Sunday, 30 December 2018

2018: It's All About Orgasms

Gentle readers -

As I did last year, I'm ending 2018 with an orgasm count. I've been slightly more diligent with keeping track of the count this year, although continuing to use the system I tested in 2017, only this time (and purely because I am a nerd), I decided to keep tabs on more than just the number of orgasms. I even invented a kind of secret code to remind myself of these things - so secret, in fact, that I forgot what some of the symbols meant and had to think for a while about how to decrypt what I was trying to get at.

I'm a genius.

In any case, here are the "hard" facts.

[Waits for laughter and applause.]

164 - the number of orgasms I had this year (denoted by the appearance of a ★ in the diary)
This is one whole orgasm more than last year. I'm genuinely surprised by this, as I've noticed a drop in my sex drive throughout '18. I've also, for the second half of the year, had a full-time job, which I've always assumed would leave less time for wanking. Mind you, my stress levels have gone up too, so maybe this is just my way of dealing with my issues.

44.9% - the number of orgasms I had in a year, compared to the number of days in a year, expressed as a percentage
And when I look at it like that, that's not too bad (or good, depending on whether you count an orgasm as a tiny victory or not). This isn't an entirely fair test, though, because each individual orgasm didn't occur on a different day. But this is about as close as I could get without counting out all the individual days, and I really, truly can't be arsed.

20/4, 24/6, 05/7 and 08/12 - four orgasms which I marked as particularly strong (denoted by the appearance of an !!! in the diary)
Potency of orgasms is a funny thing, because one might assume that the last thing you're thinking about when in the throes of induced ecstasy is how much ejaculate you are producing or how broken your computer chair is likely to become. Nevertheless, some of my orgasms were notable enough to be remarked upon (by myself, often to myself).
I wrote blog posts on two of these days (on the other two I was probably... busy...), and it's "interesting"* to note that, on both occasions, I had a negative feeling - in the first, it's guilt; in the second, sickness - so you can kind of tell how my brain works.
[* Not at all interesting.]

6 - the number of days when I had more than one orgasm (denoted by the appearance of an x2 in the diary)
On each occasion, this number was two, which is somewhat down from my early twenties, when I could manage about three or four in a day in relatively quick succession. But, hey, two is an achievement. Just a relatively painful one, that's all.

10/3 to 26/3 - the seventeen-day period within I didn't have any orgasms at all (denoted by the appearance of an X in the diary)
The astute among you may notice that this two-and-a-half-week period includes Eroticon, my birthday, a musical event I sang at, Hamilton, and a few days where I was off work with bronchitis. Having zero orgasms during that time, despite being surrounded by incredibly attractive people for a few days, taking time off work, and spending quite a lot of time in bed, naked, often with my girlfriend who would also occasionally be naked... is baffling, frankly, but nevertheless, there it is. I blame the sickness, which isn't half as fun when you consider that that was probably the genuine reason.

And that's it. Next year I'd like to be able to go into more detail, such as recording what (or who) each orgasm was to (or on, or in...), possibly what time of day, and maybe where and what preceded and succeeded, with a complicated post-game review.

But, y'know, I won't do that.

- ILB

Saturday, 29 December 2018

Squirt

Last night I attemped to have a shower in my own flat.

Okay, that genuinely shouldn't be something I have to report upon. In fact, were it an irregular occurrence, maybe that would be even more worrying. Showering isn't something I do every day - in fact, it shouldn't be, it increases the risk of thrush - but it's always been a relatively pleasurable experience for me. I like the feeling of cascading warm water all over my body; I like lathering myself up with something sweet (Lush Snow Fairy is my gel of choice, but I use others too) and watching it run off. I also like the feeling of being clean afterwards. It's refreshing.

Showering, for me, is an evening activity - something to be enjoyed before bed. I'm not the "quick shower in the morning" type, and never have been. It gives me time to think (this blog is the result of shower thoughts), and time to sing. It even gives me an opportunity to wank if I want to.

The problem is that I don't think the hot water in our flat works right now. At least, it most certainly didn't last night, and after about ten minutes of washing my feet in cold water waiting for it to heat up, I called it quits on the shower concept, resorting to scooping handfuls of tepid water into a flannel and splashing myself in random places. Hardly a particularly sexy sight.

And so I found myself having almost erotic thoughts about the shower in my parents' house.

The shower at SH is a magnificent beast. A powerful, relentless, and incredibly warm douche, it really is a thing of wonder. Something that you can stand underneath without having to detach from the wall and still guarantee that everything will be clean. In five minutes you can wash; in ten, you can have shampooed, conditioned and repeated the process on your hair (everywhere... the hair on my head isn't the only hair I take care of!). In fifteen, you can turn the water off and still feel like you're in a steam bath.

In fact, even the acoustics are good. I can shower while singing Mother of Pearl by Roxy Music and hear every note reverberated back to me with the most appropriate amount of delay.

