ends up working is merely sex that I've actually had. A wistful recollection of things I've actually done (some of which you will, no doubt, have read about here) is almost always effective. It was this morning, at least. But is that a fantasy? It seems to me like a memory.

But the rest of them, as I say, are just concepts. All relatively chaste, as well - such things as "have sex in this position" or "in this place" or "while doing this". Fleeting glances of such possibilities that blindside me, often while asleep while meant to be awake, or vice-versa.

So... yes. I don't really have fantasies. Not as such. I'd be much more interested in any fantasies that have me. If you catch my drift.

Friday, 14 April 2017


(or: "Now There's a Kink I Never Thought of Owning Up To...")

A few years ago, I stood as a candidate in a local by-election, called as one of our local councillors absconded with a large amount of money and was last seen in Cyprus. Being a safe Labour seat and with no viable other candidates available, I didn't think I stood much of a chance, not campaigning for Labour. The Tories I bumped into were vile, the 'kippers even more so (one pushed me aside outside a polling station), and TUSC got a derisory vote. I'm surprised the Lib Dems even stood - but they did.

On the day of the election, I went to work in a suit, then pinned on my rosette and went out campaigning. I got a few odd looks - some schoolgirls bowed to me ironically as I passed by; a guy yelled out of his car that he'd voted for me and thought I'd do well; somebody asked me what party I was standing for while I bought a sandwich at Subway (it's on the rosette, genius); I even had a young man on a bicycle tell me that he'd vote for my party when he was 18.

Halfway through the afternoon, I realised that I was actually incredibly horny.

Aware that I wasn't going to get elected, I nevertheless felt at least a little influential. The ballot paper had my name on it, and people were putting little crosses next to it for whatever ungodly reason. People were stopping me in the street to ask me things. And yet, this heady mix of an inkling of power, the dispensing of knowledge and the sheer amount of physical energy I was putting into my actions - politicians do that, apparently - was all combining into a mass effect of arousal.

"I don't know what it is," I remember tweeting at that time, "but I've been busy all day, and now I suddenly want to have sex with everyone."

Possibly a bit of an overstatement, but that was more or less how I felt. I considered, fairly heavily, skipping out on the evening class I was meant to be attending to go home and fervently make love to my girlfriend until the results came in. I also, more realistically, considered going to college and having a cheeky wank in the toilets before class. I even, briefly, pictured myself in an office, having sex with somebody bent over the desk... before remembering that I wasn't going to win this election. I've never even had a desk in an office.

I practically floated to the train at the end of the day, still shaking hands here and there but by now more a being of phosphorescent sexual energy than a human. Every step I took sent a jolt through my crotch, which shot through my body; every time I moved, the soft fabric of my suit against my skin sent a shiver down my spine. Every word I said was heavy with passion; every breath a gasp, waiting for release. I was electric, ready to detonate in the atmosphere, covering the world in my light.

Finishing my evening class, I limped home, my face flushed with the deepest red - the evening commuters having all voted and ready to ignore the guy with the rosette. Got in, shed my jacket, sat down on the sofa with a crackle as my family turned on the TV.

The first thing I saw was Nigel Farage's face. And after that I wasn't horny any more.

Wednesday, 12 April 2017

How it all began, and how it will begin again...

Disturb not the harmony of fire, ice and lightning
Lest these titans wreak destruction on the Earth on which they clash
Though the water's great guardian shall arise to quell the fighting
Alone its song shall fail, thus the Earth shall turn to ash

Oh, chosen one, bring together these treasures three
Their power combined tames the beast of the sea

July 2003. I was 16, having taken eight out of my nine GCSEs and yet already Done With This Shit. I had one more to take - ICT, paper two - on which I knew I couldn't get an A*. I hadn't really tried particularly hard on the ICT coursework, knowing that none of what I was doing would be pertinent to real-life ICT. Having breezed through year 10, I hadn't put a lot of work into year 11. If I did well on the ICT paper, I'd get a B.

And I did.

For a while, being 16, I'd badgered my parents for a present - something to celebrate getting through the GCSEs and not killing myself through stress (although I came close a couple of times). I'd lost my auntie, and been turned down by the girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on; these were bad times, all told. Einstein was getting an electric guitar (even though he doesn't play the guitar). Lightsinthesky was getting a new bass (he did play). My less intelligent, but well-meaning, friend got £50 from her parents for every A (she got 8 As, which probably explains why she's got a house now and everything). My parents relented, settling for getting me a meal and one small present of my choice.

I asked for a VHS of Pokémon: The Power of One.

