Sunday, 15 July 2018

Soft Porn Sunday: Krista Allen & Paul Michael Robinson (again!)

Throughout my life, one of the things that I've looked for in a sex scene is the sex itself is fast, fun, frisky and involves a lot of movement (and possibly some other things that start with F). It's no secret that a lot of my very favourite scenes have a fair amount of brisker, lustier, harder sex - it's probably less realistic, but then I'm not really looking for realism in soft porn,* and if it works for me, then it works for me.

So why I keep coming back to this one is a mystery.

Which is to say that it was a mystery. I think I've managed to solve it.

*(no, seriously, I'm not)

Appearance: Emmanuelle in Space 4: Concealed Fantasy, aka There's More to Love than Sex (1994)
Characters: Emmanuelle & Haffron

This is one of the more "romantic" sex scenes in the franchise, which in layman's terms means that it
Sing, baby, sing.
is SLOW. In fact, it's one of the "filler" sex scenes, which in the Emmanuelle films means that it isn't one of the big show numbers filmed in 3D with the merry-go-round effect. It happens beforehand, early on in the film (episode four of seven), and is in many ways a starting block for the gradual shift towards a love story, as opposed to the sexperimentation aspect of the first three.


There isn't much to talk about in terms of positioning. The entire thing takes place on a bed in nondescript surroundings, and it's all done in the spoons position. That's basically it.

So... the mystery!

Why do I like this more and more every time I see it, even though I used to skip it? Why does it come to my mind when I'm trying to masturbate, or drift up when I'm riffling through my collection for something to effect the change? It's not my usual thing, and that leads me to eliminate certain things.

It can't be the actors. I love both Krista Allen and Paul Michael Robinson, and I love Emmanuelle and Haffron. But there are numerous sex scenes featuring these two and so many more of them that offer almost instant gratification for me. It's not like I'm looking specifically for this pairing in this one scene because, as I've said... seven films!

It can't be the music. It's fairly iconic music, but there's nothing special about it. It's not like it really fits the scene, like the following sex with Pamela or the subsequent "feature" sex with Emmanuelle. I mean, it works and everything - there's nothing wrong with it - but it's just fairly standard softcore music. Good music can make or break a scene for me, but that just isn't it.

"I told you it was better without the rain." I wish I could finish like that.

It can't be the cinematography. It's fine camera work, but then again, it always is - this series is directed well - this, however, is a series of mix and cut shots and there's very little to distinguish it. There are some very nice bird's-eye views of the pair, and some front-on shots of Emmanuelle (who's wearing some very nice earrings, which I've noticed because shut up), so it's well done and everything, but that's nothing new here.

So what is it?

I've had a think, and a wank, and a watch. Many watches. And my conclusion? It must be... the closeness.

During this scene, Emmanuelle and Haffron are very close. I mean, I know he's meant to be inside her
Body hair doesn't exist in this world.
and everything, but there's more than that. Their bodies are so pressed together that they are almost "as one". They're certainly moving as one - initial gentle rocks back and forth increasing in intensity (not speed - but intensity) as they go on. Even their moans are in sync - the little sighs of pleasure and whispered gasps of delight are done simultaneously. They move together, they orgasm together, and even during the comedown at the end ("I told you it was better throughout the rain..."), there is an undeniable intimacy to it, almost like their bodies are magnetically drawn together.


I don't know if there's a point to this, or if that's just the way it is filmed. Maybe it's intended to be romantic, almost to the point of ridiculousness, or perhaps it's just a style they're messing with and managed to get right. It could even be seen to represent warmth, as opposed to the cold rain they have just managed to escape... but I'm not sure even I would go that far.

For whatever reason, though, this has really grown on me. It's very sweet, it's incredibly sexy, and it's close, as I said. And, with the prior knowledge of what comes up afterwards, it always gives my heart a little squeeze too.

Tuesday, 10 July 2018

Consent

"We can play a bit," she said, "but only touching. Sexy stuff. I don't want to have sex tonight."
"Okay," I said.

Kisses.
More than kisses.

"You look horny," I whispered in the gathering darkness.

I slid a finger into her, feeling her warm, and wet, and inviting. My rock-hard cock gave a little twitch of longing.

"You feel horny," I continued. "Are you sure you don't want to have sex?"
"It feels good," she breathed, "but no. I don't want to have sex."
"Okay," I said, and I stopped and rolled onto my back.

Now that genuinely isn't difficult... so why do so many people have a problem with it?

Sunday, 8 July 2018

Bring it on now...

A few days ago, I found myself sitting on the big squashy sofa at work idly browsing through tweets on my 'phone when I received an unexpected ping. Nobody ever really texts me, so this confused me... the fact that it was from an international number confused me even more. I dithered for a while before deciding to actually, you know, read the text.

As it turned out, it was from someone I knew: an ex-colleague of mine, who (as I suddenly realised with a jolt) had previously sent me an incredibly nebulous e-mail basically consisting of "I want to ask you something. What is your 'phone number?". This text was no more informative - "can i call u now?" - and, of course, I said it was fine. Not like I was at work or anything. I even turned down the sound on Love Island in order to respond to this clearly very important call.

My 'phone rang almost the instant I send the text back. I answered with a trilled "hello?" and was answered with...

...DEATHLY SILENCE.

"Hello...?"

DEATHLY SILENCE.

"...uhm...?"

At which point the line went dead.

One of my colleagues came through at this point, looking curiously in my direction. I opened my mouth to explain what had happened, before realising that I couldn't really explain a DEATHLY SILENCE.

My 'phone jumped into life suddenly, and I swore so badly that my colleague cocked an eyebrow.

"Hello! I couldn't hear anything last time, is there anything wrong with your 'phone anyway hello how are you what did you want to ask me?" I gabbled into the mouthpiece.

DEATHLY SILENCE.

Trepidatiously, I concealed my 'phone in its carry case, and dropped it into my pocket, keeping a hand on it in case my ex-coworker decided to gift me with any more moments of complete absence. Making my way back to the kitchen (where I leave my stuff), I retrieved my bag, found my wallet and my iPod, slung the satchel over my shoulder, and was just about to walk out of the door when...

