Wednesday, 28 February 2018


I am an artist. Most of us are, in a way. If you are a fellow blogger - as I've been saying for years - you may see yourself as something else; a professional, maybe, or a hobbyist, reviewer, journalist or activist... but I would consider you, first and foremost, as an artist.

This means that I create content.

Or I'm meant to, anyway.

For this past week, I've been finding it difficult to create. Hell, I've been finding it difficult to think. I've not been feeling well - although my girlfriend has it worse, and has been off work with something between a chest infection and the bestial roars from the Apocalypse. I've been taking care of her, which suits my nature (and involves food, which piques my interest); it has, however, rendered me somewhat sedentary, and my energy has waned to a very noticeable low.

This morning, I was called by work to say that I wasn't required as we were closed due to inclement weather. They didn't tell the clients this, however, so I have had a few of them calling me.

This is a very inopportune time to have a creative slump, as this month is the one in which I am meant to be at my most active. February is the time to write songs; it is the month in which I  invest in lyric poetry, try my hand at fiction and (if at all possible) throw myself headfirst into blogging. During the first week, this all seemed achievable: at the end of the first day, I had a song, a partially-completed poem, the first chapter of a long-form fanfiction under my belt (yes, I write fanfic, what of it?). By the second day, I had a blog post up. I was planning some more. On the third day, I wrote another song.

It's not often that ill physical health causes me to have a dip in my creative energies - although that is certainly a contributing factor - but mental health certainly has. I am finding myself wondering, increasingly, if depression is in fact the main problem here: if I can't find the motivation to get out of bed, or spend my nights lying awake ruminating, what business have I trying to generate content? It's my favourite thing to do, for sure, but why should I, if I don't have the energy, or the inspiration?

And therein lies the problem. Inspiration. It's not something you can wait for - it's something you have to chase.

One of the first times my creativity vanished, I cheated my way out of it. Pretended to be able to play a musical instrument I couldn't play, and joined a band to do so. Hurled into the blog I was writing at the time. Started learning Japanese via a CD-ROM. Drew. Even distracted myself with video games (and I've always seen completing an objective as a creative act), and more often than I cared to admit at the time, I'd trawl through porn and start narrating scene-by-scene breakdowns in my head. I wasn't realistically producing much to be proud of, and certanly not much people could read... but the fact that I wasn't just sitting and doing things without purpose, that I was going out to band practice twice a week, and that I was rediscovering my sexual identity step by step...

...which is a creative process, trust me...

and I slowly, but surely, broke out of the cloud of cheated rejection and poisonous self-doubt which had been pervasive after my first girlfriend left me (which triggered the phase). I wasn't a happy person (I've never been a happy person), but I was at least getting back to me, and for the first time, I was helping myself do that.

Which brings us back to now. Here I am on a snow day. I could have been spending the entire time blitzing song lyrics, paragraphs of fiction and blog posts. I haven't been doing any of that - I didn't even get dressed until a little after noon. I spent hours reading about auto-erotic practices in animals on Wikipedia, and the most active thing I've done today is to go out and buy lunch. I don't have the energy to do anything else.

Reason tells me that this, too, will pass - the pit is just that, and it can be climbed out of. Writing one more blog post may be the very start of that climb.

I can't guarantee anything, but I very much like hitting the publish button.

Thursday, 22 February 2018

Wednesday Evening, 11pm

On my way home last night, I randomly tweeted that

Don't actually do this, by the way. My nipples are incredibly sensitive and, as much as I like to stimulate them when I masturbate, try to suck one and I'll scream like a banshee. Unless I am lying on my back and close to orgasm - then you can suck them all you like, because that will probably make me come.

It's a sex blog. There's no such thing as too much information.

I didn't get home until much later due to the fact that the late-night buses around here are grouped into a general clusterfuck of "general clusterfuck", but when I did get home, it was to a limerent girlfriend who was about as horny as she was hungry. I knew this could be going somewhere; of course I did... I just made sure I put dinner on first.

