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

Brazen

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

Fertilisation

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.]