Ring ring! Ring ring! Ring ring!

By this point, however, I had begun to be more concerned about exactly what it is she wanted to ask me, as opposed to the fact she didn't appear to have a voice. We were civil when we used to work together - friendly, even. She had been taking on the job I used to do, and there was plenty to talk about then... but now? What was so important that she needed to ask me at 10pm?

And then the realisation hit me like a ton of bricks.

It's a booty call! That must be what it is! Why else would you 'phone someone at this time of night?

I pulled my 'phone from my pocket and slipped off its carry case.

Okay, stay calm, ILB. You need to let this lady know that you're flattered, but not interested. I mean, you like her as a person, but this is just far too much. I think she said she was married, as well. You've got a girlfriend; you'd be on your way back to her if you hadn't stopped to answer this call. Just hear the question, say no politely, and move on.

I hit the "answer call" button and braced myself for the DEATHLY SILENCE. I almost dropped the 'phone when I actually heard, for the first time in months, her voice.

She wanted to thank me for the lovely thank-you card I left her, she said. It had touched her very much. She was also sad to see me leave and wanted to wish me well for the future, and hoped to see me soon. And she had something to ask me, although she felt a bit embarrassed about it.

Here it comes. Just say no, and move on.

"I wanted to ask you about Brexit."

...

Brexit?! 

I'd rather have answered a booty call.

Wednesday, 4 July 2018

It's fun to share, it's fun to share

She: "So you're not American? Where do you live?"
Me: "I'm in North London. I live and work here, but I've worked all over London at various points."
She: "Gotcha! When I visited London, my airbnb was in South London."
Me: "From what I hear, it's cheaper there. But, on a completely biased and unfair view... North London has hotter girls."


I wasn't expecting her to agree.


She: "Oh, I know; I kept going across the river to party!"
Me: "You did...?"
She: "I went to the Winter Wonderland thing and picked up so many birds. A Tower Bridge kiss was my finishing move!"


I was torn between questioning her use of the term "birds" and wondering how she knew it, considering how I don't think it's part of American English. But then again, there was one far more urgent question to be asked.

Me: "Sneaky girl! Did you get very far with any of them?"
   

Stop it, ILB.

She: "Two of them came back to my airbnb! And I had mindblowing British-accented double-dildo lickfests with them!"

Okay, sure, tell me more. 

Saturday, 30 June 2018

Priorities

We are moving into a new flat on Monday. It doesn't have any furniture (except, scavenging as we have been from family and friends, we have more than enough); realising the relative urgency of the situation, yesterday my parents took us to IKEA in order to buy a bed.

I don't think I've ever actually owned a bed. All the things I've slept on have either technically belonged to my parents, or whichever letting agent I've been working with who has bought the cheapest, most uncomfortable bed alternative they can get and thrown it at me. The room we are moving out of currently actually has a bed frame, which is a novelty by this point. It's still not in the least comfortable, which is why we spent quite a while sitting/lying on the beds in IKEA to make sure they weren't going to snap my spine in two, or something.

One of the things I wanted to get was a bedhead with slats, because I liked the look and feel of such a thing... or so I said.

You see, I actually wanted something to grip with my hands, taking the strain and providing both balance and stamina for my top half, while my hips work rhythmically back and forth as she lies spread underneath me. I could, of course, grip something else, but what else is there?

Another of the things I wanted to get was a bed with a foot, because I liked the complete idea of a bed framed at both ends... or so I said.

You see, I actually wanted something to press against with my feet, shifting my entire body forwards and penetrating her deeper, that extra half an inch buried further inside her, feeling her warm and wet around the entire length of my shaft. I could, of course, press my feet off something else, but what else is there?

In the end, of course, we ended up buying a bed with neither of these things - one with a completely solid bedhead and nothing at the foot... but, at the very least, a more comfortable mattress.

It's time to start training my hips.

Sunday, 24 June 2018

Guilt

I'm hungry.

I raise myself from my chair, pick up a plate, and totter unsteadily to the door, which I open. On the left is the kitchen. It's unusually quiet.

This is unexpected. I wasn't expecting anyone to be here.

The two new housemates are in the kitchen. Neither of them are speaking. I don't know their names, or anything about them; all I know is that they both speak French and they are staying here for a week. I am moving out in a week. My packed boxes are littering the corridor.

What do I say to them? I have to be civil. They're new. I can't just stand here making food, just after my... my...

And then a realisation hits me.

Oh God! Do they know?

I start to feel more self-conscious.

Maybe I'm giving off some sort of signal. I'm certainly feeling that post-orgasm glow. I'm walking unsteadily, I must look slightly unfocused. And I've said it's quiet - maybe that's just the buzz you get after climax. I must look flushed. I'm going red. I'm giving off all the signals, I just know it.

Panicked slightly, I hurriedly wash up my plate and start piling random bits of food onto it. One old wrap. Peanut butter. Jam. I'll grab a Pepsi once I'm back in my room.

Nothing more. If I'm in here any longer then my new housemates will know I've just had an orgasm.

I'm not even sure why that's bad, but it most certainly is.

Oh God! My Eroticon mug is on the draining board! What if they Google me? What if they then see this post?

I practically run the metre and a half to my door and sit back down in a state of nervous collapse.

It was a very good orgasm, though.

Friday, 22 June 2018

USB

It's there. Not always obvious, but it is. It hangs there, right in front of me, tantalising like the Golden Fleece. Fruit to be plucked from a tree. Sometimes I can reach out and take it... and sometimes it just remains where it is - solidly, resolutely intangible. A faint, uneasy smudge in the air. A mistake waiting to be corrected. It floats above me, and it is all I can do to hope to connect with it.

My identity. It eludes me, and it has for a few weeks now. In some moments, it comes to me in stark realisation - rememberance - of who I am. I laugh at something my girlfriend innocuously says that reminds me of soft porn. I scribble keywords into my diary that I think I may be able to spin out into posts of hundreds of words. I spend my time on the bus trying to think of things I may write. I sit in an armchair with the heat beating down on me from outside and drift into half-sleep, feeling my erection grow.

