Sunday, 24 September 2017

Soft Porn Sunday: Laura Gemser & Gabriele Tinti

TYPI ΦΕΤΑ.

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...

...so 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...

...well...

...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?"

WHAT?

"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

Vaginas

[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 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...

Sunday, 3 September 2017

Soft Porn Sunday: Krista Allen & Paul Michael Robinson

From the time around 12 or 13 (I don't recall exactly) when I started watching soft porn, up until the present day, it has mostly made me cry through my penis. I say "mostly" for the simple reason that it's not the only way soft porn has made me cry.

Appearance: Emmanuelle In Space 2: A World of Desire (1994)
Characters: Emmanuelle & Haffron

Whole lotta kissin' going on.
For all its reputation, the Emmanuelle in Space series does take a while to get going with the Emmanuelle/Haffron sex (that should have a ship name - Emafron. I ship it.). Sure, they have sex in the first film, but only once (well, twice, but the second time, Emmanuelle's in disguise); in the second film, they have sex twice (but during the first one, Haffron's in disguise). Haffron's barely in the third one, so it's not until the fourth - Concealed Fantasy - when the fairly continuous banging starts to happen.

Anyway, this one happens somewhere in Random European Country #216, after a fairly random plot involving horses, artists, a French maid (with an American accent) and a Romany chief with whom Emmanuelle has sex. Some more random shit happens; Emmanuelle then returns to have more sex with the chief, only it's not actually him, it's actually Haffron, because LULZ!

And so we get the second sex scene in the entire series where Emmanuelle and Haffron have sex when they're both:

a) aware of each other
b) played by their respective actors

Took your time, didn't you, ASP?

This is one of those odd beasts that rears its head from time to time: a romantic sex scene. Whereas it's relatively difficult to convey romance through sex in film, one can kind of tell a scene is meant to be romantic from a number of things, and they're all present in this scene.

i) the speed of the sex

Romantic sex scenes almost always show slow, measured sex, often with repetitive movements. There can be a lot of passion, but the movement comes from the bodies themselves, not how hard they're thrusting. Yes, this scene does have slow sex, but I actually quite like the way it's done here - it also doesn't mean that it's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment.

ii) the proximity of the participants (to each other)

It's fake! The plant, that is.
This is a big one.

When I was a kid, and started to rate sex scenes in my head because I'm a weirdo, one of the things that I looked out for was the idea that the characters are what I called "connected" - ie. of course the actors aren't really having sex, but they're close enough together for the audience to believe that they are. This doesn't always happen in the cheesier erotic sci-fi, but in scenes like this, it's more important... for some reason.

During this entire scene, Haffron's crotch is nestled right between Emmanuelle's thighs (which she ends up wrapping around him), and there's no reason to imagine that for a second he doesn't have his firm penis buried inside her warm... excuse me, I'll be in my bunk...

iii) the lack of variation

She is beautiful, isn't she?
Something else I've noticed is that, while longer sex scenes do tend to have more than one sex position employed (so you can fill in squares on your bingo card - astride! missionary! doggie! spoons! some really weird one that probably doesn't exist!), the romantic ones tend to stick to one. In some ways, that makes sense - if the main character is going to have an orgasm, they should be able to do so as a result of their sexual partner being very very very good consistently at one thing. It's sex, not an Olympic decathlon.

This entire scene takes place on a chaise longue, with no variation from the missionary position. It works.

iv) the music

Ahhhhh, where would we be without soft porn music? Stabs of electric guitar mean the sex is hot and reckless. Swoopy synths mean it's fun. Slow strings with a piano mean, of course, that it is romantic. This'll never change.

v) be long

Loooooooooooooooong. The average sex scene is about a minute long. This one is two minutes, thirty seconds exactly!

vi) have a definable orgasm

This is the defining characteristic of this one scene in particular. There are some minor vocalisations throughout (from both), but Emmanuelle has an incredibly audible orgasm right at the end of the scene (in fact, after Haffron stops thrusting, which seems slightly incongruous to me - perhaps that's why it's so memorable...). 

Her mouth wide open in a kind of perma-smile, Krista moans loudly fifteen times in rapid succession, long after Paul kind of gives up. It's nice to know she's enjoying herself.

vi) end with a kiss

And this is the bit that made me cry.

