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


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


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


(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.