Sunday, 28 October 2018

Soft Porn Sunday: Lisa Boyle & Robin Downs

I talk about soft porn music a lot, and there's a reason for that (other than the more obvious rationale that I like soft porn and I like music, so it makes sense). The scenes with the more iconic music stick in the head, specifically if there is a recurring motif or refrain, to the point that even the first few bars get me either interested, horny, or intrigued.

And in some cases, amused. They once had us playing Old-Time Religion at band practice, and the Russ Meyer memories had me holding onto a bass drum for support as I was laughing too hard to stand.

When I think of Lisa Boyle, boobs notwithstanding, I almost always think of music first. Her appearance in Pray for Power has one of the most instantly recognisable movie scores I've ever heard, so why I wonfuse it so often with Leaving Scars is a mystery. Her first sex scene in Leaving Scars, after all, has its own music - which is also something I recognise. Pray for Power's music is just... y'know... better.

Appearance: Leaving Scars (1997)
Characters: Diane Carlson & Michael Taylor

Anyway, yes, Leaving Scars. As you can probably imagine, considering the date of production and the fact that this stars Lisa Boyle, this is another entry in the 'erotic thriller' genre: either espionage dressed up as softcore, or softcore under the guise of espionage. It doesn't really matter, since it's a genre in its own right (at least according to Radio Times). The plot of this is eerily similar to many, many, many other things I've seen: Diane (Boyle) is a bitchy, coke-snorting actress who somehow comes into possession of a computer disk (how retro!), and finds herself on the run from criminals who want it.

At which point detective Harry Hole drags himself out of his alcoholic stupor for one last case and... wait, sorry, wrong franchise. As you were.

♪ Blue room (blue room, blue room...)
Into this mix we throw talentless actor Robin Downs (who has never really done much else) as some average slob named Michael Taylor(!). His job is to follow Diane around and... well, that's about it. They do, of course, end up having sex, because this is a movie with Lisa Boyle in it. Therein lies the music I mentioned - soft, repetitive music which sounds like it's halfway through evolution and may at one point turn into a song. It even has verse bits, chorus bits and noticeable moments of silence between them... so I'm wondering if this was originally meant to be something else?

What I'm noticing, of course, is that the music here is a perfect metaphor for the scene as a whole, which is also soft, repetitive and seems as if it's going to turn into something else, but doesn't. It also makes me want to watch Pray for Power again.

In fact, this sex scene is incredibly routine (and, as one wonderfully scathing review points out, tinted slightly with blue throughout), were it not for one thing: there's a POV shot. The sex, which is all in the same position (Diane is on top), is made more interesting (I guess...) through creative use of mixes to different angles; at one point, we see things from Michael's point of view - that is to say, we can only see Lisa Boyle. Which is by no means a bad thing. I've just watched this scene twice and I can't remember what Robin Downs looks like.

Complete with boobs and an obvious emergency exit.
 
It does have to be said, however, that the above review (and all the ones on IMDb) takes a slightly dimmer view of this than I do. It's certainly not a terrible scene - it's just not particularly sexy, and wouldn't be at all, were it not for the musical tease and Lisa Boyle, whose hair looks amazing, it must be said.

It probably doesn't have to be said that the only real reason I remember this is the eleven seconds of POV sex that we get, during which Lisa is giving a "don't you wish this was you?" look to the camera, with boobs on full display and even a little belly button action (no, I'm not sure why that's sexy; it just is). The rest is just, well... dull.

Really dull.

With the erotic thriller genre, you need to do two things. It needs to have good sex scenes which
Soft porn candle! I've missed you.
support the plot, and if they don't, they need to be hot enough to stand alone; you also need to have a plot which makes sense and is thrilling enough to keep people watching in between the sex scenes. This one does neither, so I'm confused as to how it got made.


Then again, Birdemic got a sequel, so I suppose anything is possible.

Thursday, 25 October 2018

Don't hate the ILB... hate the game!

"You have an alarm ringing," pointed out my colleague, at which I put down the pen I was doing paperwork with and pulled out my 'phone.
"Oh, it's a text message alert," I replied. "It's OK, I'll text her back..."