You see, the first time I saw this (well, second; I presumably saw it when Emmanuelle in Space was first broadcast on UK TV, but I was 14 when that happened), I'd downloaded the scene and then gone off to see my girlfriend. I was missing her hugely, watching this to try and calm down a bit, and then the one tiny kiss that Haffron leaves on Emmanuelle's chest (complete with a kiss sound effect) set me off.

Do you like leg?
I ended up curled into the foetal position on my bed in floods of tears and a huge erection. Thanks a lot, ASP.

Okay, I'll admit it - sounds boring, doesn't it? Two and a half minutes of very slow missionary sex with uninspired music and a delayed orgasm? Yeah, maybe it does. There's loads of great sex in the ASP films and this is just one of a myriad of other scenes you could be seeking out. But, for the past couple of weeks, this has been my go-to scene for a quick get-off wank.

Maybe I'm a sucker for romance... or maybe, just maybe, I've been needing to have a good cry.

Friday, 1 September 2017

Note

For the first half of secondary school, I was in possession of a unique red coat once owned by my uncle (and then passed on to me). It reminded me of him, and I wore it every cold day, even though it wasn't in the school colours. Not that that really matters - it wasn't a puffa jacket by Adidas, or Nike sweatshop trainers with built-in air bubbles, or a Slipknot hoodie reading PEOPLE = SHIT. The staff didn't mind a red jacket so much by comparison.

My dad, who's slightly shorter and thinner than I am, also occasionally wore it, if he needed a coat and couldn't find one of his own (they were all black; could've been in any dark corner). In its cavernous pockets, both of us used to collect "useful" things - pens, compasses, odd-looking things one found on the ground, that sort of thing - which would inevitably be rediscovered next winter. I found £5 in a pocket once, which I'd completely forgotten about.

It was while groping in one of the outside pockets that I found it.

Dear [ILB], it read. I love you so much and I think you are so so sexy please could you go out with me. Love from Jannis xxx 

It was decorated with little hearts and the occasional star.

I was stunned. I'd never had a declaration of love so profound before (or, indeed, any). Evidently, it has been slipped into my coat pocket when I wasn't looking (which wouldn't have been difficult - I often draped it over the back of chairs and stuff, for want of an actual place to hang it.) I'd even been called "sexy", which is something I was perfectly sure I wasn't.

There was only one problem. I didn't know anybody called Jannis.

I racked my brains for several days until it alighted upon someone I sort of knew who I'd talked to about twice. She had a similar name - not "Jannis" but close enough - who was a library monitor, like me, and may have had access to my coat at any time during the preceding months. The more I thought about it, the more she seemed like a likely candidate. I wasn't attracted to her at all - those affections were elsewhere - and I didn't want to let her down. I wondered, with increasing desperation as I realised how long the note had been there, what to do...

...and then I realised, with alarming clarity, that it couldn't have been her. I hadn't been to the library in months - Lightsinthesky wouldn't let me go - and in any case, I don't think she would have misspelled her own name. But then why would anyone...?

"Daddy found a love note in your coat pocket," said my mother, apropos of nothing on a lazy afternoon.
"Oh yeah," I heard myself say. "That's a fake. It was put there by some idiots in my class as a prank. They don't even know how to spell her name."

And, instantly, it all fell into place. I suddenly knew exactly who it was, and how they could have gotten to my coat. In fact, more and more pieces of the jigsaw became apparent - the constant sniggering, the glances in my direction, the fact that I saw one of them scuttling away from my place as I walked back into form after a toilet break one morning, even the bad spelling. They'd decided to trick me into thinking that someone (who, and I mean no disrespect, wasn't particularly attractive) was interested in me, and this would lead to a potentially embarrassing situation in which I either said yes or no, confusing both of us and leaving a lot of hurt.

It's a very cruel joke to play.

Or so I assumed. I certainly never asked Jannis or the most likely perpetrator about it. I wouldn't have known what to say, in either case. I was 14, but wise enough to know that asking either person wouldn't have been the best idea, because I'd be sharing too much information and that was likely to get me into a whole heap of trouble. I'd just spent the best part of two years trying to convince everyone that I wasn't gay, for one thing.

But I kept the note.

I know not why. I just never took it out of my pocket. I've lost the coat since, but for all I know, it's still there.