It wasn't a random choice. Through my difficult teenage years, very little had stayed constant. I was in a continuous state of flux and had no distant goal to approach, no direction to proceed in. Sure, I was horny, but I didn't express my sexual desires beyond getting erections and enjoying the sensation (I didn't go any further than that). I was certainly drifting towards better things, but that was mostly through happenstance. Exactly where I was going, I wasn't sure. But I always had Pokémon.

I love Pokémon. I always have and I always will. I watched it every morning before school, and I was one of the first to see Mewtwo Strikes Back at the local cinema - I went with Music Man and another friend (incidentally, for the second movie, Lightsinthesky joined us, and for the third, a full consignment of myself, Lightsinthesky, Einstein and Music Man went) and, while it wasn't everything I'd hoped for, I was impressed. The Power of One, however, was something else. The plot, animation, and characterisations were all on point; it wasn't trying to sell anything, so it had more emphasis on making a movie; and the music blew me away. It still does - Seven's alarm clock plays The Legend Comes To Life to wake him up, and I openly wept the first time I heard it in the kitchen.

We passed a VHS in the supermarket and I asked my dad to buy it for me due to the fact that I only had one more exam to take. I even promised not to watch it until I'd taken said exam - and didn't - but I wanted to hold it in my hands. I wanted to have a physical copy of this, the film I loved. The film whose song I carried in my heart, never mind all the talking animals and irritating protagonist.

And I watched it, and I watched it, and I watched it again until our VCR stopped working and all our VHSs were consigned to a box in the attic (although they all still work, I'm sure - I watched all six Star Wars films on VHS a couple of years back after The Force Awakens was announced and they all worked).

It still brings a tear to my eye when I think about it.

For the first time in many years, I have a little money to spend - I've been earning some more than usual. Maybe I can save some; maybe I can put some aside. At one point I'll have to buy a ticket to Eroticon (even if I'll never stretch to Woodhull).

But I can afford a DVD.

So I'll buy one. And I'll watch it. And I'll cry. And I'll feel, for a moment, like I'm 16 again.

And, for those moments, I can escape.

Wednesday, 5 April 2017

Yes, That's The Joke

I'm not gay, but if I was, I would want equal rights
I'm not gay, but if I were, I would marry who I like
It's not fair (I'm not gay) if the government has the say
About who can love who (not gay) 
Or to which God you can pray (not a gay)

Anyone under the age of 35 who ever used e-mail and had any friends (and me - I'm not sure if I fall into that last category...) will probably recognise a phenomenon known variously as "Q&A", "The Q Thing", or more accurately, "fuck me, yet another stupid fucking quiz; what the fuck?". I remember forwarding it once with "Oh Dear Lord It's The Q Thing Again!" in the subject line.

Just in case you're pretending to now know what this was, it was effectively a chain letter sent by e-mail, consisting of "this or that"-type questions, and a few open ones, including hilarious enquiries like: "Name?", and riotous scandalous ones like "No, your full name?". Girls, I noticed, tended to be more forward with their answers, although boys sent them on too, mostly with answers like "Am I in love? Yes, with Britney!".

I, of course, didn't hold back.

At 16, the Q Thing That Wouldn't Die reared its ugly head again, tearing through my school year like a ravenous beast of ASCII, and of course, everyone took part. I myself actually had something new to add.

Do you have a crush?

What's his/her name?
[Here I put the name of the girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on. She didn't go to my school and wasn't going to be reading this, so I felt safe doing so. Everyone knew, anyway, including her, that I had a crush.]

Do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend?

What's his/her name?
[Here I put Louise's real name - or, at least, the nickname I gave her at the time. Realistically, we weren't actually a couple, but we'd been on a couple of dates, so I put her down.]

The next question threw me a bit, since I hadn't seen it on any of these yet.

Are you gay?

I was a little disappointed, but not surprised, at the closed nature of this question. Even at 16, I wasn't unaware that "gay" and "straight" were the binary options. I knew of "bisexual", "celibate", "asexual" and "self-sexual" (although I made that last one up at one point; I was sure it meant something at one point. Lightsinthesky was probably a good example.), so I was a little uncertain about this question.

I've never been uncertain about my sexuality. I'm heterosexual; I always have been. So, were I to answer this question truthfully, I could just put "no". Maybe even go on a bit of a rant about the presumed binary switch and talk about the fluidity of sexual orientation... but not in the middle of an e-mail. I wrote longer e-mails about that sort of stuff.

In any case, I'd already admitted to being attracted to one person and in a relationship with another person (although, in reality, I was in love with one and merely dating the other, but that's splitting too many hairs...), so I had a "what the hell, let's make this interesting" moment.

Are you gay?

The scene I imagined was some friend from school getting this, scrolling through the e-mail, seeing the fact that I fancied the girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on, followed shortly by the fact that I was dating Louise, then that I was gay, doing a "WTF?" double-take, and realising that I'd put this ironically, laughing once or twice at my ballsy move, and then just continuing on, and maybe even answering the questions themselves. That's how this proto-meme worked, right?