Strictly speaking, we're not supposed to have our 'phones on us, or use them in any way whatsoever. I usually leave mine in my bag. But this was a quiet period, end of shift, nobody else around. Considering the fact that my deputy manager gave me the memo at the exact instant her own 'phone rang in her pocket, I'm prepared to bet that very few people take it entirely seriously.

"Oooooh, her?" trilled my colleague. "Who?"
"Uhm... my girlfriend," I replied blithely. "Nobody else really texts me... my mum does sometimes, but rarely."
"You've got a girlfriend?!" Surprise. (Genuine surprise, actually. I've been working here since May - and it's not a massive secret I keep. They can't all think I'm gay, surely?) "Can I see a picture?"
"I don't see why not," I said, trying to wrestle my cranky old BlackBerry into submission in order to browse through the pictures I've got. Better not show her any of the nudes. I settled on a picture I don't recall taking - her sitting with a vague smile at a table in a café. That'll do.
"Hey, she's beautiful!" yelled my colleague, with a little too much enthusiasm. I agree, of course, but this level of response was slightly baffling. "Where did you find her?"

And the resulting conversation happened like something out of Can You Keep A Secret?. I told her, truthfully, that I'd met her on the internet - Twitter, actually (which she didn't believe); that she is, in fact, the latest of four girlfriends I've had in my life, all of whom I've met on the internet (which she didn't believe), and that I've slept with a total of eight people (she asked first!), yet never gotten anyone pregnant(!). She also spent a while trying to convince me to contact Louise (sex partner number two, ICYMI) and ask her for some money, after finding out she was a millionaire.

[NB. I've just called Louise to tell her this. She's probably still laughing now.]

Half an hour of excited question-asking later, after initially asking to see a picture of the girlfriend she seemed doubtful I had, she was clearly convinced I was some sort of playboy. More than one girlfriend? Not married, not engaged, but has had sex more than once? No children at 33 and not planning to have any? With friends who are models (I didn't mean to show her the picture of me and Satine Spark; it just scrolled past)? Uses a BlackBerry?

I stopped short of telling her that I'm a socialist. Or that the girlfriend I've just shown her is queer, and no longer defines as a girl. I think her head might have exploded.

Eventually I managed to wrestle my 'phone back from her. "It's genuinely my time to go," I said, "and I do need to get back to the girlfriend you've just spent a while asking me about."
"Okay!" She said brightly, "You go, you player, you!"
Belinda blinked.
"I... suppose? Er... thank you?"
"You're quite welcome!" she said, with an incredibly wide smile and what might have been the shadow of a knowing wink. What, I wonder, was she expecting me to do? Set out and sleep my way through have the town before getting on the bus? The most lustful intention I had at the time was for a cup of coffee and three chocolate HobNobs.

I pulled out my poor, battered 'phone again while I sat at the crowded bus stop.
"My colleague says you're beautiful," I texted the aforementioned girlfriend, who I'd abandoned contacting earlier since my colleague wasn't going to give me my 'phone back any time soon. "I've thanked her for you."
I stopped to reflect how I would put the rest of our conversation into words.
"She also clearly thinks I'm a bit of a player."
Pause.
"I didn't mention any of the porn stars."
Send.
Silence.
Message received.
"Yeah, probably don't. Also, LOL, you playeeeeeeeer!"

Nice to know she's taking everything as seriously as I am.

Tuesday, 23 October 2018

Hide all the sex things!

Among the joys (and I use the term loosely; I rarely feel joy) of renting anything larger than a room is, apparently, a house inspection. I'd forgotten all about this - there's so much going on in my life that I hadn't factored in anything to do with letting agents - but, be that as it may, we have had no fewer than two visits from our lady, resulting in a couple of days of fairly hardcore cleaning on our part.

I'd like to say that we had a fairly innovative scheme to hide all our sex things - maybe getting in a tangle when trying to unbind the bondage stuff that's tied to a doorframe, claiming a Doxy to be a massager that's actually used for massage, or forgetting that I'd just put a load of dildos through the dishwasher and left them casually drying on the kitchen worktop. Possibly even come out with a hilarious story about claiming a ball gag to be one of those contraptions people use to throw tennis balls for dogs to chase.

Because that's what sex bloggers do, right?