And, as it turned out, I did have a secret admirer. But it wasn't her. At least, I don't think it was...

Monday, 28 August 2017

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeze!

When I was in my mid-teens, I downloaded a lot of porn. I wasn't aware how much could be downloaded - and was unaware that any porn existed which wasn't the softcore fare I saw on L!VE TV - until I started using, illegally, peer-to-peer networks. Yeah, I know. Most people used them, though - didn't you?

I had, during this time, occasional forays into hardcore territory, which generally isn't my jam, although there are some scenes I can get on board with. One scene I managed to find - although which keyword I used I'm not sure - was called something like "Swedish teens first time fuck in sauna", which did exactly what it says on the tin, although RonSeal may not have approved of the fact that these porn actors almost certainly weren't teens. And, judging by the fact that they were speaking English with English accents, probably not Swedish either.

From my limited experience with saunas (saunae?), I'm not exactly sure why they're so inextricably linked, in my mind, with sex. I've certainly never had sex in one; I've rarely ever been in any (the scented steam rooms in the thermae don't count, probably); the one experience of being in a sauna I have mostly involves being leered at by very old, very large men and feeling very uncomfortable about it. Movies - softcore, hardcore and mainstream - often depict them as magical places, full of billowing steam and with braziers full of hot coals on which one tips water for whatever reason.

I've never seen a brazier of hot coals in a sauna.

And then there's the fact that having sex in a sauna is probably incredibly dangerous. They're very hot environments, with the top-level benches warmer than the ones below. The wooden things to sit on collect heat during the day, so they can cause a little burning if one is less than careful, and the amount of sweat you generate from the heat is probably not going to be helped by the sweat you generate through sex. The hot, heavy action of sex - even the lazy kind - increases your pulse, alters blood flow and decreases intuitive reasoning, all while raising your temperature. It's incrediby risky to do so when all those things are already happening!

It's sex, not a suicide mission!

Despite all this, I still thought it might be kind of fun to have sex in a sauna - particularly one of those fictional ones filled with steam where you can't see anyone or anything (or maybe that's just Antony Gormley's Blind Light...). It has the illicitness of "sex in a public place" about it, plus the natural effect of wood in a setting (which, as an environmentalist, I like), and the amount of sex scenes that take place in one has got to count for something, right...? Right...?

Today, as part of the gym membership I apparently still have, I stepped into a sauna following half an hour's swimming. Maybe, just maybe, this experience would go some way to explaining the connotation in my mind.

Needless to say it didn't do that. But it probably did boost ice cream sales a bit.

Tuesday, 22 August 2017

Review: Autoblow 2+

Daniel, Daniel, Daniel, Daniel...

There's a continuing trend in sex toys to make them look more like, well, sex toys - building some sort of awareness that you are, in fact, using a construct of silicone or TPR or TPE (whatever's your fancy) in order to masturbate. If you look at the PULSE or the REV 1000, neither are making any pretensions to replicate any part of a human being nature dictates you should put your penis into; they're just sex toys. You're aware, here, what you're using, and there's no point pretending otherwise.

Where the Autoblow 2+ fails, before you've even started to use it, is that it has gone completely the other way. The opening, into which you're supposed to put your erect cock, is a hideous, disembodied replica of a mouth - except without a philtrum, lips, teeth, tongue, or any detail. This is, essentially, a hole - like the one in the end of a Fleshlight - shaped like someone who's never heard of a mouth is having a go with a hammer and chisel and hoped for the best.

It's been haunting my dreams for months.

Okay, so, the product itself...

The Autoblow 2+ (I don't even want to consider the fact that there's been at least one more of these beforehand) is a white, cylindrical tower of doom with three spring-loaded rows of beads (which rotate) and a pumping motor (which pumps). Into this, you put a sleeve made of a soft, spongy material, all of which end in a "mouth". There are, in fact, three sizes of sleeve, catering for different girths of penis, but claim to cater for "all lengths".

This is a false claim. All the sleeves are six inches long - the box even says so - so, actually, not all lengths. Certainly not mine.

The Autoblow 2+ is mains-powered, meaning you plug it in, which would be easier if it wasn't an American plug. I had to get a socket adaptor to use this - "fortunately", that is relatively easy to obtain, if a little annoying to have as a necessity. The lead is long enough, but it does mean you have to be close to the plug to use it. "Don't worry," the box claims, "we've designed it to be safe." Uhm, I doubt you'd have got your product out at all if it wasn't safe.