Of course, none of this actually helps when that shower is over there, and here I have one that barely works, with a shower head that produces barely more than a sprinkle and hot water which is just cold water pretending. Yes, by the way, I am aware that these things are all probably fixable, but we've already had the boiler men out once, and they appear to have fixed everything.

I'm such a drama queen.

Except I've suddenly realised that my parents' house is empty (the cat notwithstanding), since my sister has moved out and my parents have gone to visit a friend in Yorkshire for the New Year.

It's time for a pilgrimage.

Friday, 28 December 2018

Inflection

[Watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine from the sofa.]

ILB: "Can you pause?"
JB: "Uhm..."

[JB scrabbles for the remote and hits pause. Jake Peralta freezes.]

ILB: "Thanks. I just need to go and flip the burgers."
JB: "Okay... flip away."
ILB: "I don't know if that was meant to be sexy, but it certainly got me going."

[ILB leaves the room.]

JB: "...Really?"

Thursday, 27 December 2018

Ka-ching!

I'm broke, but I'm ballin'
Don't know where we're goin'
We go in when we go out
I just got paid

Through the grace of God and a couple of wealthy, generous grandparents, I got what I'm going to term a "healthy" amount of money for Christmas, the result of which being I'm not going to be worrying about how to commute without once again going over my overdraft limit for at least a month.

Small things, y'know?

This morning, after paying the cheque in, I found myself standing in CeX wondering whether to buy anything from the casual porn section they have cunningly hidden around a corner, behind the display shelves and in a cupboard marked "beware of the jaguar". Nevertheless, it is indeed there: an odd collection of 'adult' items ranging from the Adventures of... series of British '70s sex comedies, instalments of the original Emmanuelle series that I've already seen, and a few things that look like hardcore, only they're rated 18 rather than R18, so probably skilfully edited.

Oh, and Flesh Gordon. They're selling that too.

A few times, I decided upon an item - taking it carefully from the shelf and reading the blurb (and, at one point, checking a "Jenna" DVD to make sure which Jenna it was) - before replacing it and continung to browse. It's a rare occurrence that I actually acquire any new porn, and yet here I was, in a place which sells it, with actual money to spend. Yet, presented with this unique opportunity, I found myself nigh on incapable of achieving such a feat.

Stop being so indecisive, ILB, I told myself. You already have an idea of what you are going to be buying. You know how much that costs and yet you still have money left. What's the harm in getting  a little porn?

Well, what indeed? I did, in fact, have an intended goal - I was going to go home and buy a ticket to Eroticon (which I have since done), and maybe even then flash my "so middle-class it physically hurts" card and place an Ocado order (although that can be fun), and then sit on the sofa and think about my life choices. I wasn't actually intending to buy porn. I'd come in to look for a SNES mini, truth be told, and not finding anything in any other section, this was just where I'd ended up.

I was on the verge of making a concrete decision, and actually had a DVD in my hand, when I hit upon the actual reason why I had found it so difficult: I didn't really want any of this porn. Some of it I'd already seen; a lot of it seemed to not be my style; I don't trust erotic Italian cinema and haven't since I bought Scent of Passion a few years ago; some of the titles just seemed to be plain scary. What I wanted, I reasoned, was the sort of glossy smut I favour - perhaps the sort of thing I'm meant to be buying from overseas.

Perhaps the sort of thing I'm meant to be buying from overseas.

Thing I'm meant to be buying from overseas.

Meant to be buying from overseas.

Buying from overseas.

Overseas.

My brain floated at top speed down the back streets that are the quickest route to my flat, and from there to my desk, where there lay a pre-addressed envelope, note of greeting and blank cheque, having been there in said combination since early October and yet still unsent, due to not having the right amount of money... until now.

It took the rest of my body a while to catch up, but by the time it had, I was already on the bus.

Now to wait quietly for the weeks until my porn arrives...

Wednesday, 26 December 2018

> continue? [y/n]

During my second relationship, I lived in almost constant fear of being dumped.

I wasn't confident in myself. I was, somewhat, assured that I wasn't doing anything wrong... but then again, I hadn't done anything wrong during that relationship either, and I'd been dumped from that. I didn't see how one could be so cruel, doing something premeditated that would be guaranteed to hurt someone else. Being dumped the first time was painful, and the second time nearly destroyed me. I've rarely felt as close to death as I did during those dark days.

But I digress. I felt a lingering doubt in the pit of my stomach that I wasn't what she wanted. I certainly was sexually - her orgasms with me were so powerful I could feel every single second - but she did have a habit of baiting me, trying to get me into an argument with her... and, as we all know, I don't argue well - I acquiesce, or negotiate. Or I just take the hit and hurt. Rather me than her. She said fighting was healthy; I didn't agree.