Alas, this is not the case. We do have a box full of porn in plain sight - it's red, and on top of one of the numerous bookcases we have dotted around; it's also open because there's no lid. But, since neither of us is disposed to write "PORN" on the side in marker pen (although now I really want to), that was unlikely to be particularly incriminating.

We also have a drawer under the bed (and part of me, in all honesty, is incredibly aware that one of the reasons I wanted under-the-bed drawers was for this purpose) which is full of all the other things we have managed to accrue: vibrators, dildos, cock rings, massagers, lube, condoms, rubber spankers, repackaged things for review, and the assorted mulch you get from attending multiple events. 

Oh, and a Doxy. 

We've moved six times now, although hopefully more settled here (insofar as the classy lady who came to look left satisfied), and we still haven't let go of any of those things. We barely use them, anyway... they're just... there. Something else for me to organise and possibly come in useful if an impromptu orgy happens in our lounge.

After which I'll really need to clean the flat.

Saturday, 13 October 2018

...and rock I now become

It's 5:45pm and I'm sitting in an armchair in the corner of the main room at work. It's warm inside. There's a TV in the corner of the room and I've put on the Saturday afternoon Pokémon marathon, although I'm sure I've seen all these episodes before. Nominally, I'm here for clients; they can come to me with requests if they so wish. Realistically, though, I'm asleep.

I'm not the only one. The other staff who are in with me are in the break room having coffee and don't seem to be doing much else. There are some clients around - a couple - but they also appear to be dozing. One lets out a massive yawn and looks as if she is about to slip off, whereas another - who up until now has been moving around a lot - just kind of stops, as if he has had second thoughts about locomotion.

It is a sleepy, slow Saturday afternoon. I'm due to go home in a few minutes, but I'm not aware of this yet, as I keep slipping into unconsciousness and then jerking awake. I'm finding myself longing for my bed, although I have burgers and chips also planned for tonight. I wonder what will take prescedence once I'm home.

Something brushes against my foot and I open my eyes. I notice from the television that it's almost home time. I lazily stand up and stretch, vaguely aware that my bag is in the break room and that I'll need to collect it if I can go. I take one step towards the door, bracing myself against the pain in my knee.

I'm rock hard.

This I hadn't noticed until I stood up. I have a huge, throbbing, and very noticeable erection - visually so, since my trousers are a bit too small for me and you can see the bulge. I have no idea what has caused it - it's not like I've been particularly horny all day - but there it is. Fortunately, nobody has seen it, but if I waddle into the break room, I'm fairly certain the ladies having coffee will notice the shape of the fabric around my penis.

Which leaves me with a quandary. I shouldn't be walking anywhere. There are clients in the room and, if I shove my hand into my pants and scoop my cock into a more comfortable position, they are bound to notice. But I've had this kind of erection before and I'm experienced enough to know that it isn't going to just go away. Besides, I want to get home.

I pick up a newspaper from the windowsill beside me and hold it, casually I hope, in front of my crotch, as if that's naturally the way my hands fall. I sidestep through the main room like I'm in an incredibly low-budget version of Knightmare and make it through the doors to the break room. Neither lady having coffee looks up; one of them acknowledges me and says I can go home a few minutes early. I thank her, pick up my satchel and leave.

Outside, in the cooler air, I can breathe more easily. I take giant strides towards the bus stop and sit on the little plastic bench, wishing there were less people around, as it's genuinely starting to hurt. I make it onto the bus largely unhindered, but just as I start to think I may be able to rearrange myselfin relative peace, a large family gets on and surrounds me entirely. I am completely enclosed by people.

So I just sit there. Hard. Getting more and more turned on and I have no idea why. Surrounded by people. On the shaky bus.

My stop comes and I mutter an excuse, skid off the bus as fast as possible, and remain standing where I alighted. I take a deep breath, ascertain that the bus has gone and there are no other pedestrians... and then slide my hand down my pants, take hold of my smooth, firm penis and slide it upwards. The bulge disappears.

"Thank fuck for that," I say out loud.

I walk home via the shop. Burgers and chips happen. A cool drink, a sit down, and a couple of episodes of Knightmare, since I'd reminded myself of it earlier.

I'm still hard.