But I digress.

AAAAAARGH! IT'S COMING TO GET ME!
So. This thing is a blowjob simulator. You push your penis into the "mouth" and down the sleeve, hold it in place and then turn it on. The pumping mechanism forces the sleeve up and down while the balls circle around, massaging the shaft. On the bottom of the device is a little wheel like a volume control, which you can use to control the speed (although that's the only thing you can control). The general idea is that you are simulating having a blowjob, down to the fact that if you look down and ignore the white and blue cylinder you are holding, you can see a mouth bobbing back and forth. If you ejaculate into the sleeve, you remove it, wash it with soap and water and leave it to drip dry.

I probably don't need to say that I had problems using this.

First of all, your penis doesn't go in when it's flaccid, and it won't when it's erect. The fact that the Autoblow 2+ is 33% tighter than the original doesn't appear to have taken into account the whole "getting your penis into it" aspect of sex toy usage; while fully erect, it simply would not go in - the mouth doesn't open so you need to jam it in - even with lube applied. After about five tries, I did manage to get it in, but the rigid shape and limited size didn't accommodate either the natural upward curve or 7" length of my shaft... so, as with other sex toys, it hurt.

Let's imagine your penis is short enough to have this thing fit all the way to the base of the shaft, and it's straight like a ramrod so there aren't any shape issues. The next thing you'd need would be a pair of noise-cancelling headphones, because even at the lowest setting, the Autoblow 2+ emits a consistent, high-pitched whine at a frequency designed for dogs to hear. Turn the dial up and the pump action starts, although you can barely feel it because it hardly moves much. I tried this three times, and all it did was stroke the top layer of my foreskin back and forth. My penis barely felt a thing, except pain.

At any higher setting, another noise joins the fray: a repetitive thudding, scraping noise that, for some reason, sounds like the device is saying "Daniel" over and over again. My name's not Daniel, so it's not relevant to me, but even without the Radcliffe-fangirl association, it's not just an off-putting sound: it's a dangerous one. It sounds bad, like a laboured piece of machinery - not the sort of thing you'd trust to bring you to orgasm!

Oh, and it also claims to be hands-free. Bullshit: you need to hold it in place.

So, yes, this toy is a hideous concept with a terrible design. I've had enough blowjobs to know that this isn't what one feels like. It's very difficult to get your penis in, it's uncomfortable when it is in, it barely works and it's a terrible noise and what were they thinking?!

Good Points: The box design, the mains power lead, the colour scheme.

Bad Points: The tight opening, the painful interior, the ineffective mechanism.

Worse Points: The fact that the "mouth" will keep you awake at night wondering when it's going to come and exact its terrible revenge.

Worst Points: Daniel! Daniel! Daniel! Daniel!

Autoblow 2+, available from stockists worldwide. You can also buy it for £159.95 from the hideously-designed official site.

Monday, 21 August 2017

What's the story, morning glory?

Throughout the day my erections take various size (although I'd hope the shape is more or less the same). The one that swells while tiring myself out in five minutes of mild cardio at the gym is discernable, but less potent than the one which strains and throbs in my hand while I bring myself off to the droopy gloss of porn on my netbook's screen. I get them when hearing various strains of music; when I read certain things (not always erotica...); even when certain scents, like sandalwood, evoke a memory.

None of these have anything even close to what I've been experiencing just after waking.

Much as the urban legend is in place because it has a basis in fact, there's more to the waking erection than the traditional "morning wood". I don't know the science behind it - for all I know, it may be just me - but, even following short naps during the day, that pre-dawn moment before being fully awake heralds the start of an incredibly large, incredibly tangible erect penis.

It doesn't go away, either. I tend to wake up on my front, with my penis pressed up against the bed, the pressure making every pulse swim through my body. I barely move away, the sensation too great to want to move. I buck my hips, occasionally, and let out a little grunt, as if having sex with an unseen lover... in the knowledge that I will still be just as hard if I get up and move around.

It vanishes, of course, over time. It always does. But it will be back.