"This isn't too BD/SM for you, is it?" she asked as I tied her naked form to the bedpost with... I don't even know what it is. Some scrap of material. Not quite a Robin Hood sash. It was her idea, anyway - don't blame me. I also don't know how to tie particularly effective knots (not participating in scouting, sailing or shibari). But it did the job.
"No, it's fine," I lied. "But what do I do now?"

It was a fair question. She wasn't lying on her front, so not in the right position to spank. Supine is a good position for missionary sex, but we've both agreed that I won't try to penetrate her until she's ready. And I've become very adept at bringing her to orgasm with my fingers recently (and have cut my fingernails for the purpose), but I could tell she wanted something different.

"Uh... shall I just stand here and masturbate over you or something?"

With no particular alternative, and no specific directive either, that's basically what I did. I am a terrible dominant. Nevertheless, she hadn't seen my erect penis for a while, so she seemed to be enjoying herself. I was too, although I was trying not to lose focus too much. (There's a bit in the adult video game Runaway City where your character, Hiroaki Hanyu, is having sex with his lover Fujiko. You have to direct Hiroaki with combinations, such as "fingers and... back" / "cock and... thighs", that sort of thing. I was trying not to imagine it was like that.)

The next hour is all a bit of a blur. Lube was involved at one point. At several instances I had to squat to get the head of my cock into her mouth, which was hot but caused a terrible cramp in my leg. She wriggled free of the slipknot (the real thing, not the band with the clown and the pinhead guy) accidentally and I had to re-tie her. Fingers came into play eventually (I play strings so I'm totally good with my hands), and I kept touching her even after she closed her legs and let out something between a strangled cry and a scream (but I think it was a moan of pleasure), because she didn't tell me to stop.

After which she came over a bit silly, and I sat there wondering where to wipe all the girlcum off my hands and exactly what to do about the stain on the bed. We re-arranged the covers, wrapped her in a My Little Pony blanket I bought her because it was soft, and cuddled in bed for a while. This morning neither of us got up particularly early, probably for Reasons.

I never did get my nipple sucked. But I made her come, and there's no greater joy than that.

Made me hungry, though.

Sunday, 18 February 2018

Eroticon 2018: Meet & Greet

Hot Singles - Click Here
It's That Time Again, so it seems. That's not the name of a wartime comedy on BBC Radio, though; it's my sneaky way of telling you that I'm about to copy-and-paste the Eroticon 2018 Meet & Greet and hack it into pieces with my approximation of words.

The first thing I need to clarify is that I won't be attending all of Eroticon this year. It's my birthday on Saturday the 17th (I am accepting kisses...), and I've got tickets to see Hamilton that afternoon, so I won't be attending the final hour or so of Saturday's 'con. I'm not too fussed at missing the Kink Lab session, really, and you don't have to put up with my face for those precious few moments. Everybody wins!

Anyway, I will be there for:

- The Friday night drinks
- Saturday morning
- Saturday lunch-time
- Saturday evening entertainment
- Sunday (all day)

Plus, y'know, Hamilton. Because that's important.

With that in mind, here are the questions...


Name (and Twitter, if you have one)

Apparently it is still "Innocent Loverboy", although this is commonly abbreviated to ILB (pronounced "I'll be" or "aiulbuhh" if you are drunk). I'll probably answer to most other things, to be honest, under the delusion that anyone wants to talk to me.

Oh, and I'm on Twitter as @innocentlb. I'm also on Ello, Twoo (formerly, and Quora, although I have no idea how that one happened. I'm also probably on Google Plus by default, as I have a Google account and everything.

What are you most looking forward to about Eroticon 2018?

Hamilton doesn't count, right?