Friday, 12 October 2018

This Flight Tonight

Before six this morning, I made the journey to St. Pancras International to wave (and hug, and kiss, and hug some more) my girlfriend goodbye as she goes away for the weekend. In all fairness, I was away last weekend, and the this... it's just the same, in reverse. Relationship symmetry.

I'll be at work all weekend, so yeah, sucks to be me.

Getting up in the small hours and going somewhere - even if it's just to turn back again - always sparks something in me. Taking the bus through all the familiar places - many of which have transport links; entering the Tube via a station with a Stansted Express link; watching the departures board at St. Pancras advertising Paris and Brussels. I used to go to St. Pancras to get to and from university. It's so tempting to just get on a train and go.

Having the responsibility to not do so is hard. Yes, I was only here to drop her off. Yes, I have to go to work today. Yes, I don't have anywhere else to be. I'm sure there are places to see, and people I could visit. But where? And who? Or do I just want to travel?

It was difficult enough not getting onto the Eurostar with her; making my way back through the groggy morning commuters, away from the central London termini and back to the suburban sprawl, almost physically hurt.

I used to think about freedom a lot, particularly when I was in primary school. I didn't have any idea about what "freedom" was, although I still wanted it. I watched birds taking flight from the school fields and had a yearning to follow them. Now, in my thirties, I'm feeling the same way. Get on a train, ILB. Get on a coach. Hail a taxi. Just walk. Pick a direction, ILB. Point... and go.

I can't do so. Not right now. I have to do my duty. I have to earn money. And, yes, I have a place to look after. And a girlfriend to wait for.

But, even after three days of being back from my last one, I am feeling ready for another adventure.

Tuesday, 9 October 2018

Logical Man

Everyone was drunk. Well, I say everyone - I wasn't drunk. Most of us were, though. There was definitely a bar involved. Possibly two. Or more. I stopped counting and just followed the crowd (insofar as five people could be called a "crowd"). We had been rehearsing for our university's Christmas celebration, in which we had volunteered to play. As far as we knew, in fact, we were the only musicians in the university, so if we hadn't...

Anyway, after about five minutes talking shop and discussing how far one can go with untuned percussion, we started talking about sex, because that's what drunk students do, apparently.

"Awwwww, it's been too long," said one of our number - both the instigator of the whole idea and our representative to the LGBT+ society. "I want to kiss a girl."
"Well, nobody's going to stop you," I said.

Which was probably true. This was my final year, and I'd just endured two and a half years of watching other people kissing, in any and all combinations, as long as those combinations didn't involve me. By this point, getting a perfunctory hug from someone was starting to feel like third base. My friend, who also played the violin so we had at least that in common, was both hot and incredibly outgoing, so I'm fairly sure she could have found someone to kiss.

"It's not that simple," she said. "You see, I've kissed three girls, and had sex with two more. Girls don't want to just kiss; they always want long relationships. It's much easier with boys, because they just want kisses and sex."

I wasn't entirely sure that was true.

"I'm not entirely sure that's true," I said hesitantly. I wasn't sure how much more to add - one of our number had some incredibly interesting details on social media which indicated, to the contrary, that girls were completely uninterested in long relationships and were perfectly happy having lots of sex. She was a girl, so she probably knew.

I would have gone for either, but then again, I wasn't going to get anywhere, so I'd stopped trying.

"Isn't it true?" she asked.
"Well, you just said you've kissed five girls, with two of whom you've had sex."
"Yes?"
"And how many of them have gone on to become your girlfriend?"
"Well, none."
"And how many boyfriends have you got?"
"Well... one, I suppose. Right now. I've had more, you know, in the past."

There was a pause, during which somebody threw up in the alleyway near where we were standing. Hooray, urban youth.

"Oh!" And she flashed a grin so dazzling that it briefly seemed like summer had made a repeat appearance. "You have a point."
"I miss sex," put in one of our number, unexpectedly. "I used to have it with my boyfriend, but not any more. I mean, he isn't my boyfriend any more. So I'm not having sex with him any more. Or anyone, really."

There was a general murmur of consent throughout our assembled musicians. Everyone wanted to have sex (with the exception of my violinist friend, who wanted to kiss girls); everyone had had it at some point in the past, but was missing it (with the exception of "Mouth", who was having plenty). And here I was, genuinely believing that I was the only one in the human population who wasn't having any sex. The consistent Trojan advertising in the student newspaper probably wasn't helping.