Over the last few weeks, these have been my biggest, strongest and most enjoyable moments of sexual excitement - even more so than the ones I bring on myself. Up until now, I have kept it a secret. My dirty little secret, exciting enough to bring a little spark in that semi-conscious world. But, for what it's worth, it makes me happy.

In today's uncertain world, those little moments of wonder are sometimes what we need to make it through. If mine involve an erect ILB, then so be it.

Wednesday, 16 August 2017

Beautiful Music

As the band packed up their instruments and began to trundle away in their various cars, I fell into stride beside Karolina. She was beautiful - with the perfect nose, bright blue eyes and golden hair tied into an elegant knot, but still falling down to her shoulders like a waterfall. Like me, she'd just finished university, and like me, she'd discovered this little orchestra who handily rehearsed in the church five minutes' walk from my house. She lived on the other side of town, which was a little bit of a walk away.

We got talking, something we didn't do much during rehearsal, since I sat at the back row of the violins with the ad libitum parts, some of which I'd scored myself, and her fingers danced across the piccolo across the circle. We occasionally shared a smile - sometimes a wink, occasionally a note - but very few words.

We discussed music - what we liked, what we disliked, and what got us into our chosen instruments. I shared stories of the band I was in at university, and the society I helped found in my final year, sketching bass clefs onto whiteboard in meeting rooms and taking minutes in musical shorthand. She told me of the times she had spent in her room in university hall, twittering her way through musical scores which she picked up second-hand from charity shops. Once everyone else was out of sight, we sang the title song from Fiddler on the Roof to each other. I was amazed she knew the words, since they're not sung in the musical.

We harmonised well.

As we were walking in the direction of town, I suggested we get a coffee. Starbucks would still be open; we were young and silly, and although we both had work in the morning, it wasn't that late. So we walked down the tree-lined road, up the alleyways that provide a handy shortcut into town, and perched on stools with vanilla lattes, our instruments making love on the floor beside us. The conversation flowed freely - the laughter too. At this late hour, people were beginning to trickle away, and for a while, we were in our little bubble, the sparkle of her eyes reflecting my nervous brush-back of my hair which, I noticed, I was doing a little too much.

We stayed out far too late and waltzed back to her tiny flat near the train station on the hill. Where once we were waxing lyrical, now we were virtually silent. The door closed; our instruments leaned up against the wall. Our bodies met; her opal kisses tasted like vanilla, strawberry and excitement, with a hint of crescendo. A laugh, a smile, a breath and a tumble, and she fell backwards onto her bed, landing like a soft stick on a timpani. She hitched up her skirt; I tugged at my belt. She bit her lip as I sank my cock into her, her eyelids fluttering closed as her body relaxed around me. I moved inside her, gentle deliberate strokes, her giggles fluttering into my ear as I took breaths as deep and measured as I could.

Moving in rhythm... from the rehearsal room to the bedroom.

We awoke, kissed, dressed, and walked hand-in-hand to the station. I waved her farewell as she joined the stream of commuters heading into London; I turned to make my way to work - on foot, since I'd left my bicycle at home. Violin in hand, I sang softly to myself as I made my way up the hill, a soft glow illuminating my path in the dawn's misty light.

Karolina and I walked around town almost every night - sometimes going for a drink, sometimes just sitting in the park or watching the ducks on the river. We almost always went back to her little flat to make love. Occasionally, we would play music together. We always went to band practice, but this time we talked during the interval. I never told anyone else about her.

I never told anyone else about her, because she didn't exist.

And this time, I didn't want to. She was my secret girlfriend - the one I created. I carried her around like a light in my heart: a secret that I didn't have to feel guilty about. Someone I could talk to, share my stories with, and feel close to. I would walk to band practice every Wednesday, play my part, and then take her hand and walk home.

Say hello to my parents, make a hot chocolate, lie back on my own bed, close my eyes... and walk off into the night with Karolina, always ready to share one more adventure.

Sunday, 13 August 2017

Fair Trade

I was lost.

Through the miasma of backstreets and alleyways with sex shops I didn't recognise, the steady heat beat down upon Soho like a drum. After my relatively unsteady day, I was looking forward to escaping the sun via the Underground and dragging my way home. I didn't know exactly where I was, but was fairly sure I was heading in the right direction.

"Excuse me, sir?"