A swirl of memories comes and goes - colours and sound and occasional pictures. Can I mention these? Are they relevant? I don't know. I can't write about Shannan Leigh's growl, or the naked picture my friend send me which turned out to be Photoshopped. Maybe there's something to be said about the album art I used which was a naked photo of myself, or one which is a tracing of a still from a hentai game. Perhaps there's even something to be said about the track I once put together which has a sample in it I recorded from an anal sex animation.

There was a cajón being played on Lorraine this morning. I like the pleasant rumble when sitting on a cajón. There's something sexual, even, in that.

There is a disconnect, you see, between my identity and I. We dance around each other like those circles in the Battery visualisations of Windows Media Player. I am unreasonably busy. I pack clothes; I wash plates. I go through interminable paperwork. Admin. Money. Packing. Walking. Commuting. Music. Packing. Cooking... cleaning... organising... resting. Rest. Rest. Rest.

Reset. Start again. I need to take a shower. I haven't done so for days. I don't have the time. The energy. The wherewithal...

It all escapes me. I know, from experience, that I will get it back. All of it. It comes and it goes, and I know - I'm not that far gone - and I can't wait for The Muse to strike. She is a flighty bitch. I need to push myself forwards. Get myself in order. Rediscover myself and reconnect.

I can do this. I can. I can and I will.

There's too much to do at the moment. But I just wrote this. And, if I can write a post in these times, I can do just about anything.

Thursday, 14 June 2018

KissCam

I shouldn't be watching Love Island; it's too triggering.

That's blatantly untrue - while it is triggering, in some ways, the complete escapism it presents it too big a draw, and the fact that I have a lot of shifts at work which offer an hour of nothing between 9 and 10pm (the 'dead but you are rota'd in' period) contributes to the fact that I will, in fact, be watching Love Island, so sue me.

Eyal can go suck a fuck, though.

I say this from a completely neutral standpoint, which is a much bigger lie than the one I told above. It's happened three times, and possibly more (I haven't yet watched the episode tonight), that there's a slightly forced, unnecessarily messy, and incredibly public kiss between Eyal and Megan - and, seemingly, almost always in the presence of Alex, who doesn't need to see that, because he fancies Megan.

It happened three times, and possibly more (I didn't keep as accurate a count as she did),that there was a slightly drunk, unnecessarily messy, and incredibly public kiss between Leaf and whoever - and, seemingly, always in the presence of me, who didn't need to see that, because I fancied Leaf. I mean, initially I didn't mind so much, because one of those drunken kisses was me!

The issue is, of course, that with this community, and the age range, and the complete freedom of expression when it comes to sexuality which we espoused (and the amount of alcohol), kisses appeared to be the norm. I, of course, didn't get many - a few on the cheek, maybe, and one very brief one from a friend who was in a competition to pull as many people as possible on the night. And then Leaf. Because she was drunk.

The issue was that I'd been fairly smitten with Leaf since I first met her. I was 19; she was 16, and into indie music, and cute. And she wore glasses and she was a drummer, which is always something I find attractive. I met her in London during a brief event, and every time I found that memory fading, I'd go to another event, and she'd also be there, looking even more attractive every time. I knew, of course, that this would never go anywhere - it never did with me so I wasn't going to entertain any fantasies - but I had a crush, bordering at times on obsession (half the songs on three of my self-produced albums are about her).

Of course, she was clueless. I think. I left her a lot of hints, up to and including "I Have Never... had a secret admirer" (nobody drank); I didn't really want her to solve the puzzle, however.

All of this would be a fonder memory if I hadn't been one of only three Innocent™ bystanders on one of the last nights at an event, when she engaged in a long, drunken, incredibly messy and very public (although, as I said, only three of us were there - me... and the other two members of the geek clique) with another incredibly attractive girl who was there for her first event and had swiftly become fairly well-acquainted with several pairs of lips. I don't really know what I was expecting, really - I'd snogged her at a previous event; was I genuinely expecting another one? Undoubtedly it meant moe to me than it did to her, but then again, I knew that too!

What I don't think anyone was expecting (myself included) was how explosive my reaction to the sight of seeing Leaf kiss someone else (let's call her... Chloé) was. I was upset, of course I was - although I'm still not sure why; she was completely within her right to kiss Chloé - but what I wasn't expecting was for me to dissolve almost instantly into uncontrollable, grief-infused tears. My geek friends, one of whom helpfully said "you know, it's what teenage girls do...", practically carried me outside to console me. I got one final glimpse of Leaf and Chloé in a corner before we exited the building - they sat me by the fireside, got me a drink from somewhere, and hardly said a word.

They didn't need to ask why I was upset. They just knew.

I'm still surprised by my reaction, and I still don't know what else I could have done (although, when one reflects upon it, it wasn't upon me to do anything... Leaf and Chloé probably didn't even clock that I was there!). It had been a good event, really - I'd been sleeping well, in between one of my geek friends and one of the incredibly sexually active girls who was always relatively chaste at these events but whatever this isn't about her it's about Leaf this is a completely different subject shut up ILB, and I'd been feeling quite down at home, so this was all making me feel refreshed. These trips did that for me.

I woke up the next day making sure that I said goodbye to everyone, including Leaf, and made my way (with fellow stragglers) back to the train station. I didn't know what to say to anyone by the end of the day - nobody ever wanted to leave these events. Those that had coupled up throughout the weekend were going home together. If I hadn't been so tired, it would have made me feel a little more melancholy.

And that's why Eyal can fuck off. Because if it hurts that much to watch someone you fancy snogging someone else, then how much it hurts to watch the same when both participants know you're there and that you fancy one of them is something I genuinely can't imagine.

Although I've had dreams about it. So obviously I can imagine it.

I hate my brain.

Sunday, 10 June 2018

Lime

At 11, I was of the opinion that I was too young for love.