Seriously, though, it really is all about seeing everyone. There's always the convenient myth that we all know each other and bump into each other ALL THE FREAKING TIME, but that never happens. Tight though the community may be, we don't really do anything this big apart from meeting at Eroticon, and that's what I'm looking forward to. That's why I keep going!

We are creating a playlist of songs for the Friday Night Meet and Greet. Nominate one song that you would like us to add to the playlist and tell us why you picked that song.

Holy wow, a new question! I'm going to go for Nothing but Love by James, because it's odd, but empowering, and most people have heard it without realising what it is or who it's by. And it's got the word "Love" in the title, so it speaks to my condition.

What’s the first career you dreamed of having as a kid?

When I was five, I told the educational psychologist that I wanted to be a "film director". I don't actually remember this, but I remember wanting to be a palaeontologist when I was about two, because I was interested in dinosaurs; of course I was interested in dinosaurs - I was two.

I had clearer ideas about what I didn't want to do when I was older - I think one of the things I discounted was singing opera, which is odd because I love to sing. Predictably, one of the other things on that list was the thing I now do professionally, because of course.

Weirdest place you’ve ever gotten up to mischief (define ‘mischief’ however you like…)

You mean sex here, right? You can't fool me with your 'however you like' rhetoric. I'M ONTO YOU.

Uhm, anyway, the oddest place I've had sex is in the little cubbyhole above the driver's seat in a motorhome. It wasn't very good sex, because there wasn't any room to move (and I'm a little claustrophobic sometimes, so sleeping in the same place later on that day wasn't fun), but I seriously doubt we would have had sex in any other part of said motorhome.

That's a lie. We totally would have.

Tell us two truths and a lie about yourself.

(i) I'm a radical socialist and have always been, but the first time I was eligible to vote in a general election, I voted Conservative, for a laugh.

(ii) I have never had sexual intercourse outside.

(iii) I have never been to North America, South America, Asia, Africa, Australia or Antarctica. Effectively, I've never never ventured outside Europe.

Complete the sentence: I want...

to dance a pirouette; want to fall on the floor like a marionette; I want to walk on stilts until my legs drop off; be saved from the sea by David Hasselhoff.

Wednesday, 14 February 2018

Lady Rolo

On Valentine's Day, I came home, took off my blazer, flung my bag into a corner, sat down, pulled out my diary and a pen, and started to write.

My school has been doing it for years, although I've no idea whose idea it was originally. It must have been fairly cheap, too - all they needed to do was buy a couple of packs of Rolos and some silver wrapping paper. If you wanted to, you could pay 50p to the school council, whereupon they would send a Rolo to the person you had a crush on, along with a note if you so wished.

I rather wanted to point out that this involved telling the school council who you fancied, and exactly why this was a terrible idea, and in any case Rolos are made by Nestlé, so you shouldn't be buying them anyway. I'd been trying to get the tuck shop to stop selling Nestlé stuff for years, which (of course) they didn't.

I wasn't really expecting to be sent a Rolo, and therefore, I wasn't surprised when none arrived for me. I was surprised when the school council turned up during form time and delivered a Rolo to the naughty, dysfunctional kid named Wayne who sat in the corner and muttered dark things to anyone who passed. But I wasn't going to get anything. I wasn't fanciable, anyway - I was too nice, too intelligent, and too much of an outcast. And people kept telling me I was ugly, so there was that as well.

By period four, the novelty of being given one single sweet (and one more dead baby) wrapped in cheap silver paper had worn off. I wasn't seriously expecting anyone to hook up; there weren't that many couples as it was, and those who did have significant others had taken to looking elsewhere for them. And then there were people like me. But then, it did provide a talking point as a bit of idle chatter, and so I asked a friend - who I knew had a boyfriend, so her answer should have been 'no' anyway - if she had been sent any Rolos.

She said she hadn't, but that Bob had been sent three.

THREE! Most people didn't even get one!

