Tuesday, 25 July 2017

Swing when you're winning

For a relatively long time - at least, relatively long by his terms - Lightsinthesky was in a relationship with an inexplicably hot girl named Jazz. She was a beauty - olive skin; long, dark, shiny hair; lovely white smile. In fact, I never saw her do anything but smile; she didn't appear to have a voice, other than the occasional nervous giggle. But then, hang around with my school friends, and you'd be nervous too.

She was also, apparently, very good in bed, although I only have Lightsinthesky's word on that, which may be unreliable (he'd spent the last seven years of his life trying to get laid; the fact that he'd recently started having sex was nothing short of a miracle for him); he did, however, manage to make it apparent to the rest of us.

"I hope she gets pregnant," muttered my token black friend resentfully after the four-thousandth "JUST HAD SEX!" text pinged through onto his 'phone.

As the upper sixth rolled around, my token black friend started to get a little more depressed about not being in a relationship himself. Lightsinthesky still had Jazz, as he'd tell anyone who listened, and I had Rebecca. Music Man, always an attractive lad, had girls swarming around him like bees around a honeypot, and despite my thinking it was never going to happen, it certainly did seem like more and more of us were courting.

"Despite being the first of us here to lose my virginity," my friend sulked, "I'm not getting any sex right now. The rest of you -" (I suspect this was a paraphrase, as Einstein certainly wasn't, and Man o' War also wasn't, although not for lack of trying) "- are. Not that I begrudge you or anything, but..."

"Fancy a bit of Jazz?" interjected Lightsinthesky blithely.
"Yeah, all right!"
Lightsinthesky raised a hand to his lips and air-trumpeted When The Saints Go Marching In.

Or so the story goes. You see, that final bit of wondrous wit and ready repartée is apocryphal. I wasn't actually there.

I just heard about it. Several hundred times.

Sunday, 23 July 2017


For two weeks, I am silent.

It's an odd feeling. I've been writing this blog for nine and a half years. At Eroticon this year I ran a session about how to keep writing blog posts. I have been trying, using each one of my methods, to keep writing at least one a week during the months afterwards - ideally more than one. Two. Three. I'd post every day if I could. I should.

And then I come here and I sit behind a firewall which blocks everything. Not just Blogger - but Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, Skype, IRC, and so many others. I have no idea how the staff cope. I'm only here for a month.

So I open Notepad. I write a couple of blog posts. I'll post them, I tell myself, when I get around this block. There's a way around it - there's always a way around it. Well-meaning people tell me of VPNs, or proxy bypassing sites, or tunnels. They are all blocked. I cannot view them; I cannot download anything. My usual tunnel - through 47's server - is not available, even if through some miracle I remember to have PuTTY here (whether it can connect, however...).

Two increasingly desperate weeks pass and I manage to get around the block. It's a fluke, and it's unstable, but I don't care. This is my dad's old laptop; mine is safe back home. I can read sex blogs; I can download porn if I want to. I can post my blog. I can go on IRC. I can even browse Tumblr - not that I do that very often, but still.

My fingers hover over the keys. What do I blog about? The sex I've been having? No, I haven't been having any. Recent sexual happenings? I'm not sure there have been any. Sex news? I haven't read any - I've been blocked. Shock revelations? I don't know. There's been a game of I Have Never recently, but there's nothing new there. It's hardly a surprise, really, for a sex blogger to say that he's had sex in a stationary car, or a disabled toilet, or by the side of a swimming pool. Not that anyone here knows I'm a sex blogger, of course.

So what do I say? What do I do? I want to blog... but how?

Paper. Pencil. Get some ideas down, ILB. Sort through your dickbrain and your Rolodex of memories. There's got to be something. Something. Anything.

Halfway through a morning of work I start jotting down some ideas for tweets. It's a start. Later in the day, I get a cup of tea and a biscuit, I sit down and I start to write. It's far from perfect... but I am writing.

I am very tired this month. I am working hard. Too hard. Everyone here is - with no space to breathe or time to spare. I'm not horny, or excited, or enthused. I am burning out. Yes, yes I am.

But if I can write... then that's one thing to which I can cling.

Thursday, 20 July 2017


"Okay, so this is the sign we're going to hold up," said the 15-year-old set artist, "during the sex scene. Obviously, we can't show them going to bed, because..."
"...because everyone's going to be underage?" I offered.
"Oh, yeah..." he said, as if he hadn't considered that possibility. "We're going to show a kiss - a real one - and then hold this sign in front of the actors."

He held up a piece of sugar paper on which he'd written "CENSORED" in huge letters, covered in smiling hearts and with a loading bar at the bottom captioned BABY LOADING: 30%. Once I got over the impact of the thing, it was genuinely amusing.

"All right, show me what you've got."

Two 16-year-old actors took their place on stage while the Joker and Harley Quinn watched from the wings. Strange times indeed.

"Maybe one of you should put your feet up on another chair?" I proferred. "Look more relaxed, since you're waiting for your lover to come in."

The girl playing the sexy temptress attempted to do so and immediately looked like she was in a lot of pain. I dithered for a while, wondering whether to call someone from the medical team, when one of the writers - a queer femme visionary with the "Coexist" tattoo and a penchant for attacking people with felt tips - walked on and casually adjusted her legs.

"That's much better," she said. "Thank you."
"No problem," said the writer. And took a bow as the other actor walked back on and nearly collided with her.

I have no idea whose pocket the condom fell out of, but everyone looked at me with barely-disguised horror.