Despite my Nan's assertion that I was incredibly good-looking "it must be something in your demeanour that puts them off...", and my mother's equally saccharine comparisons to Leonardo DiCaprio (which I actually found insulting; I've never really seen the attraction), I've never thought of myself as particularly attractive. Besides, at this point I was 11. That's far too young, I told myself, and I was going to wait until I was a teenager before I even started thinking about it (lies; I got a crush almost immediately after starting year 7, and even sent her a flower).

Nevertheless, I was certain that nothing was going to happen at that time, and I assumed a kind of aloof position, just to make it clear that I was both (i) intelligent; (ii) unattainable. I didn't have any friends at that point (Robinson and my friend-who-is-a-midwife, who had been my Ron and Hermione at primary, had gone to the local selective grammar; I was at the mixed-ability comprehensive), and as an immediate outsider, I developed a kind of mystique, firmly insisting that I wasn't interested in love, I would never be interested in sex, and that "nobody fancies me and gets away with it".

Uninterested as I may have said I was, the same can't be said for a couple of girls. There's the one I wrote about here, of course... and then there's one more, as well.

This girl was in my class. I knew who she was, but I hardly ever talked to her. We worked together a couple of times, but she hardly ever said a word ("je suis timide", as she put it in a French lesson). Quite a few people in the class were quite cruel to her for her unassuming nature, withdrawn personality and unflattering body shape, so I tried to be as courteous as possible to her, as a fellow victim of bullying.

It didn't take long for people to matchmake, although their reasons were, as far as I was aware, very loose at best. "You two suit," one of the girls in my class pointed out, although I thought she may have also fancied me (she had my name written on her pencil case). "You both read books," pointed out one of the boys, as if that was a pastime nobody else had ever considered. "You both like going to school," pointed out yet another, "and anyway, I thought you two got on well together."

I wasn't convinced, and in the end, I went to talk to my Head of Year about it. He, rather gallantly, talked to the class, without naming names, and after that it eased off a little. But only a little. (I remember missing the lesson when he did that and hanging in his office for a while. I didn't need French; I could, at that point, already speak French).

The problem was, however, that she did in fact have a crush on me. She tried to confide it in someone, which was probably a mistake, as it made its way back to me.
"I don't care," I said coolly to whichever rumourmonger it was who told me. "You shouldn't be telling me that sort of stuff. I'm not sure it's even true," I finished, even though I knew it was, in fact, true. I could have talked for a while about the nature of human attraction, and how not disliking someone doesn't automatically indicate true love, but I didn't (and, in the first two years of secondary school, this kind of binary opposition seemed to be the norm). And I didn't mention it at all, because if she was pining, then I didn't want to prolong her suffering.

The worst thing was that I couldn't do anything about it. I started to hesitate when going to school, and made absolutely sure to stay away from her, lest I would be seen talking to her and it being mistaken, yet again, for a relationship. I felt awful about it - it seemed to me like I was being cold and distant - but everyone, including my Head of Year, said that this was the right course of action. I continued to feel, though, that this was entirely out of my control, and eventually she sort of asked me on a date, although I wasn't entirely sure she was talking to me at first.

She asked me if I wanted to go for a walk. I told her, politely I hope, that I didn't want to - a sort of "hmmm... no, thank you" deal - and was both impressed by her courage and incredibly guilty at having disappointed her. We barely exchanged words after that, although in year 8 we were library monitors together, and it was brought up within earshot of both of us that "she used to fancy you, but it's okay, she hates you now" (binary opposition again!). Eventually, of course, things seemed to thaw, and by year 13, when I'd evolved into a floppy-haired, quick-witted, guitar-playing alternative music fan, I found myself in the same class as her again, and was quite cordial to her - warm, even. I felt she deserved to do well, as her first couple of years hadn't been her happiest.

She denied having ever had a crush on me. I suppose that's for the best. It wouldn't have dragged up good memories.

And that's the first time I've ever been asked out. Hardly one of my best moments, and although I think I handled it well enough, I didn't like the fact that it was almost competely out of my control. The mocking cruelty of my classmates, my oddball outsider status, and her faltering start - even though, academically, she was doing well - was completely new to me. I didn't like it one bit... but what could I have done? And, as I said, I was 11. I really was too young for love.

The next time someone asked me out, of course, I was 17. And I was ready. I said yes.

Thursday, 7 June 2018

Vocation

Yesterday I left the job I have been doing for three years, hereafter "job 1", in order to move onto that which the more Romantic among us may term as "pastures new", but the more realistic would term "a new job, which isn't as fun, but pays more and is probably less bureaucratic and micromanaged, and anyway, ILB could do with the money, as he is fed up of eating cardboard to survive".

I wasn't sure how to feel about leaving my old job. I was expecting tears, but they didn't come. I handed out cards, finished a fair amount of paperwork, and said goodbye to clients who probably felt more upset than I did. With a few exceptions (including this blog), my job has been one of the few constants that have been there during my last few years. Inflexible and irritating occasionally, perhaps, but always solidly, dependably present - as was I while doing it - and, perhaps crucially, it was in the industry that suits me. I liked the basic aspect of the job, and I will miss it. 

My new job - job 3 -  doesn't quite have the same responsibilities. It's still a fairly responsible job, insofar as I am responsible for some fairly important stuff and the clients have to trust me with their personal affairs (not that type of affairs - what is this, Ashley Madison?), but it isn't the same job. I'm even keeping the door open to job 2 so I can do occasional days there now and then and not feel like I've left that entire world behind me.

It's not that I hate my new job, either. It's deceptively relaxed. It looks difficult - in fact, read the job description and it looks like a bit of a killer - but it genuinely is quite relaxed. If I can go to a shift that starts at 3pm, do a couple of hours of genuine work and spend the rest of the time tuning musical instruments, sitting in a quiet room catching up on rest, or watching Love Island on the TV in the main room - and get paid for it - then I'm all right with how things stand.

Famous last words, I know.

Yesterday afternoon, as I left the building for probably the last time (although I will have to go back to collect pay), I didn't feel anything, except for "uncomfortably numb". I called my dad on the way to the bus stop, but wasn't even sure what to say. I'm not sure anyone was. I didn't know how to feel; I still don't.