And then everyone looked at me, as if expecting me to say something about how much sex I wasn't having.

"Let's get some more drinks," I offered, "and then we'll see if we can find you a girl to kiss."
"Lead the way, squire."

Tuesday, 2 October 2018

Mr Tumble

I've always been of the opinion that, if somebody asks for help, they probably need it. There's a school of thought, I'm aware, that a cry for help is a desperate bid for attention and should be ignored; my curiosity, and the fact that I like to try and do good things when I can, often leads me to try and follow one up.

This isn't, clearly, the case for everyone.

I fell over yesterday evening. I was on the way from work, and monologuing to myself (I do that a lot) about the day's events. It had been an odd day and I was fully anticipating having to explain things to someone sooner or later; I was rehearsing it to myself. I had some time to kill before the bus came, so I was walking to the garage down the road...

...and I fell. I don't know why. Maybe I tripped; maybe I took a misstep. Maybe I just fell. I seem to be doing that a lot.

In any case, I hit the concrete hard. I flung out my hands to break my fall, but my legs took most of the impact. The shock immobilised me for a while, but as soon as I rolled onto my side I realised that I was hurt - there was a hole in my trousers, ripped open by the ground... through which I could see a visible open wound. I was bleeding, but I'm not sure how badly. I also couldn't stand up.

Late at night as it was, there weren't any people around, even though it was quite clear that I should get help. If I could just get to the garage, I could ask for first aid. Maybe it wasn't that bad, and I could just get back to the bus stop. But I couldn't move. The pain was too much.

A man walked out of the garage and off down the alleyway that leads into suburbia from the main road.

"Help!" I shouted. "Can you help me, please?"

He took one look at me and walked off.

I reached for my 'phone, and then stopped. Who, exactly, was I going to call? I wasn't going to bother the NHS. What could my parents have done? I'd left work, there was nobody there that could do anything... and my girlfriend would have panicked. I had no idea... and then it began to dawn on me that I would just have to wait until I calmed down enough to will myself into action.

A young woman walked past on her way to the garage.

"Excuse me? Help? Help me, please?" I called. "Please, I'm hurt..."

She turned to walk away.

"Please!" I called. "I just need your help!"

Another woman, slightly older this time, walked on from stage right. She came closer, the young woman tottering along behind her, clearly wary.

"I... I'm sorry," I stammered. "I fell over and I... I need help getting up. Please could you help?"

She held out a hand, and I gratefully took it. With a lot of effort on my part (and probably on hers - I'm a heavy bloke), I was pulled to my feet. The young woman, having decided by then that I wasn't a genuine threat, retrieved my bag and my glasses, and handed them to me.

I thanked them both, profusely, and they went on their way, with me leaning against a bollard for support. Of course, now I was up I had to see if I could walk, but nothing appeared to be broken; I could feel the blood seeping from both knees, but wasn't sure how bad it was. Very unsteadily, and in a lot of pain, I hobbled slowly to the bus stop, not entirely sure where I was going to go.

I ended up going home. I fell again on the road leading up to my flat and swore so loudly that I'm sure the people in the houses around me must have heard. I got home, dumped my stuff, pulled off my trousers...

...there was a lot of blood.

I don't mind blood. Girlfriend wasn't keen, and I hadn't really considered that, but she did hand me some wet wipes, with which I wiped both of my knees. There were genuine open cuts, and a fair amount of grazing, but they didn't seem deep. I went and got the first-aid kit and administered first aid to myself, putting on large adhesive dressings and generous amounts of sticking plaster.

The night passed, and I awoke with pinching pains in my legs. I took the dressings off to see red scabs, but both appearing to heal quite well. I had to get up anyway, to wait for Ocado (yes, I'm that person), so I hauled myself out of bed, rummaged around to find some trousers that weren't damaged (last night's having ripped), and had just started on tidying the lounge when the Ocado van pulled up. The friendly delivery guy carried most of the things up to the flat himself, and by the time he left, I was actually quite chipper.

Maybe I could do this by myself. I don't need help after all.

I kneeled down to put the vegetables into the fridge...

...and I screamed.