However, I don't think that was my main reason for the fear. It's more to do with the fact that I didn't feel good enough for her. She was smart, sassy, sexy and seemed, despite being a few years younger than me, to have have an incredible deal more life experience than I had. I had a relatively safe youth, rarely going anywhere on my own and never once going off the rails (Woodcraft camp, in case you are wondering, doesn't count. From what I've heard regarding other Woodcraft districts, our own was practically puritanical! I should've started going to Venturer camp!); by her own admission, she wasn't the world's greatest teenager, but at least she was cool. I may be nice, but I don't think I was ever particularly cool.

So I developed a contingency plan.

It wasn't a very cohesive plan, but it had the bare bones. I would get a job, and then with the money, I'd rent a small flat that I'd live in on my own (in fact, I had a specific block of flats in mind. I can see it from the flat I'm in now!). I'd lose a lot of weight (which I haven't done yet), gain a lot of self-confidence (which I also have yet to do), and then I'd go clubbing in London and invite girls back to my flat, which would be immaculate and inviting. The job I was training for at the time was, in fact, both impressive and required a lot of skill, and I was relying on that to be the main draw.

That way, I reasoned, I would be able to have some degree of indepence, and meet some girls, which would be - as I told myself - a reason to keep going. I would rather, of course, have married my then-girlfriend and gotten a flat with her, but if that went wrong, at least I had a vague trajectory to train on, should I be violently ejected. Of course, I had no actual plan as to how I'd lose weight, or gain any self-confidence since that's a thing I notoriously lack, but it was just a dream, so I didn't dwell on that too much.

Of course, then I was dumped, after which absolutely none of my contingency plan was activated. With the loss of my girlfriend, I lost my job, my security, my sense of purpose, and what little vestiges there were of my self-confidence. My heart shattered into a million tiny pieces, I spent the next few weeks in a mess of tears on my bed, ruminating on the one thought I had: I was right about one thing. I wasn't good enough for her.

I'm writing this almost eight years later. A lot has happened since then, although less weight and more self-confidence seem to have managed to elude me. I'm also losing my hair and more of me hurts than it used to. I'm almost afraid to have sex in case it turns out I've lost all the skill I used to have in that department.

But, in the end, I got a flat. And, as it turns out, I got - eventually - a job which wasn't half as cool, but allowed me the money to pay rent and bills. Crucially, though, I didn't need to invite any girls back, because there's already a girl living in the flat with me. And this one... I do feel good enough for.

So, no, my contingency plan didn't work. Eventually, though, I got something better. It took me nine years, and it hasn't been a charmed life at all since then.

But it's getting better.

Saturday, 22 December 2018

Year 12

I started this blog twelve years ago as a way of (over)sharing my thoughts on sex (and love, but realistically, mostly sex). A few years ago, I added an about page, which negated the need to have a refresher course every year (although I've just updated it, so go and read my nonsense!). I didn't, for a moment, imagine that anyone would read my blog to start with - to get a dozen readers was a great start; to end up with thousands was something I never could have predicted. But I'm grateful for every click.

Through my blog I've made some excellent friends (and love to make more) and have met three out of my four girlfriends over time. I've got a lot more confidence insofar as self-assurance and flirting is concerned, and I've never been more in touch with my sexual identity as I have while writing this blog.

It's a far cry from speaking out in favour of pre-marital sex in a year 7 RS class, but every journey starts somewhere.

In 2008 I started to think about the concept of a sex blogger conference of some kind, with the assumption that everyone would wear a mask, before my girlfriend at the time - herself a sex blogger - pointed out that, if everyone was a blogger, you wouldn't need masks, because anonymity would be accepted as standard. Four years later, this actually happened, and I embarked on an adventure of discovery via community. It's still the highlight of the year, and I love taking the chance to just go somewhere as ILB, and stay ILB, and shock hen parties in lifts by telling them that the large group of people in the hotel lobby are sex writers.

In 2009 I wrote a book; in 2010, I changed jobs. 2011 was a period of unemployment, but with a chance to reconnect with my friends and family (and my third girlfriend), and work on some of the aspects of my blog. 2012 was something like the Cambrian explosion in terms of bloggers and blogger activity, and having been active since the first wave, I was chuffed to see how far it had come. At the very end of 2012, having suffered from a difficult break-up, I connected further with a friend who has since become a girlfriend.

Things have continued to change and develop. It hasn't been easy, but being part of my generation generally isn't. The inexorable passage of time is something I use to comfort myself when I have a bad day at work - it will be over, as time moves on. But then, it works the other way - I met Robinson, my oldest friend, when we were both two years old. By the time Eroticon 2019 rolls around, he'll have two children of his own; the same goes for my little cousin, who I've known since birth.

Time has an odd way of shaping things. I've managed to weather this by holding on to my own identity for all these years. Outside of ILB, I'm still using the nickname I've had since the age of eleven; in come circles, there are people who don't even know what my real name is. But I don't mind... it doesn't matter to me. I am me, and that's something I find important.

At this time of year, people are usually asking things like "what's next?" or "what are you going to change in 2019"? Honestly, I haven't a clue. I want to lose weight and grow hair so I feel more confident in my own body, but those are just ongoing goals. The way things are at the moment, I'd be content with just keeping them going as they are.