My mind went into overdrive. I'd kind of worked out who had sent Rolos to who - Wayne's was easy; she'd signed her note - but I had no idea about Bob. I had no idea if anyone had a crush on her - except me, but I didn't send any - although, because I could see why one would fancy her, I shouldn't have been surprised.

But I was surprised. Three Rolos. Three!

I didn't wait around that afternoon. I went home immediately without waiting around for Einstein or Lightsinthesky. My dad knew better than to ask me if I had been sent any Rolos. He'd bought my mum a Valentine's card, which I thought was quite sweet. I said that I wanted to go upstairs and write my diary entry, and that I'd talk to him later. Off I went.

I sat on my bed, wondering what to write. What do I say? My diary was always for public consumption - I let people read it, and read bits of it aloud to people. Pretty much everything I write has been intended for an audience. I hadn't mentioned that I had a crush on Bob, and in fact, had been telling myself for years that I didn't. I couldn't put something so scandalous in my diary, and besides, I knew from experience how painful it was being fancied by me. (Although the silver girl and the girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on appear to have gotten over it by now, I still feel sorry about it.) But I knew - although I wasn't entirely sure why - I needed to write about this.

I mean, three Rolos. That's at least three people. Four, if you count me. At least four.

I took my pen, put it to paper, and wrote her name over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and...

Sunday, 11 February 2018

Soft Porn Sunday: Flower Edwards & Eric Stratton

It is said that, if you are awake at midnight on a certain day in mid-winter, you can concentrate all your efforts into hearing the cries. Follow their melodic tones into the wilds, and when you are at a safe distance from civilisation, you may see her. Perhaps just a glimpse at first, but be patient. Sit and wait, and eventually, she will appear to you. Not of this plane, but not entirely of the next, Flower Edwards lies alone and friendless, and only intense concentration and meditation on your part can draw her to you from the netherspace in which she resides.

Which is my excuse for having not mentioned Flower Edwards before. Not that it's immediately obvious who she is - she is often simply credited as "Flower", which could mean that she plays a random begonia in the background or something, or maybe a lupin in Robin's grove in Virgins of Sherwood Forest. Maybe she's a red rose that magically appears whenever Emmanuelle and Haffron make love, or something. As it turns out, her name isn't even really "Flower". Her name is Miyoko Fujimori: she's Asian-American and from Los Angeles, as opposed to Mexican as Fast Lane to Vegas would have you believe.

It's a stretch, I know.

So how do you solve a problem like Flower Edwards? What do you do with her if it's not going to be racist like making her a Japanese sex kitten or a Mexican señorita just because she looks slightly exotic?

Simple. Make her an alien - problem solved.

Appearance: Andromina - The Pleasure Planet (1999)
Characters: Alexa & Cody

Okay, so Alexa, play Smoke on the Water, is the character played by Flower Edwards in Andromina. Unlike some of the other female characters in Andromina, she doesn't get much to do, and for a while, I thought she would be a sexless character. She does get to rub herself a bit while watching Jeeter and Roxie having sex, but in amongst all the fairly constant banging, there isn't much for Alexa, re-order cat food, to do. It seems, initially, that the job of Alexa, turn the Christmas lights off, is to represent the "technologically advanced" subsection of her planet's all-female society, and in doing so, effectively corral all the male leads (and the female hangers-on they have managed to explicitly pick up through their gormless lack of sex appeal) into the prison she handily runs.

Yes, she runs a prison; not that it matters too much, because everyone beams out of it to return to Andromina anyway. Before this, however, a loose plot thread needs to be tied up: Cody. The "third man" of the impromptu Scouting for Girls party genuinely doesn't do much on arrival - as opposed to the other two, who immediately have sex with the first women they meet, Cody runs straight into Alexa, tell me a joke, who zaps him with a... zappy... thing... and then takes him to her prison, where he spends the rest of the movie strapped to her ULTRA HIGH-TECH TOP-SECURITY IMPRISONMENT SYSTEM (which is basically some braces attached to a wall).