"No, no, it's fine," I said coolly, as somebody opened their mouth to probably give some sort of explanation. (It's only right to take condoms with you when travelling, anyway.) "It's always good to be prepared. Better put that back into your pocket, though, before the director comes along."

"What's this?" said the director, coming along.
"Rehearsal," I shrugged, truthfully.
"Can I see it?"

There was a very long pause during which everyone on stage - actors, writers, co-directors, set designers and the one girl who didn't appear to have any set role - looked at me.

"...No," I answered.

Tuesday, 18 July 2017

Sounds of our Lives


It's most definitely coming from the flat with the light on and the open window. There's nowhere else it could be coming from. Even if the direction wasn't clear enough, you could tell. Everyone can hear it, from those waiting with me at the bus stop to the shopkeepers and curious patrons in the little parade directly below said flat (and those adjoining it).

Last week. I'm visiting home for the weekend to collect some cuddles from my girlfriend, sort out some stuff I forgot to the first time around and say general hellos... but, if I'm being honest, mostly in order to see Spider-Man: Homecoming. We meet, we dine, we see said arachnid-based film, and we stop at the little supermarket to get some incredibly sinful food. Back to the bus stop outside, silence falls, and...


Everyone looks uncertain. But, to be fair, it's almost midnight. People in flats are allowed to have sex, I'm sure. And people having sex are allowed to be loud. It's basically the only time one is. And it's summer, so of course the windows are open. Of course they are.

I glance at her. I'm about to say something, although I'm not sure what yet. She places a finger to her lips to shush me. Like me, I'm assuming, she wants to hear more. The older people around us look uncomfortable; a little grin is unfurling on my own face. I know what this sounds like. And I know what the increase in volume, pitch, and frequency means. I'm even trying to visualise the scene, even if that makes me feel a little too sordid.

Fuck it, I'm on holiday. You go, girl.

Swish! Thwack!

At this we shoot a look at each other. A knowing, familiar look. "Was that a spank?" I mouthed at her, still not daring to make a sound, lest I should be heard... or my voice drowns out the next sound.


There's a pause, heavy in the summer night air. A cricket chirps somewhere. I am still.


Okay, now I certainly don't want my bus to come. Unintentional or not, I have become an auditory observer. If there's going to be a grand finale, I want to be there for it. wrong as that may seem. It's not me who left the window open, after all.

There follows about a minute of gleefully uncomfortable silence. The shoppers opposite us are still going about their business; the guy smoking directly below The Flat Of Sex takes a drag on his cigarette and exhales. I'm listening intently, grasping my girlfriend's hand. I take a glance at the little LED display that tells me our bus is one minute away. For a moment, I think it has all finished, without me realising.

And a most curious sound rings out from the open window. A heavy, soft swoosh followed by a firm, wet thud.


Leather flogger? No. Riding crop? No, that's not the right sound. Palm of a hand? No - I've just heard that and it makes a different noise. Cat-o'-nine-tails? I'm not sure I even know what that one sounds like.

Rubber paddle?

Immediately before I can offer this assumption, our bus pulls up. I get on - running the gauntlet between anxiety and amusement. With the tiniest dash of admiration, of course. Unsteadily I weave my way to the back of the bus, and flop down onto one of the worn seats. I'm giggling like James from Team Rocket.

"Rubber paddle?" I finally venture.
"I was more thar a little tempted to applaud," I wheeze, and then settle back, trying to bring myself back from the brink of rêverie.
"You applaud and you're not allowed to write about this."

Which is a joke, of course. We all know I'm going to write about this.

Saturday, 8 July 2017

If, indeed, you still are...

"I wanted to say goodbye," said Seven.

He'd interrupted my viewing of The Crystal Maze by the simple expedient of knocking on my door. Knowing Seven, I was fully expecting him to be watching The Crystal Maze as well. Mind you, he'd probably packed his TV.

"How did you know I was going away?" I asked, nonplussed.

I can't recall telling him I was going away for a month. I may have told Six, at some point, but I can't imagine she'd have relayed the information to him. I didn't tell him where I was going, or why, or how long for. I also didn't tell him that there's an impenetrable firewall surrounding the place which makes it impossible to write my blog... but then I didn't know that at the time. (I'm not sure why I'd have told him even if I did know. He doesn't read my blog... I hope.)

There are a lot of things I didn't tell him, either. I didn't tell him that I overheard Six shouting at him almost every night. I didn't tell him that I knew he'd been unfaithful, or that Six thought he masturbated too much. I certainly didn't tell him that the only thing louder than their fights was their sex, and that by proxy I knew the raw, bestial sound that Six made. I didn't know much about him at all, other than the fact that he was easily beatable at Smash Bros., but I certainly knew too much about their relationship. 

"I'm not talking about you. We're moving out, remember?"
"Oh! Yes, of course!"
"You've been my favourite housemate ever," he said. "I'll miss you, and wish we had more time together, and..."

He held out a skinny hand, and I took it.

"I'm very flattered. What about Six? Don't you prefer her?"
"Nah," he said cheerily. "I've got to live with her."

I wasn't sure whether to laugh at this or not.
"Hey! It's that guy from The IT Crowd!" he said, indicating my TV.

He walked off into the darkness. I retreated into my room, watched the last few seconds of The Crystal Maze, and sat on the edge of my bed, deep in thought.

I opened my wallet, fingering the business cards with my blog's URL and Twitter handle... before deciding against it, tucking the cards back in, and stowing my wallet somewhere safe.

I was going away for a month. I have yet to realise how quiet it is at home.

But I expect I shall.