The way I see it, if I can weather huge socio-economic and political change rocking the whole world and go into year 12 of blogging armed with a song I wrote about having sex on the floor of my parents' bathroom, I can pretty much do anything.

Here's to the next 12 years.

Friday, 21 December 2018

ILB's Fantasies - Part Four

With your next shudder, you let out a long, low moan, and push forwards, your back forming a perfect arch. Your thigh muscles tighten - I can feel it - every nerve practically screaming for more.

Even now, you being the epitome of womanhood, you still feel... delicate. Sensitive. From this angle, you are all curves. Your heaving breasts, exposed to the air, end in little peaks, your nipples hard as bullets. I can run my hands along your sides, tracing your shape, following the curves. To me, you are perfection. I could close my eyes, and bathe in this feeling, for hours, like a pilgrim - a worshipper at a shrine.

But, as I said, you still feel sensitive to me, and that is important. It is what I have to work with. And I know how to press those buttons.

I run the tip of my tongue all the way up your soaking wet slit - a long, slow drag. Your flushed pussy lips leave a glistening trail along my cheeks, like a kiss of your appreciation. My tongue meets your clit, feeling it throb and pulse. I run little circles around it...

Once. 
Twice. 
Three times. 
Four. 
Five. 
More. 
More. 
More.

Every single time, I hear you make a contented little noise somewhere between a sigh and a scream. Even with your thighs wrapped around my head, I hear you. Between your thundering heartbeat and the rush in my own ears, I hear you. It's more like I feel you than anything else.

As I slowly start to push into you, I get the image in my head of the opening of a flower. It's so ridiculous I could laugh. But my mouth is a little busy - my tongue pushing, slowly but steadily, further and further into your drenched cunt. Centimetre by centimetre, I slide forwards, my nose pressing against your engorged clit, my tongue feeling your inner walls surround it with their warmth and taste.

You breathe in.

Hold it.
Hold it.
Hold it.

I flick my tongue upwards. I don't know what makes me do it - instinct, perhaps. But I flick my tongue upwards. It hits the tip of your pussy - your g-spot, perhaps? - and leaps from there to alight on the very bud of your clit.

And you let it all out. I feel the spread from deep within, open my mouth as wide as it will go, and lick you through your orgasm, your girlcum cascading from you, giving me what I crave, rewarding me for showing you my love.

Stop. Pull back. Breathe. I see you clearer now, shining from beads of sweat dripping all over your body. You're quivering, steaming, melting. Barely human. I'd like you to look at me, but your eyes closed a long time ago. A quick squeeze of my hand acknowledges my presence. The other hand, its fingers laced in my hair, lies still. I like to know it's there - I want to connect with you, all of you, which isn't always possible with my head between your legs.

That is your third orgasm of the afternoon. But, as I mentally remind myself, I did promise you five.

So I clear my throat, take a swig of cool water from the bottle, and settle myself down again, my warm breath embracing your willing cunt.

You come seven times that day. I know I said five, but if you're not going to stop, then neither am I.

Wednesday, 19 December 2018

Jaune

"...and then he bought me a lovely silk flower," she finished.
"That's lovely! I wish a boy would buy me something!" enthused the pretty blonde girl she was talking to, while brushing her hair. The pretty blonde girl brushed her hair a lot. I sat with her because we were next to each other on the register, but I quite enjoyed her company, even if I did find a lot of what she said mystifying.

In any case, I made up my mind then and there that I would buy her a silk flower.

Of course, there were several problems to overcome. I couldn't just give her the flower. I didn't want everyone in school to find out that it was me, and besides, I didn't officially fancy this girl (lies, of course I did, I told myself). I resolved to send it to her, but then came the problem that I had no idea where she lived. I wasn't in her form, so couldn't leave it on her desk (or in her locker - I wasn't even sure if she had a locker), and after a quick search for her surname in the 'phone book, there were five possible addresses.

Also, I don't buy silk.

Nevertheless, romantically inclined Young ILB floated down the road to the conveniently-placed fake flower shop (on the way to Woodcraft, actually. He wasn't going to make two trips.) with the limited amount of money he had available. Standing nervously in the middle of the shop, surrounded by things about which he knew very little, he rehearsed in his head what to say to the politely bemused lady behind the counter. Of course, she asked if she could help before I was ready.

"I need a fake flower," I squeaked. "Not silk, though. Something else."
"Cotton?"
"Yes that's fine very much that's what I'm looking for thank you cotton is good!"
"Okay, I have some here - what colour are you looking for?"

FUCK.

I hadn't considered colour. I sat next to her in most classes and I hadn't even thought to ask what her favourite colour was. In the end, I decided upon yellow, mostly because she had said the word "jaune" in French one day, and therefore I assumed it was her favourite colour. (As it turns out later, it was blue. Tsk, tsk.)