Some people actually got paid for writing this.

Alexa, what's the weather like outside?, and Cody have sex towards the end because who cares, we have ten minutes left and Flower Edwards is contracted for one more day of filming, so fuck it, let's have some more banging.

That's a very odd sideburn, innit?
The set-up for this, if you could call it that, is that Alexa, search for cinema times, is "curious". She kisses Cody once earlier on, and if either Flower or Stratton could act, there might have been a spark there somewhere. Here, she kisses him again, and there clearly is a spark, because she starts taking her clothes off. Yes, seriously - that's all it is. There's even a two-second silence before the music starts, as if the orchestra wasn't expecting this at all, and had a rush to get all their instruments ready.

The first minute basically consists of disrobing, with occasional moments of random licking (seriously), curiously long shots of what is probably meant to be sexy dancing but is basically Flower's bum as she bobs up and down on the spot, and occasional breast, bush, or back shots to remind us that this is a sex scene. Flower gets lots to do, and I suppose Stratton probably does too, but I've just watched this scene twice and I can't recall his face. I don't suppose that's a good sign.

Flower, by the way, is beautiful. She has lovely facial features, a radiant smile, a natural body, nicely
proportioned breasts, and a tan-line which shouldn't be there because Alexa, find my car keys, is never shown to wear a bikini. She's also proving, during the first minute and a half, to be fairly flexible, as we find her in all sorts of odd positions while she gets licked by Cody.

One minute and thirty-four seconds in is the only bit of the scene that has ever made me orgasm (although it's managed that, so...). This is The Sex Bit and it actually utilises the ULTRA HIGH-TECH TOP-SECURITY IMPRISONMENT SYSTEM as a prop, which makes sense, since it's the only prop they have (and in fact the only bit of scenery; the rest is complete darkness). Alexa, search for nursing homes, has suddenly realised how to have sex, and is doing so up against the wall while holding onto handles of the ULTRA HIGH-TECH TOP-SECURITY IMPRISONMENT SYSTEM for support (I like this, it's a nice bit of design). She's facing Cody, who is bopping back and forth (and we can't see his face, which helps).

Alexa: "YMCA..."
AND SHE IS STILL WEARING HER BOOTS. I love that trope. Never mind that, from the look of them, they'd take about nine years to remove - whatever the reason, she hasn't taken her boots off. She's so desperate to have sex that she's still got her shoes on. That's so incredibly sexy - I love it!

The rest is really boring, though, so there's that.

Most sex scenes start with kissing, then teasing, disrobing, foreplay and sex, in that order. This one dispenses a few seconds of sex and then insta-fades into effectively a montage of Stuff, which is mostly Flower being strapped to the ULTRA HIGH-TECH TOP-SECURITY IMPRISONMENT SYSTEM and getting touched in odd places - kissed up her thigh, licked between her breasts and generally molested (there are even some shots where you can very clearly see Flower's vulva, which is slightly incongruous for softcore), entirely in semi-darkness, and while her body is great, there's nothing particularly interesting there. She is even strapped to what is effectively a St Andrew's cross and flipped over so that Stratton can do exactly the same thing to her, but she's upside down.

Hmmm, St Andrew's cross in a St Peter's cross style. I wonder if they're implying something.

VULVA wheeee im sharin dirty pics im a pr0nographer!!!1

I mean, I'd like to enjoy this. I'd like to be able to say that it's racy BD/SM or that it's an interesting reversal, insofar as the dominant, authoritarian figure is discovering her submissive side and being ironically taken advantage of (albeit consensually) via her own ULTRA HIGH-TECH TOP-SECURITY IMPRISONMENT SYSTEM. I can't say that, however, because it's really boring, and by the time he rotates her back up and goes in for another sloppy kiss (at which point her hands are mysteriously free), I've just stopped being interested.