Also, one of my new colleagues has massive tits and isn't even bothering to attempt to hide them. So there's that.

Anything to lower the tone, ILB. Tsk, tsk.

Sunday, 3 June 2018

Warm glowing warming glow

Post-orgasm the other day, my sex princess described herself as "glowing".

Very accurate.

Were I a visual artist (and I'm not), I'd depict sexual pleasure as a light, warming glow around the areas that matter... in fact, sometimes I even do that during sex, if I'm in the flow and get lost in the moment. I like to imagine the glow as encircling the people involved, covering them in brightness and bearable heat. I even sometimes visualise the way it moves - tendrils of glow stretching, and then breaking, as I pull my fingers back out of her, or maybe engendering like spren when the first taps of pleasure begin to beat out.

It's almost impossible to visualise an orgasm (although GOTN ran a memorable competition once so people could have a go), but it's an important part of erotica writing - and cybersex, sexting, or directing porn, one supposes - to try to depict sex, at least a little accurately. You can do that with your imagination, and thus you can be a little more creative. So I imagine the glow.

I'm not sure what she meant by glowing. Maybe she was in some sort of transcendental state where that was all she could mention. Maybe it was just the heat she was experiencing. Maybe just a word (it's a very pretty word). Sweat beading on her skin, she was most certainly glistening in the light.

But I like the glow. And I like basking in it myself.

Sometimes I see people out and about practically surrounded by that halo. Maybe it's just me and my dirty mind... but I wonder, sometimes, how right I might be. If it's any indication, there are plenty of highly-sexed people in North London this summer.

Saturday, 2 June 2018

Barenaked lady

It's happening. Slowly, but surely, it's happening, and joyfully, I'm not the one to have initiated it, which must mean that she wants it as much as I do.

I always sleep naked. I have done since I was about 12 - I mean, I own pyjamas - a couple of pairs, hypothetically, even if I'm not quite sure where they are - but they are for social occasions. It's much easier to take off everything and dump it in a little pile before getting into bed... and it's warmer. After a while, anyway. Living in a succession of share houses has proved a little problematic when I'm needing the bathroom in the middle of the night - my dressing gown has been useful in that regard.

Despite the fact that we spent our first night together naked (and didn't actually get around to havng sex until the following morning), the lady with whom I sleep doesn't often do the naked thing as freely as I. Which is fine - I mean, as long as I get to hold her in bed I don't mind what she wears - but I do sometimes find myself missing the soothing, sexy satisfaction of skin against skin, or the shared body heat, or the easy transition to sex.

Over the past month or so, however, I've occasionally had the good fortune to come home and find her disrobed. Whether this is a deliberate thing or not, I'm not sure. But it is pleasing, and it both looks and feels good, and it's hot. I don't think I'm particularly attractive, but I'm fairly sure she does, and I'm not afraid to show her my body; I adore hers, and I'm enchanted by the idea of doing so more often. I'm even finding myself to be more relaxed when sleeping naked with another naked person. It makes me feel - for want of a better phrase - safe. Safe in my vulnerability.

We are getting a flat at the end of the month. I am expecting nudity. Like, all the time.

Sunday, 27 May 2018

Soft Porn Sunday: Lisa Boyle & Sam Mongielo

Soft porn is an odd beast. Its aim is to titillate, but because it's often also classified as "drama" (or "comedy" or occasionally "thriller"), its secondary purpose is to entertain. A good film that finds that balance, walks that tightrope, is a rare find, and while I wouldn't say this is the best, it has its fans.

Appearance: Elke [UK], aka Friend of the Family [US] (1995)
Characters: Montana & Scott

I've mentioned this film and this character before. More than once, in fact. The character of Montana Stillman is a fascinating study, although I've never quite worked out why (apart from "Lisa Boyle is really hot")... until now.

Montana is portrayed as a relatively negative character, for all the wrong reasons. Lisa Boyle, who was in her thirties when she appeared in this, is playing Montana, who is in her late teens (or early twenties at the eldest - I still maintain she's meant to be about 17 or 18 in this). She is the stereotypical "promiscuous teenage girl" type - sexy and alluring and irresistible, but wild and debauched and in need of taming, and her story arc (never mind the rest of the characters) ends up with her having calmed down a little. And this is what I don't like.

Soft porn has a job to do, insofar as it is lots of teenagers' gateway to sex. With a character like Montana, you could portray her positively - she has a shining enthusiasm for sex, and is (presumably) practising it safely; she doesn't cheat (by the time she has sex with Billy, she has broken up with her boyfriend Scott), she doesn't do anything particularly wrong, and she proves that she knows how to enjoy sex. Characters like that could be seen as better rôle models: they embrace sex wholeheartedly, do it without hurting anyone, and show in a visual way that one shouldn't be afraid of sex.

Maybe I'm reading too much into this. In any case, this is Montana's first sex scene in the film and she's having sex with her boyfriend in her stepmother's car, and that's the really important thing here.

Forgive my character analysis. There's some amount of motivation here - although it could just be sex for sex's sake (which is also fine!). It's a time-honoured trope to have sex in an open-topped car, and tropes are the hill that softcore dies on, and this scene is done well (even if you can see the boom at the start of the first shot!). It happens at night, but it's well-lit, so you can see everything, and believe me, you do want to see.

This scene works particularly well in terms of character assassination when one considers the fact that,
Cupboards? Possibly a garage.
throughout the entirety of it, Montana is the one in control. We open with a pan across the car to her gently riding astride a sitting Scott (Mongielo... no, I don't know who he is, either), apparently wearing a full set of clothing, but clearly without any underwear on (something which is repeated, later on, with Billy... maybe she doesn't own any knickers). There's a lot of kissing going on, and a certain amount of dialogue.


Which is done well. Montana has completely given herself over to hedonism ("I find this extremely exciting... don't you?"); Scott, however, is putting up a token resistance - "what if we get caught?" - all the while helping Montana undress (her top half, she keeps her skirt on) in between deep, lustful kisses. Eventually, of course, he acquiesces, although I don't imagine it would have been possible to refuse, since he's already clearly meant to be deep inside her by this point and we are joining them in medias res, and just to prove his point, leans her back and does something unspecified which makes her go "oh yeah!" in a very pornstar-ish way.