The following day was a Saturday. I'd spent all my money on the flower itself, a padded envelope and a parcel stamp, and that (as I had decided) would be my entire morning activity. I put the flower in a cardboard tube to keep it safe, sealed the Jiffy bag and...

...I consulted the 'phone book again, chose the result closest to my school (it was the best bet) and typed that into my computer, which I then printed. I'd decided against writing anything longhand in case she decoded my shonky writing and realised it was me. Of course, I had realised that sending a fake flower to a random address was risky, but - as I rationalised - it wasn't a very common name. If it had her name on it, it would make its way to her.

My heart having made its way past my mouth and now hovering somewhere around my postcentral gyrus, I ran to the postbox, pushed the package through its mouth, and then sprinted back home, in case anyone on my remarkably quiet suburban road had seen me at 9:30am. I collapsed into a chair, every inch of me fluttering, bereft of my little yellow cotton flower but buoyant with hopes for the future... even if I had absolutely no idea what was supposed to happen.

What happens next? Do I send her another one? How many do I have to send?

For the next two weeks, I was on tenterhooks. I didn't hear her mention getting a flower in the post. I didn't actually hear her mentioning flowers at all. Not even to the brunette she was discussing silk flowers with in the first place. I spent hours racking my brains about whether or not to attempt to mention the subject, but came up with no idea about exactly how to broach such an incredibly niche topic. A month passed - no mention (or none I overheard, anyway)... and I eventually had to admit it: she didn't get the flower.

About a week after I had abandoned this idea, she actually said her address out loud verbatim in a History lesson. It most certainly wasn't the address I'd chosen, but at least I had a door number this time, and crucially a road name. Back at home that evening, I leafed through the battered 'phone book once more... and there it was, miles away from the first address, but present and real. Now I knew. Now I could go back to the shop, buy another yellow flower, get a Jiffy bag, print out this new address and...

...at which point I decided that I didn't fancy her any more.

I wonder who got my flower, in the end?

Sunday, 16 December 2018

Soft Porn Sunday: Lisa Boyle & Sam Mongielo

Not really a sex scene, but for the completionists among you...

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

I will say this now, because I think it's important to note: there are actually other characters in Elke. For the soft porn connoisseur, it is important to understand that - the title character is played by Shauna O'Brien, actually - but, as a horny teenager, the fact that one is likely to forget all the sex scenes except for the ones with Lisa Boyle also says something.

Maybe it's because she's played by Lisa Boyle, or it's the musical motif that appears, or perhaps just because of the inherent wanton, almost nihilistic sexiness that is written into her character, but Montana Stillman really is the shining star of Elke. It also works that she isn't front and centre - she is very much a supporting character, the audience knowing (to a certain degree) that, when she appears, things are likely to get sexy.

Why?

Because this happens wthin the first minute.

Pretty boy. Pretty bow.
This is the first scene in the film. Not the first sex scene - the first scene. The first shot - and it's all one shot, too. No mixes, or cuts, or different angles - just a long shot, with a bit of zoom to shift the focus. And Lisa Boyle spends this entire shot naked, having sex with her boyfriend in her family's garden pool. In the dark.

It lasts for 42 seconds before there's a cut - to Montana's mother Linda (Griffin Drew) doing basically nothing - and then cuts back to Montana and Scott. They are, of course, interrupted - Linda hears them banging and comes out onto her helpful balcony to administer the justice of parenthood, preciptating an altercation between the two of them (Scott spends the entire time looking at Montana's tits, rather than participating, which is pretty hilarious).

That's it, that's the scene.

I'm blue, da ba dee, da ba dai...
While it kind of works as a sex scene, it doesn't have the same pull as Boyle's later scenes - although I'm not sure it's meant to. The close-up camera work shows both Montana and Billy as topless (a bow in her hair doesn't count), and it's also pretty clear from their (limited) dialogue - "d'you ever do it in the water before?" - that there is something going on with their lower halves. Or something going into her lower half, at least. And we get a fair bit of skin, which is almost worth staying up until 10pm to watch Channel 5 for.

However, ths isn't a full sex scene. What it's trying to do - and manages, with aplomb - is set up an establishment, which it does. In less than a minute, we can tell that there is an openly sexual young girl named Montana with a floppy-haired boyfriend (we never find out his name), who is the daughter of an irritable mother who doesn't approve of her sexual shenanigans. (I'd also probably give credit for the idea that Linda is sexually frustrated herself, being shown alone in a double bed as she is, but that might be stretching it a bit far.) Into this unbalanced mix is thrown Elke, but not until later. Her interference wouldn't pack the same punch without an established norm.


"Montana! Wherefore art thou Montana?"
But maybe I'm reading too much into this. Perhaps it's just the director realising that this is going to be late-night cable television fare, and the casual viewer needs a hook in order to get invested, so why not throw in naked Lisa Boyle having sex right off the bat? Maybe it's more of a foretelling: "here she is making love to her boyfriend, but you're not seeing too much - stick around for MORE!!!". It's even possible that it's been noticed during the shoot that Montana is the most engaging character, so why not start with her?