Oh heck dang, look, a softcore blowjob. Yawn. And he's doing stuff to her hair. Snore. And now I suppose they're having sex. Humph WAIT A SECOND WHAT THE FUCK?

Four minutes and fifteen seconds into this snooze-fest and they've reactivated the sex button. Unlike
She certainly has the X Factor.
the earlier bit, however, this sex is hardly believable, or exciting. Alexa, wake me up in ten minutes, is clearly meant to be enjoying sex from behind (because Cody is behind her), and she's certainly writhing a bit while he touches various bits, but there's actually not much else to it. Flower smiles a lot and we get to see her boobs for the rest of the scene, but I'm finding it hard to get turned on by this when sex was depicted to well at the start of the scene. It's completely anti-climactic, and for a film that does standing doggy-style sex so well earlier on, that's a little bit sad.

In fact, it's very sad. I really like Andromina: The Pleasure Planet, despite its slightly ethically questionable plot. I know nothing about Eric Stratton - I don't recognise him, really - but I really do like Flower Edwards; she doesn't get to do much in a lot of things I've seen her in, but she is pretty and she can act a bit, so it's nice to see her get a whole scene like this. It's just a shame that it is this scene - the one let-down in a film with no less than six other sex scenes, which are all better than this one. The fact that it's the final scene also doesn't help. At all.

I also think she's meant to be an alien. Hang on, I'll check. Alexa, identify your own species.

Friday, 9 February 2018

Innocent Blubberboy

Last week, while at the gym, I got caught up in my loose trousers, fell face-forward onto the treadmill upon which I was jogging, bashed my knee, and then got rolled off the treadmill, catching my hand in the process. Trainers dragged me to the side and tried to send me to hospital, but since nothing was broken, I insisted I was okay and limped home.

Exercise régime going well then, ILB?

I really dislike exercising. I'm not good at any of it - I mean, yes, I'm a fairly strong swimmer when I need to be, I'm an adequate dancer if you ask the right people, and I can jog for a while (yes, jog. People have forgotten that word, substituting "running" in its place. I'm trying to bring it back, refusing firmly to be one of those twats that goes "running" on a daily basis) without dying of heart failure. But I don't like it. It takes time and effort, it hurts, and I don't feel the satisfaction that everyone else in the universe seems to claims to.

So why do I do it?

Because, really, I'm seriously unhappy with my body shape. I've been exercising semi-regularly for a while now (I'm a member of a gym, for Luigi's sake!) and I still don't appear to have lost any weight. I looked at my face in the mirror yesterday and noticed a complete lack of chin, something flabby hanging there that wasn't always present. I've been jogging and cycling, but don't feel any fitter; I do ab crunches, but can't see my abs; I swim, but I still get out of breath doing one length of breaststroke and have to scull on my back in order to get back to the shallow end.

I keep doing it, but I'm not feeling any difference, and I'm certainly not seeing any.

I'd feel better about it, were I not so worried about my image. And I'd feel better about my image were it not for comparison. And I know I shouldn't be comparing myself to anyone else, but that's what I do.

Next month, I'm going to Eroticon. Eroticon, for those of you who haven't gone, is full of absolutely beautiful people. 'Con goers are stunning - everyone looks fabulous, radiant even, surrounded by a heady glow of body positivity that we should all be indulging in, but I've never been able to possess. While ILB fits in like a hand in glove (well, he's part of the community, right?), his body is failing him. It doesn't match up to all the confident, sexual people who are both physically flawless by whatever standard and positive about it.

It makes me feel sick. I feel inadequate, unattractive, and undesirable.

This isn't what I'm meant to do. I've never given that much attention to physical appearances - not least of all my own. I scoffed at people in secondary school who put all their value on hair gel and face creams, and I continue to question the wisdom of those who wash their hair every day. I've never thought of myself as attractive - I've been told so by many people, mainly cisgender, heterosexual, female people - but now I'm making an effort, it's not doing anything.