I froze like a rabbit caught in headlights, the small plastic bag which held my sister's birthday present loosely hanging from my right hand. Turning to the right, from whence the voice had hailed, I saw a blonde woman beckoning me forwards.

"Are you looking for a girl? I have some lovely girls."
"Oh!" I almost laughed, relieved that I wasn't in any particular danger. "No, thank you."
"Are you sure?" she pressed.
"Yes, I'm perfectly sure, thank you," I said politely. "But thank you for asking."

It was only at this point that I realised this was the first time I had ever been in such a situation. I was also slightly bamboozled by our location - the back entrance to Westminster Kingsway College. As the summer holidays are on, this may have been a less active building than usual, but surely there would have been some activities going on? It was an odd place to solicit from, but I suppose if you're going to do it somewhere...

I still wasn't sure how to react.

"I've got some boys too!" she pressed. "Some very nice boys, if you want."
"Oh, no, no," I replied. "No, I'm into girls, but I just don't want to... I mean, you know, I like girls, but I... I have one."

In fact, I'm just coming from dropping her off at work. This morning, as we lay entwined with her hand wrapped around my throbbing penis, I didn't want to ever let her go. 

"Well, what about a nice massage, then? You don't even need to have sex, you can just get a massage from one of the girls..."

However uneasy I felt, I couldn't fault her sales pitch. It was classic patter - get the customer talking, offer something they don't want, and then something they do. And, when it comes down to it, I have nothing at all against prostitution. But I really didn't want to get into a conversation about what I did and didn't want. I'd have been wasting her time, if nothing else.

"No, I'm sorry, but thank you. I'm in a bit of a hurry..."
"You're a bit high?"
"No, I'm in a hurry, a bit of a hurry," I said, beginning to move away. "I'm sorry," I added, even though I wasn't, really. I always feel a little guilty for not buying things.

"OK, well, thanks for stopping!" she said, a little too brightly.

I walked across the street, but just before I turned a corner, I looked back.

"But thank you!" I finished with, unsure as to why I was saying that. "Thank you very much!"

And I scuttled away, emerging onto Regent Street at last.

Friday, 11 August 2017

Life Lessons

"You can be really dirty sometimes."
"Yeah, 'course I can. Everyone can be."
"You've got a long-term boyfriend," I pointed out. "You've probably got a lot more experience than the rest of us."

At which point I stopped saying anything. Lightsinthesky had just walked in and I certainly didn't want to hear about how much experience he had.

"Yeah. I'm probably going to marry him, too."

Unlike some of the other upper-sixth-formers taking more ASs, she was less of an enigma. In bigger AS classes, we usually had one or two - older ones, usually girls, taking on a different subject in order to get another qualification. In our English class, we had one I never really talked to, because I couldn't remember her name. For a while, I thought it might be Urethra. This one, however, was in our Philosophy class, which consisted of five. We were a tight unit - me, Lightsinthesky, two smart girls who we got on well with, and her. She was part of us, and when she'd left in our second year, we generally felt bereft.

She was, of course, incredibly good-looking. Lightsinthesky looked upon her with barely-disguised lust. I just thought she was a nice girl... with her dirty moments.

Lightsinthesky had entered the room with one of the other members of the class - the one who decided she'd evolved from a sheep rather than a hominid, and ended up getting straight As in her A2s.

"No, hang on, it's got to be three."
"Two, surely?"
"I thought it was three."
"My mum told me it was two?"

"Your mum's wrong."
"Mums are never wrong."

"Hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up," I said, although I probably didn't say that. "What's all this, then?" Only I probably sounded less like a policeman. I think I probably said something like, "Huh?". Or maybe I didn't say anything at all.

"How many holes does a girl have?" he asked. "I thought it was three, but she says it's two."
"I think it's three," I said.
"But she's a girl, so she should know."
"No, it's three," our upper sixth colleague pointed out. One here..."

...at which she pointed...

"...one here..."

...she demonstrated...

"...and one here."

All with a dazzling smile.

"Hey, guys, what are you talking about?" asked our teacher as she bustled in with what looked like the Dead Sea Scrolls cradled in her arms.
"How many..." started Lightsinthesky, before I trod on his foot and he stopped talking.
"It's fine," I said, "it's a question that's been answered." And I sat down, got out my books, and made a mental note to have a word with the Biology department.