However, as I've said, despite all this, Montana is the one in control; she is the one who persuaded
Boobs. Just because.
Scott to go along with this, she is the one on top, and she is the one with an amazing body (although Mongielo isn't bad-looking either), and it really is her show. For the second half, she spends her time riding him with incredible enthusiasm - this is what we are here for.


As a teenager, I used to watch this with a more critical eye, and picked up on a few points which I particularly liked about this scene, and they are:

1) Movement.

Lisa Boyle's body movements during the riding shots are less fluid than they are in some of her other scenes. She is much more staccato, rocking back and forth, as opposed to just bouncing up and down. There's no real rhythm to it; she's just having sex with great zeal. There's a sense of urgency to the whole scene (get off before you get caught!), and the way she really takes this and owns it adds to the sex as well. As I said... she's enjoying it!

2) Music.

Montana has a noticeable musical motif which comes in during both her sex scenes. It does, in fact, signify a sexual peak in both cases - here, the noticeable twenty-note melody comes in just before the (fairly realistic, if you consider a shared "uhhhhhhhn" realistic) orgasm. Because it's so recognisable, actually, it's only the thought of this music that gets me hard - and sometimes I've been able to orgasm to the music, never mind what's happening on screen! How often can I say that?!

3) Hair.

One of the tiny things I notice: Montana has a really nice haircut at this point, including one strand that's been particularly styled. By the end of the scene, her hair's in a bit of a mess, but it does stay in place (mostly). The fact that she's spent some time styling her hair 'just so' and is willing to mess it all up for a quick fuck in the back seat of her stepmother's car is something that I, for whatever reason, found particularly hot.

4) Disregard.

Through a quick intercut to Elke (Shauna O'Brien), we are reminded briefly that this is in fact a car she's not meant to be in, never mind having sex in - but, despite Scott's feeble protestations early on, it's clear by the end that neither of them care. Montana is bouncing away merrily, making all the right noises at all the right times at an increasing crescendo; she hits the horn at one point and doesn't slow down, and the whole pace increases as we go on. She also doesn't seem to care much about Scott at one point - she's holding onto his shoulders and riding him so hard that the poor boy only seems to be able to sit back and take it!

5) Comedown.

Everything finishes with a wicked grin from Montana and a sweaty, horny hug as they come down. The plot reappears after this, through an untimely interruption by Elke ("I heard a noise...!"), but it's worth those few seconds to re-acclimatise after the intensity of the scene (and this is the point where I pause and clean up. No, no apologies here.).

This is an orgasm, I think. With all the noise it's hard to tell. 

As I said earlier in this post, I've been watching this scene since I was a teenager and, even though I think Lisa's other scene in this movie is better, this is the one I keep coming back to, and have continued to do so throughout my life. It comes in peaks and troughs - there was about a year where I didn't watch anything from Friend of the Family at all - but, at the end of the day, when I need this, it is here for me. It may be the scenario, the cinematography, the clothes, the music, or - hell - the boobs, even... but it's something to which I return.

And it almost always helps me get to where I'm going. For that, Friend of the Family, I love you. ❤️

Wednesday, 23 May 2018

Help! It's the Hair Bare Bunch!

The other day, while feeling me up, my girlfriend noticed something unusual on my crotch. Just to the right of my scrotum, and encroaching on my personal space, was a small, incongruous growth. I hadn't noticed it before, because it had been secreting itself beneath my thicket of hair.

I generally take good care of my pubic hair. It's not like I style it, but I do shampoo, condition, and even blow-dry it if I have the urge to. I occasionally trim it if it gets too wild (getting a hair caught under the foreskin isn't fun), but most of the time, it's a jungle out there! - albeit a clean one.

In any case, it was quickly ascertained that the uninvited intruder was a spot - in an very inappropriate place, perhaps, but a spot nonetheless. Although it doesn't hurt when I wank - which is a relief - it does rub against my pants, and sometimes it throbs with discomfort. I needed, I decided, to take a shower, and pay particular attention to this area. Shower gel, rinse, repeat... the whole caboodle. The problem remained, however, that my Amazonian rainforest got in the way...

So, for the first time in my life, I shaved my snatch.

Having no comparison, I don't think I did it particularly well - I used my electric beard trimmer and missed a few bits - but the main objective was well achieved. I didn't have any hair left to speak of (apart from on my balls; what is this, Brüno?), and when jumping in the shower, I found I was able to apply a thick layer of foam to the skin there - and the groin, the inside thighs, and balls as well - very satisfying!

I have been informed, by female companions (and, if memory serves correctly, 47 too - although that may just be conjecture...), that a shaven pubis itches terribly when the hair begins to grow back. Though I have yet to experience this, I have decided that I am prepared for a slight tingle if it will facilitate blasting a rogue pustule with tea tree oil or the like. Plus, y'know, new experience. What's a sex blogger to do, if not write about this sort of thing?

Oh, and the aforementioned girlfriend thinks it's hilarious.

Sunday, 20 May 2018

The Fear

It's two o'clock in the morning, and I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor of my gran's lounge watching softcore porn on her cable TV.

I'm not meant to be staying up this late watching soft porn. I'm not meant to be watching soft porn at all, of course - I tell my parents I spend a lot of time watching The Box, which realistically I do as well. Viva Forever always makes me cry, and as far as I'm aware, "releases" me from my thrall and send me to bed in tears. I'd much rather stick with the softcore stuff, and only really flick over to The Box when I get bored.

It's 2 am, and I'm considering going to bed. I'm bored with Janeycam by this point, which is the only thing that's on. The problem becomes, now, exactly how to get back upstairs before my parents, and/or my gran, realise that I'm not where I'm meant to be; it's been my usual practice to sneak upstairs and into bed, but that's usually happened at about 10:30 or 11pm, and is probably passable when one considers I could have gone downstairs for a drink of water. The small hours - even if it is a school night - may not be a time which doesn't arouse any suspicion.