I'm just sweating, that's all I'm doing. I'm tiring myself out, I'm making myself hurt, and I'm sweating like a very sweaty person who sweats, and nothing else happens. I don't feel better about myself - I feel worse. Like I'm doing something, but not enough, whatever "enough" is, or I am doing enough and something else is cancelling it out, like my diet or my slow metabolism.

Whatever it is, my goal this time last year was to lose enough weight to feel better about my shape by the time February rolled around in 2018. It's now February 2018 and I haven't changed. I'm big and I'm getting bigger, I feel very unhealthy, and some of my clients the other day called me fat, so as encouraging as my girlfriend is, there's got to be some truth in it.

I don't really know where I'm going with this. I just needed to vent and this was an ideal place to do so. But if you see me at any time soon, have a look at my eyes. They're the only part of me I'm comfortable with... and if you see them sparking with tears, don't be alarmed. I'm probably just not feeling like I'm worthy of your attention.

Tuesday, 6 February 2018

Sex and Sacrilege

One of the first times I was accused (falsely) of having a crush on anyone I didn't was at the age of about 10. I had taken on the task (well, was given it, actually; I didn't have much of a choice) of speaking at church. It was coming up to Christmas, and we put on a kind of nativity-cum-carol-service thingy in which The Youth did some of the speaking bits. I was put in a balcony above the pulpit, and my job was to tell the story, and occasionally scatter oats from above while shouting "Christ is born!", thus announcing the birth of the Messiah and causing a headache for the cleaners at the same time.

Next to me in the balcony was a girl of the same age named BC (her initials, anyway - quite appropriate for the story we were telling, which happened in 4 BC). Having a voice just as loud as mine and being one of the oldest children, she also shared story-telling duties with me, although unlike me, she didn't get to scatter any oats. I didn't know BC very well - we were friends, but only within the church setting - and at this point my interest in her was only professional. It wasn't until one of the younger children said something like "there's talk going around about you and BC" that I realised two older people sitting in a balcony together, and talking in perfect harmony, may look somewhat romantic to the untrained eye. Also, we were 10, so maybe not.

I stopped going to church at about 11 (not because I wasn't interested - just because I was getting lazy), and inadvertently became one of the diminishing number of attendees that affect the religious in the 21st century, but every now and again, I made cameo appearances, partially to worship God, and partially for the tea and biscuits, but mostly so that old women could remark upon how tall I was getting and asking if I was 18 yet. At the age of 12, I found that both unnerving and scary; I wasn't even sure I'd make it to 18.

The next carol service I attended was a few years after my oat-scattering escapade at the age of about 14. By 14, I was incredibly sexually awakened. I'd been watching soft porn, had both biological and PSHE lessons at secondary school, and was starting to get crushes on girls, although - as I have documented here in extensive detail before - I was yet to even think about masturbation. For some reason, the service was partially held outside, in the freezing cold; jacket potatoes were available (for which I was incredibly grateful - I'll never pass up a jacket potato), there was mulled wine for the adults, and very little for children to do. I was 14, so I probably wanted to go home.

It was only when I went into the darkened building to use the toilet that it occurred on me that there were so many tiny corners in the church (and the adjacent hall, which would be later used for pantomime, holiday clubs and my 21st birthday party) which would be the ideal place to have sex. Probably (if not most definitely) not the most appropriate place to do so - although it's not a Catholic church, so it's not like one has the Virgin watching - but this was just a fantasy, right? So it's not wrong, right, to walk around the corridors and mentally note all the places were it would happen should the opportunity arise within the next thirty minutes? How long did sex last, anyway? Could it take less than thirty minutes?

Halfway through this task (and part of the way up the spiral stairs that led to yet another balcony where I would later sit and project the hymns' words using a PC), a different problem presented itself to me: someone to fantasise about having sex with. I had a crush on someone at school, but I was determined not to think about sex with her (and I didn't, not even once). What I needed, as it turned out, was someone to have dirty thoughts about - someone my age, preferably who I knew but not very well, who may well turn up to something like this, click with me and decided that what she really needed was to cement our new-found and incomparably passionate relationship with a quick shag in a darkened corner of a nearby large building.