One person got the joke.

What I wasn't expecting, however, was an influx of e-mails. "I didn't know you were Gay," read one. "I always thought you were gay," said another, "everyone thinks you are." "I don't want to be your friend," said a third, "if you're going to be gay."

"I think you're confused about your sexuality," said a more astute commenter. "You claim to be in love with X, but you're going out with Y, and in Z, you claim that you're gay! Have you thought about talking to a psychologist about this?"

(Of course I was talking to a psychologist; where did they think I was going on Wednesday afternoons, skipping the final lesson of RS to do so?)

I told Robinson, and he laughed appreciatively. So at least he got it. But, for the rest of the weekend, I feared going back to school, wondering if my little ironic quip had backfired, and that I'd unofficially come out as gay to a whole school, making the whole thing more complicated by virtue of being straight (and having a kind of girlfriend, who the rest of the school had never seen; the fact that we met through a mutual appreciation of Knightmare may not have helped). What if, somehow, this got out to one of the teachers? Would they ask me if I wanted to have extra counselling (which wasn't possible, as I was already seeing the school counsellor in addition to my psychologist and my sixth-form mentor)? How many people would ask me if I was really gay?

I readied my "no, I'm not ... yes, two different girls ... yes, that's the joke" response.

On Monday, nobody asked me a thing, partially because very few people read these things; moreover because nobody cared very much; but mostly because another-girl-I-had-a-crush-on caused a bit of a scene by being asked out by someone and saying yes. I watched her, from afar, getting her first kiss and arranging a date with a guy I knew from primary school... but was very glad, after all, to be consoled by a couple of friends, one of whom I also fancied, who knew I had a crush on her too.

Not gay. Just maybe a little confused.

Tuesday, 4 April 2017

Clean as a whistle!

I take very good care of my private parts, by which I mean I endeavour - as much as possible - to keep them clean. In the shower, I douche thoroughly. In between my thighs, all over my perineum, down my arse crack and over (but not into, because that's weird) my anus. All over my balls; all over my shaft. I even roll back my foreskin to wash the head of my cock. All of this with the application of some sort of vegan shower gel, so I have a chemical-free, carefully cleaned, fresh genital area.

I even shampoo my pubic hair. And condition it. And blow dry. But that's probably just me. I said I was careful; I didn't say I wasn't weird.

To me, this is normal; it's part of my routine. It makes me feel better. I can't speak for those who don't have the same genitals as me - or even those who have a penis and testes but don't slather them all over with something from Lush with the expectation that this will, eventually, confer MAGICAL POWERS.

My second girlfriend used to do pretty much the same thing. The drinking girl was completely unashamed of her body and all the functions that came with it - she was okay with using the toilet while I was in the same room; she would trim her pubic hair (and, at one point, shave it all off - "okay, that's enough, I'm going to shave my snatch...") with my assistance; we would shower together and then have sex on the bathroom floor. She also used to, I notice, wash as carefully as I did - including her genitals and pubic hair.

So ends the "feminine mystique", I suppose: when you're in constant contact with it on full display (and explained to at length about what it is; sex ed didn't tell us boys about periods because... I don't know, they just didn't tell us), it's less of a mystique and more of a function. It's biology. I like that. I like sex and I like the bodies that can have sex and I appreciate the way they work. I think it's hot.

Last week, I was told by my current girlfriend that, although I'd like to lick her out, she thinks that I'd be put off by her vagina. I wouldn't, of course; Heaven knows I've been inside her vagina long enough to think that I'm perfectly okay with it. But I didn't press the matter; it's her anxiety that's making her think that (my anxiety doesn't extend as far as my naked body - it's more focused around my complete lack of talent, odd shoe size and the fact that I don't have a cat), with which I sympathise. There was even one memorable moment where I cleaned her vulva with one of those "intimate area cleaning wipes" we got from some event or other.

I've even offered to help her wash her own privates out if she's skittish about doing so.

I'm aware that it's not so much of a physical necessity than it is a psychosomatic thing. Genitals even clean themselves during sexual arousal: the Cowper's gland fluid that beads at the tip of the penis, and that trickles off as precum, is released by the gland to help clear the urethra from anything left after urination of ejaculation (so it may contain elements of urea and inactive sperm - sexy!). The "wetness" that begins to come from the vagina (and the girlcum too, in a way) are there to lubricate the vagina to allow easier penetration and therefore increase the chances of baby-makin'. Neither of these things, I think, are particularly dirty.