Whatever the reason, it works. It works as a sex scene, it works as an establishing scene, it works as a hook, and even if it's just an excuse to see Lisa Boyle's tits, it works in that respect as well. And it got me writing about it 23 years after it was released... so who's the sucker now?

Thursday, 13 December 2018

Re-Make/Re-Model

For a while - quite a long while, in fact - I ran a few websites, both before and concurrently with writing ILB. I've been making websites (for want of a better term) since the age of about 12, although - apart from a brief foray into adult education a year or so back - I've never really bothered to learn anything concrete. My tool of choice was still, the last time I updated anything, the one I used to write my first ever webpage: Microsoft Word.

A few days ago, I decided to assuage my guilt caused by leaving these things floating around, and contacted my webhost mate who was hosting them for me, mooting the possibility of removing what had been, for a long time, my pride and joy.

This morning, that happened.

Took me a while to SCP into the webspace, and in the end I had to use FTP, but I managed it. Liberal use of the delete button was deployed, and felt a curious mix of relief and regret as things I've been editing since before 2000 finally felt the death knell. To be fair, though, I'm glad I did it - it's good, for once, to have the certainly of a "no!" as opposed to have the ambiguity of a "huh?".

That's not the first thing I did, though. Uncharacteristically ruthless as I was, I am also a sentimental sucker, and so the first hour was spent downloading everything I've ever uploaded onto my HD, followed by yet another hour of trawling through that, mostly to actually take a look at the stuff I had uploaded.

And I was struck. Audio files where my voice sounds crisp and clear? 21-year-old me in a variety of costumes, taking part in proto-memes? Video trailers for films I never actually made? Selfies before selfies of myself... with HAIR?! 

In the eleven years of writing ILB, these things have been lurking around on the web (although they're not any more, obvs.) Little links to my past whch I haven't quite forgotten - and things I was, for want of a better word, proud of, at least once upon a time. Group shots are there - groups of friends, all with me somewhere in the background (which is, seemingly, where I naturally gravitate). I flash back to all the places I've been, all the things I've been part of. Boring as I claim my life to have been, everything I uploaded is a gentle reminder that, actually, it wasn't always dull.

I had my adventures. And I'm pleased to see that I didn't lose everything after all. But, of course, there is one other thing I don't plan to be deleting any time soon. 

This entire post was written while transferring porn from one device to another. ILB is alive and well, folks.

Wednesday, 12 December 2018

Let's Press On

It was late last night (or early this morning). I'd gotten up to use the bathroom (twice) and, as the result of the cold I've got, was generally feeling sorry for myself. Bed was warm, though, and there was plenty of opportunity to hunker down under the multitude of blankets we appear to have acquired, so I wasn't too fussed about the temporary discomfort. Plus, I had a sleeping girl in the bed with me, which is always a bonus.

I was spooning her while lying awake after another of my trips to the bathroom when I gradually realised that I was horny. What's more, I was getting harder and harder and harder... and, while I didn't want to move because I'd finally managed to get comfortable, I was abundantly aware that my penis was pressing further and further into my girlfriend's arse. I won't pretend, of course, that this wasn't a pleasant feeling (in fact, it was a fantastic feeling, and probably the reason I stayed hard so long, held as it was between too bodies!), but it did present something of a conundrum.

Okay, so here we are, I thought (although probably with less lucidity - I was half-asleep; pleasure excuse my paraphrasing). I'm rock hard - more so than I have been for days, maybe even weeks - and pressing hard into her backside. I don't want to move, in case I wake her up, but what happens if I do? What's the protocol here?

And then I had a horrible thought.

Hang on... what if I don't need to wake her up? What if she's awake? Maybe she's lying there and thinking the same sort of thing? What if she can feel everything, and she's as aware as I am that I've got my penis pressed against her derrière? What do I do now? Do I risk everything and ask her? Do I stay here and pulse? Or do I move away and hope it all resolves itself?

What if I come in my sleep? It'll ruin her pyjama shorts!

Just as I had decided, eventually, to try and resolve the problem by thinking about Nigel Farage for a few seconds and then discreetly removing my flaccid cock from her skin, she gave a small sigh, and rolled over onto her other side. There was an odd springing sensation and my erection was suddenly surrounded by warm air, no longer pressing against her, but hanging on the brink, the gateway to the threshold of eternity.

Oh. Well, that solves that problem.

Of course, how I would manage to get to sleep now I'd realised exactly how turned on I was would be a completely different question...

Saturday, 8 December 2018

Hornysick

Over the last few days, I have been feeling unwell. After healing from various injuries, talking to doctors about further testing and assuring everyone that I'm fine, everything calms down for a while before I start to feel anything but fine. While not quite seasonal 'flu (if it were, I'd be lying in a darkened room in a pool of sweat, which is what I spent most of the morning doing, but hey ho), I am coughing and spluttering a lot, having to pause for deep breaths... and I appear to have lost all hearing in my right ear, so this may be an ear infection.