I hear my mum cough from upstairs and immediately freeze. I've been spending the past year or so in  state of constant paranoia relating to my parents - watching soft porn makes me hard, but it also makes me anxious, and I'm convinced that the most sensitive part of me is my ears - to listen for footsteps.

I snap off the TV, jump to my feet and hit the light. The room is bathed in darkness, a soft warm glow emanating through the windows from the street lamp outside. It's then that it occurs to me that this may not be enough; if she were to open the door, she'd find me in the dark, which may be even more confusing. Time to enact my contingency plan.

For I had a contingency plan. My gran had a preference for large squashy armchairs, but because she had to slide across to them from her wheelchair, they always had to be slightly raised on little legs, to facilitate height. There was one in the far corner of the room - furthest from the door - which was my emergency escape. Should I ever be at risk of discovery, I would scamper across the room to the chair, crawl under and secrete myself in the foetal position. I wouldn't be easily seen in the dark, and in any case, the chair wouldn't be in line of sight when the door was opened.

I didn't have a back-up plan ("escape out of the window and somehow get back into the house" was probably beyond my capabilities), but I needed to have something. This, I decided, was the time.

I skip along to the corner and squeeze myself under the chair. It's a tighter fit than I thought it would be. The air is musty. It's a little too warm. I try not to breathe too loudly, but my heart is beating with such strength that I'm sure it can be heard. I hold my position, my ears pricked, paralysed with fear, the giveaway erection now painfully buried in the folds of my belly. I try to think of something to say should I be discovered. I settle with "it's cooler down here", which isn't true. I have no idea what they'll do to me once they find me.

Five minutes later and I realise that there are no footsteps. My mother may have coughed due to her thyroid problem. It probably isn't in their regular practice to check on my bedroom every ten minutes and go hunting for me with a shotgun in case of my absence. At 14, I don't really know.

I pull myself out of the corner with a rustle of fabric which probably creates more noise than that which I'm trying to avoid. Breathlessly, I slink across the room, open the door, and tiptoe all the way down the hall and up the stairs. I make it to my bedroom, close the door, lock it, and breathe a deep sigh of something between relief and shame.

I hear footsteps about ten seconds after this. But here I'm behind a locked door. I don't need an escape plan. I'm where I'm allowed to be.

I'm still scared, though.

Thursday, 17 May 2018

Fullscreen +2

While compiling a list last year, I worked on discovering a way to watch streaming softcore directly from the browser window without having the rest of the host site around it. With the sort of glossy smut I usually watch, I have my DVDs and 20 Disks of Wonder™ stuffed full of individual scenes I wasted my time downloading throughout the years - but now there are sites that host this stuff (á la Pornhub, but less corporately hegemonic); if there is one particular scene I want to see, trawling through my Disks might not be the easiest solution.

It's what the internet is for.

So the other week - at a very inopportune time, too; halfway through work - I was suddenly struck with an urge to watch two specific scenes. Same actress, same film (even the same background music, in fact, that's the sort of thing I notice) - and while they are both on my Disks, exactly where they are remains a perpetual mystery. Nothing to do at work, I skipped out a little early, bussed my way home, and took to my computer...

There remained the problem of finding the scenes - I wasn't going to go down the illegal route of torrenting the entire film (and besides, I was horny, I didn't want to wait!) - but, fortunately, Google delivered the goods. Both scenes available on various video-sharing sites. One of them had even made it onto YouTube - maybe they're more relaxed about boobs now?

So I did my thing. Delved into the page source and pulled out a couple of direct links to the player, scenes up full-screen in browser tabs without ads, popups, or disturbing cartoon porn in the sidebar to distract me.

Softcore, as it were, as nature intended.

The wank, in case you are wondering, was glorious, and satisfying: a slow, protracted session, shaft in hand, foreskin gliding effortlessly back and forth as I mainlined these two scened. Comfortable familiarity. Movement. Camera. Music, Skin. My cock, stiff against my palm, beating out a rhythm in time with the sex on screen. This was something I knew.

Eventually, of course, I came. All over my hand, my stomach, and the floor too. I grabbed a towel to clean up the mess, and then collapsed onto the bed, just for good measure. I didn't even put my trousers back on.

I've had lots of wonderful wanks in my life - this being probably one of the best I can remember - but this one, due to the amount of effort I put into getting the scenes up on screen (sans distractions, adverts, slowdown or lag), will always be noteworthy.

The "technical achievement unlocked" wank, perhaps.

WHAT an achievement.

Saturday, 12 May 2018

Descent

Last Friday, I went for a job interview. This isn't a new thing for me, really; it became apparent recently that my current job - soon to be one I'm leaving - isn't doing me any favours. I spent weeks wrangling to get any payment, eventually getting February's salary in mid-April, and although I enjoy the basics of the job, the amount of administrative paperwork that I'm now expected to do - unpaid, of course - could barely be termed tolerable, especially when it's quite clear that at least half of that is completely unnecessary.

Anyway, last Friday I went for an interview. This was a long one - a few hours with a number of applicants. There was a skills test, which I passed - followed by another skills test, which I passed. There was a mid-point cull, which I survived. I ended up on a sofa in the staff room, debating the various merits of multicoloured pens with the remaining applicants - 5 of us, for 4 available positions. In my case, the one I'd applied for had one other surviving competitor, who I had a lot of respect for... but the one who impressed me the most, the youngest, ended up being one of the reasons I wanted the job so much. I think we could be friends.

I left the interview feeling refreshed and relatively buoyant. I didn't even take my business suit off for the rest of the day, and arrived at work that evening still wearing it.

I had a nailbiting weekend, followed by a relatively sedentary Bank Holiday. I was incredibly nervous throughout work on Tuesday, keeping a close eye on my 'phone and becoming increasingly jumpy every time I heard a noise which may have been a call. I'd been promised a response and being made to wait isn't always a good sign. Maybe they're just chasing references, I thought to myself. I went home, set up and went hungry for hours, unable to leave the house because my 'phone was on charge. Sod's law states that the instant I left, they would call. I waited for three hours before taking my 'phone off charge; I had a (very) late lunch; went back home and sat and waited.