I asked one of the Elders if BC was around. It was the first person I could think of, and coincidentally the only one. The Elder told me that she didn't recognise the name, but that the surname rang a bell, and that that family hadn't attended the church since Revd David had left a few years prior (I was there; I shook his hand and burst into tears). She also couldn't remember the face, but I could.

In the car on the way home a vague picture formed in my head which consisted mostly of BC getting railed by me in an unspecified dark corner. I may have given her bigger breasts than I remember, but then, if she had aged as much as I had, they probably would have been bigger. I also may have reimagined her face slightly, although I got the vague details down - they may have been confused, perhaps, with that of another girl I knew who had the same first name as BC and similar facial structure. I couldn't really remember her voice, but I invented one.

Ten minutes later, while making myself a hot chocolate at home, I realised that what I'd actually done was create an entirely fictional person based on a real person's name and a wild assumption about her continuing existence past the age of ten. I'd never heard of her since and I have still never heard either of or from her, nor have I sought her out because I have no particular need to do so, and apart from throwing oats at a crowd (actually, now I think about it, they were probably Sugar Puffs) from a box, my only enduring memory of her is fictionalising the top half of her body in order to imagine I was having sex with it (or something).

I feel like this is something I should apologise for. But, while I acknowledge my transgressions and my sin is ever before me, I think I'll probably just go and get a jacket potato instead.

Friday, 2 February 2018

Shouldn't have gone to Specsavers

I need glasses, apparently. This is interesting news, although not completely unforeseen. It may well be a hereditary thing - or, as my sister so eloquently put it while indicating my parents, herself, and me, "glasses... glasses... glasses... fucked."

It's not the first time I've worn glasses. I used to wear them for reading when I was 16. Diagnosed with long-sightedness just before GCSE season, I was asked to identify a free pair of spectacles to wear and immediately chose the biggest, roundest, nerdiest pair of glasses I could find, rocking up at school the following week looking like Harry Potter and getting a mixture of stares from fellow students and compliments from my Maths teacher. And I had something else to discuss with Einstein, of course, who also wore glasses (and still does; I swear they are the same pair of specs he had when he was 16 himself).

So today I went to see the optician, although it wasn't the sexy one with all the touching I usually see, she was brisk and efficient, and ended up telling me that the chalazion I had before 'con last year was a result of dry eyelids, I should buy special wipes to help my eyelashes recover from loose skin, and that I shouldn't hold my breath while she's preparing to blow air into my eyes (although I didn't realise I was doing the last one. I also hold my breath when the hairdresser washes my hair, as if I'm laying my head on the block or something.). I also have mild astigmatism, so I need to get glasses.

I don't really mind this - I think glasses are seriously sexy. A lot of people I've fancied have worn them, three out of four girlfriends have been bespectacled (and some of the best sex I've ever had has been with them still wearing their glasses and nothing else, and I even volunteered to fix a broken pair belonging to the girl with whom I wanted to have sex during a badminton session. (I removed my white poppy and tightened the screws with the pin - it worked perfectly. A very angry, horny friend who was both very angry and horny then assumed I had a crush on her, called her ugly, and told me to get my eyes tested. Well, I have now done so - what now, fucker?)

Of course, I'll never find myself particularly attractive. But I browsed the £25 range for a pair that doesn't make me look absolutely appalling... and I picked one. More traditional soft squares in a thick plastic frame (in black - the frame, not the lenses). At worst, they'll make me look like Gregg Wallace. At best, they'll make me look like Marcus Brigstocke. More likely, though, I'll look like myself. With glasses on. I'm sure I can cope with that.

Now to sort out the rest of my body...