I've still been going to work, because I don't think I can afford not to (and we're understaffed, so need all hands on deck), but this hasn't been helping too much. I even went out last night, girlfriend's birthday necessitating some sort of levity, which a meal and showing of Die Hard in central London provided quite nicely. It may not have helped to get home so late, though, as I woke up today feeling worse.

Earlier today, as well, I read something on one of the blogs from the list this year which, intentional or not, pressed all my buttons at the same time. In my sleep-deprived state, brain full of fog and body full of cold, the arousal I felt stirring in my belly proved an odd contrast. At first, I'll admit, I wasn't even certain that I was aroused... maybe I was hungry, or tired, or depressed. Malaise? Nausea? Vertigo? No, I reminded myself, I was aroused - the words that caused it were right on the screen in front of me - and I had a gradually stiffening erection growing that only served to put the point home.

Since then, I've been in an odd state somewhere between feeling sick and feeling horny. It's a strange combination - not sick enough to forget about being horny, but too sick to act upon it (although I've tried), but at the same time being not horny enough to forget about being sick. I can barely move from my chair, although putting on my warm Mario onesie seems like the best thing to do right now, and I'm so restless that going to bed or sitting on the sofa with a DVD (although as a sick person I should be doing that) would be a step backwards, as I'd just be tempted to get up and walk around a bit.

I'm surprised that I'm lucid enough to write a blog post using complex sentences. My brain must be working; my body certainly doesn't feel like it.

Having said all that, this isn't really a bad feeling. The uncomfortable buzz in my the pit of my stomach from the sickness isn't so bad when mixed with the contended hum of sexual arousal. I have an increased heartbeat already (that I can hear thudding in my blocked ear); wondering whether it's from my painful chest or my throbbing cock is pleasantly distracting from the associated chest pain. My muscles, previously screaming with pain on every single movement, are complaining much less when half of me is focusing on something else.

I don't really know what I want, if anything, but when the alternative is feeling sick without other sensations, this is a not-altogether-unpleasant sensation... at least for the moment it lasts.

So here I sit. Here I rest. Here I wait. And here I squirm.

Monday, 3 December 2018

A moment of sexual clarity

I'm sitting on a seat at work, waiting for a client to arrive. I didn't get much sleep last night - I never do, really - but I've had a nap today in between shifts. I'm still tired, though. This seat is soft, and if I'm not careful, I'm going to fall asleep in it.

Throb. 

This isn't entirely unexpected, either. I get horny when I'm sleepy. At least I'm wearing a new belt, so if I have to stand up, maybe my trousers will hide my arousal.

But I don't have to stand up. Nothing's happening. I can just sit there, so I do. I squeeze my legs together a few times, teasing myself. I try to dial back through my brain to see if there's anything in particular that's brought this on... but there isn't anything; if there was, it's long gone.

In the moment, sitting there with my growing erection and rapid heart rate, I am reminded of the fact that I am a sexual being. In recent times, my sexual moments have all been occasional. Little snatches of time when I am in idle mode and feel myself wanting to be horny - with much less of the frequent, unintentional erections one gets as a teenage boy in school. I am 33... but that doesn't seem like much of an excuse.

However, this particular moment serves as a reminder. Sex is not an occasion; it's a part of life, and it's a necessity, according to Maslow. I am a sexual being (and I would be even if I wasn't a blogger who writes almost rhapsodically about sex), I feel sexual feelings, and I experience sexual arousal, just like you. Maybe my arousal isn't exactly the same as yours, dear reader, but it is there. It doesn't need a reason to be there, because it can be there if it wants.

It's not a sexual feeling I could do anything about, or with. But it's important, in these stressful times, to get the memo.

Saturday, 1 December 2018

Top 100 Sex Bloggers 2018

And so with the inexorable passage of time comes December, and with it comes winter chill, nauseating Christmas adverts everywhere, a sudden appreciation for overcoats, and the Top 100 Sex Bloggers list (also known as: "free content").

The List Bit

This list comes with massive thanks to Molly - not just for including me, but taking on the task herself, which must be about the size of several mammoths. I was seriously worried that this year I wouldn't be on the list at all - what with my decreased post count in 2018 and a noticeable decline in quality, too - a worry compounded by the fact that the votes came rolling in throughout October and nobody seemed to be voting for me at all. I wasn't on the 2010 list for exactly the same reason.