They called at five. I got the usual, all-too-familiar response of "x person is slightly better qualified than you". I pushed for feedback; they gave me a bit. Nothing particularly useful, but the one thing they did pick up on is something I'd actually highlighted in the interview. They hung up; I sat there and mourned. I called my parents on my way out to get some more food, and the one thing I did hang onto was that this possibly couldn't get worse.

Halfway through the Eurovision semi-final, the letting agency turned up for a meeting. I was expecting a fairly easy encounter, as all their previous meetings have been relatively relaxed.

Instead I was served an eviction notice. The landlord is unwilling to keep the share house and is going to renovate it into a family home; everyone has two months to pack up their things and get out.

For those of you that are counting, this is the SIXTH time we have been told to move in about as many years. We moved here for exactly the same reason a few months ago; we haven't even finished unpacking yet. The lesson I'm taling from this is that a succession of greedy landlords have very little pity for millennials who need somewhere, if not affordable, at least stable.

I went to sleep that night feeling doomed. I didn't have the job that I so desired. I was being evicted - again. Flat prices, which my girlfriend started looking at, are ruinous, and the other job I've been offered (which might afford us some leeway in the amount of rent we can pay) are being increasingly difficult insofar as paperwork is concerned. I don't even have a start date for that.

Gateway to hell creaks wide open and there's nothing I can do to stop the fall.

Monday, 7 May 2018

?ncels

For a few weeks now, I've been resisting wading into the "incels" debate, because I've felt like I have nothing to say about it. I'd leave commenting to the more woke people and try not to make an arse about of myself reflecting on something I know very little about. But then, I tweeted about this earlier today, and it's something that could be explored further using a blog post.

So here we go.

It's no secret that I was - if you want to put it this way - "involuntarily celibate" for years. I'd been sexually active for a year and a half with my first girlfriend, and as far as I was aware, she was the only person I was ever going to have sex with. This ended, predictably, at the start of my first year at university, when it turned out that I wasn't the only person she was having sex with; I worked this out weeks before she told me, and didn't do anything (other than crying) about it. She ended the relationship and I had a miserable Christmas that ended up with me in the A&E of a mental health ward.

I suddenly found myself single, cast adrift at a university where everyone knew me as having a girlfriend, and not attractive enough to even consider sleeping with. Fate and Money got me, briefly, to Africa to visit my millionaire friend who was feeling sorry for me. I did have sex with her, actually, but I'll still maintain it was Rebecca telling me to that was the catalyst (also, Louise didn't tend to wear many clothes, which helped). For the next three years, though, there was nothing - I couldn't get a girlfriend, had no idea how to initiate casual sex, and dating sites and hookup apps were still unheard of back then. There's only so much soliciting to be done with a green-LCD Nokia.

It wasn't until the late December after I'd finished my first degree - seven months out and in temporary employment that I disliked - that I had sex again (this time with Alicia, also a friend who I met online), and was relieved to find that I still knew how to do it, and according to her, to do it well. A year later, I realised that in order to have a healthier, more fulfilling sex life I would have to be more open about my sexuality, which led to me to starting up this blog. And that's why you're reading this now.

As of this moment, I'm lucky enough to be grateful for all eight people I've had sex with - nine if you count gratification without intercourse. Twelve if you count kisses, which I don't. But, while I still consider myself fortunate insofar as having had... any sex at all, really... I don't think I've ever, ever, ever thought of myself as being entitled to any sex. And most definitely not because of my gender.

And that's why I haven't been talking about incels. The whole concept confuses me.

I didn't particularly enjoy being single and I didn't really enjoy not having sex. But - specifically while away from home at university first time around - I used the time to explore myself sexually. I masturbated a lot like a dirty scamp, but I also got used to my body, developing an understanding of what I did and didn't like. I listened to what my brain was telling me and attuned myself to what stimuli I appreciated, and what I didn't. I started buying stuff off Amazon and eBay which I knew I'd like, and discovered more along the way. By the time I had sex with Alicia, I was comfortable enough with my sexual identity.

Don't know about you, but I count that as a valuable way to spend three years of involuntary celibacy.

Then there's the idea of sex being a commodity to be shared equally between the populace. This is also an idea that confuses me, as I've always seen sex as an act between one, two or more people. For some people, though, sex is also their livelihood, and that also confuses me, because if you are so desperate for sex, why not visit a sex worker? I appreciate the rates can be expensive, and it's not always obvious to know where to find one, but with the internet at your disposal, it's really not hard.

And then there's the fact that this whole thing is incredibly gender binary, and entirely heteronormative. Where do LGBTQIA+ people come into this, or do they just not exist? I understand that some people are homophobic, but complete erasure? Is that even a thing?

And then there's the idea that, if I have it right, some people have suggested - actually demanding some sort of government-supported scheme to have women (it's only women; there's no provision here for single straight girls who are also looking for sex) 'share' the sex that apparently they have the secret codes to across the incel male community. That sounds like a dystopia, or maybe one of those parody Twitter accounts. Surely... surely... it's not a real idea? Surely?

And this is why I haven't been talking about incels. I've been in that situation myself and I still don't understand it. The way I see it is that, if you are a single person who is not having sex, you have several options:

(i) come to terms with your sexual identity, and enjoy yourself
(ii) visit a sex worker
(iii) join a dating site, adult dating site, or hookup app
(iv) leave an ad on Craigslist; I know their personals section has gone, but there are still plenty of ways to get a connection there if you want
(v) don't be a dick

or

(vi) just wait; something will happen eventually

And, put like that, it just seems so mind-bogglingly simple. That's what sex is itself - it doesn't need to be complicated. Sure, if you're a very angry, horny, rich white cisgender heterosexual male, then you may have been told that sex is a commodity to which you have a right. But anyone with more than a single brain cell should know otherwise, almost instinctively! Why is this so hard to grasp?

But then I suppose I have answered my own question. I've just written approximately 1,100 words about this topic and it's incredibly unlikely to change anything.

I still don't understand, and I suppose I never will.