Saturday, 30 June 2018


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


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


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


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


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


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.