But then, I don't think that way. Period blood can stain, but I know how it can wash out. Semen leaves a mark which initially may seem semi-translucent but turns opaque over time, but I used to sponge my computer chair or put a towel over it. Yes, sexual functions can be messy - sex is a messy business in general; it's not as clean and clinical as softcore would have you believe - but that's what a washing machine's for.

And that's what washing yourself is for. If you're absolutely sure that your partner isn't going to be happy with the condition of your privates (and, you know, if you want to have sex with them - which is always something you have to consider too...), then maybe you ought to make sure that you are happy with them too? And, if you think they are dirty (even though they really, really aren't), then maybe clean them a little? I genuinely don't think this should be a problem.

I think it's very intimate to do it together.

Please tell me I'm not alone in thinking this.

Tuesday, 28 March 2017

Gladly do they teach, and gladly do they learn...

Tweet this morning, as retweeted by the wonderful @luciebeexxx:

My response:

While I'll agree to my response being a little pithy (not to mention unrealistic, and uncharacteristically doomy), there's a point to be made here which I can explain a lot better in a blog post that via the limited medium of a tweet.

My first argument is to do with semantics, so excuse my impertinence, but I think - logically - it works like this.

The analogy used is slightly flawed. In answer to the (presumably rhetorical) question - yes, I would be happy with a surgeon performing first-time surgery on me, providing that they have had the proper training and gone through the rigours of medical school first. Similarly, I'd expect a doctor to prescribe me the correct medicine, even if they'd never done so before, or a teacher to give me information on their first day of teaching, or a taxi driver to take me where I want to go, despite not having done so before. Everyone has to start somewhere - otherwise there would be no jobs!

If everyone refused surgery because the surgeon is inexperienced (and I don't mean 'bad' - the terms are not interchangeable), then there wouldn't be any surgery. We'd have died out (or been severely depleted in number) due to the advancement of surgical medicine used since the Roman era and its importance in keeping humanity strong.

I used to work in healthcare, and the first time I gave an injection, the patient didn't question me. They knew I'd been trained to do so.

However, the second point I'd like to make is a more pressing one, and it's to do with the content of the tweet... basically, I don't agree with it.

The first time I had sex, I was a virgin. I'm assuming everyone else is in the same boat here. I knew, due to Year 7 biology and porn, what went into where; I also knew, due to cucumbers in Year 9 PSHE, how to put a condom on; while my first sexual experience wasn't stellar (well, it was good, but it wasn't as good as subsequent ones), it wouldn't have been any different had I had sex beforehand. Specifically, it wouldn't be my first time.

Sex is a fluid, amorphous concept that is like a many-headed beast, a Hydra that grows two new heads when you cut one off. Having had sex doesn't make you an expert any more than having been bitten by a dog makes you an experienced dog breeder. I didn't know very much about the world of sex even after I'd had sex for the first time. I don't imagine you do either.

I know a lot about sex now, but that's after years of study, fascination and experimentation - both good and bad - and ten years of sex blogging. Yes, I would feel confident in "teaching about sex" after all that. I would, however, have felt similarly confident about doing so even before I had sex. I knew the basics, and the responsibility, and how to put a condom on a cucumber. I was familiar with my own body and knew how it worked, and was reasonably clued-up on the issues surrounding sex. I would, I think, have been able to lead a reasonable discussion, even without having done it myself.

I mean, I can't shoot a gun, but I can appear on a film to be doing so (and have).

I think the real issue here is exactly what and how you teach. "Sex" is a very ambiguous word, and the teachers at my secondary school taught it in a very different way from the sex educators primary schools now get in to do so. (Being a form teacher during PSHE must be difficult, especially during SRE where it's usually apparent you know too much or too little about the subject, so big respect is due to everyone who manages that!)

And, while I've been writing this...

What if someone is a virgin by choice but has masturbated so much they are knowledgeable about their own body parts and how they function during orgasm?

What if someone's only sexual experience is rape? They've had sex.

What if you've only had sex with someone of the same gender? Do you count that as sex? I do, but does everyone?

What if you identify as genderqueer, genderfluid, or a third gender, or agendered? What do you have to do to qualify as having had sex and thus appropriate to teach it?

What if you've only ever had non-penetrative sex?

What about anal sex? Does that count?

This is why I said that, by the same token, nobody would have sex to start with, because it's so complicated, and the human race would have died out. I'd even go so far as to say that sex is much more complicated than performing surgery - theoretically, at least - because, with surgery, you can get it right or wrong! Can you do so with sex?

Ask a group of people who have never had sex that and you'd get some very different answers. Are you learning anything from that? Then you're being taught.

Surgery and sex are incomparable. Both can be studied, both can be taught, both can be practised. But if you want to teach, do so. If you want to learn, do so. The sharing of knowledge isn't regulated... and not always kinaesthetic.