Fortunately, and basically to gratify my own ego, I made the list, at number 35. This is a slight decrease from '16 and '17, in which I made the top 20, but 35 is still a perfectly respectable score. For a busy, tired blogger who barely writes a damn thing, it's actually something close to impressive. Sincerely, and from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

1 Rebel’s Notes  @Rebelsnotes
2 @_floss_84  @_floss_84
3 Temperatures Rising
4 Girly Juice  @girly_juice
6 Coffee and Kink  @CoffeeAndKink
8 Sex Matters  @more_matters
10 Pandora Blake  @pandorablake
11 Pain as Pleasure @bibulousone
12 Little Switch Bitch @_littlesbitch
13 Miss Eve E @MissEveBlogs
14 Hey Epiphora @epiphora
15 Candy Snatch @candysreviews
16 Red Hot Suz @redhotsuz
17 Cara Thereon @thereon_cara
18 Mx Nillin @MxNillin
19 Cara Sutra @thecarasutra
20 On Queer Street @OnQueerStreet
21 Brigit Writes @BrigitWrites
22 Submissy @5ubmissy
23 Sexual Destinies @VictoriaVista1
24 The Other Livvy @theotherlivvy
25 Tabitha Rayne @TabithaErotica
26 Super Smash Cache @supersmashcache
27 Miss Scarlet Writes @MissScarletUK
28 The Big Gay Review @thebiggayreview
29 Teachers Have Sex @teachershavesex
30 Miss Ruby Reviews @MissRubyReviews
31 Feisty Fox Films @feistyfoxfilms
32 Kelvin Sparks @ksparksreviews
33 Exposing 40 @exposing40
34 I'm an Adult @Indigoisanadult
35 Innocent Loverboy @innocentlb
36 Submissive Feminist @SubFeminist
37 Victoria Blisse @victoriablisse
38 Phallophile Reviews @phallophilerev
39 Joanne's Sex Machine @joannesreviews
40 Petra Pan @PetraPanReviews
41 Wriggly Kitty @wriggly_kitty
42 Dildo or DilDont  @Makeupandsin
43 A to sub Bee @sub_bee
44 Princess Previews @PrincessPreview
45 Hannah likes dirty words @HannahLockhardt
46 Backwoods Bedroom @bkwoodsbedroom
47 Subs missives @Sum1Sub
48 Pillow Princess Reviews @PillowPrincessR
49 Modesty Ablaze @ablazingmodesty
50 Joellen Notte @JoEllenNotte
51 Emmeline Peaches Reviews @EmmelinePeaches
52 Annie Savoy @asavoywrites
53 Kitten Boheme @kittenboheme
54 Suggestive @suggestive
55 Forbidden Writings @Charlton_Tod
56 Master's Pleasing Bitch @MPBjulie
57 Kilted Wookie - The Zen Nudist @Kilted_Wookie
58 Cleareyedgirl @_Masterseye
59 Nicci Haydon @NicciHaydon
60 Chronic Sex @chronicsexchat
61 You Won't Tame This Sassy Cat @sassycat38
62 Le Journal @Little_xsecret
63 Ace in the Hole @_aceinthehole
64 Down the Bunny Rabbit Hole @LuvbunnySL82
65 Isabelle Lauren @romanticisa
66 Jerusalem Mortimer: Between the Lines @JaimeMortimer
67 Midnight at the Oasis @midnightoasis64
68 Maria Opens Up @MSM1647
69 Love, Violet @fireandhoney
70 HisLordshipUK @hislordshipuk
71 Happy Come Lucky @ht_honey
72 Pieces of Jade @piecesofjade
73 Sex is my New Hobby @sexismynewhobby
74 Steeled Snake @steeledsnake
75 Exhibit A @EA_unadorned
76 Fondlers Anonymous
77 Cerebral Sexuality @sexcerebral
78 Dr. J @DoctorJAuthor
79 Accidental Masturbator's sex blog
80 Mischa Eliot @mischa_eliot
81 Ophelia's @fearlessophelia
82 Eros Blog @ErosBlogBacchus
83 Rain De Grey @raindegrey
84 F Dot Leonora @fdotleonora
85 Miss Jezebella @Miss_Jezebella
86 Asrai Devin @asrai
87 Nookyeverafter @nookysemper
88 Life of Elliot... @elliotthenry36
89 Ina Morata @inamoratawriter
90 Lascivious Lucy @LasciviousLucy
91 Helen's Toybox @helenstoybox
92 Ayzad @Ayzad
93 Books1799 @Books1799
94 Pillow Talk @posychurchgate
95 RisqueViews @RisqueViews
96 Livvy Libertine @Livvy_Libertine
97 My Sex Life with Lola
98 Krystle In Bed  @krystleinbed
99 Bondagegod.com @bondagegod1
Number 100 is traditionally given to "you" - the ever-popular "other" category for blogs that didn't make the list. I thought that this year, in spirit of that 100 open call, and equally the spirit of #SoSS, I would use this space to promote some bloggers that didn't make the list, for whatever reason, but that I feel need recognition as well.

The #SoSS Bit

(i) Rose Monrou from Sex with Rose
Rose is probably one of my best friends in the sex blogging community, as well as one of my oldest friends, and one of the first sex bloggers I ever met. She didn't make the list ths time around, probably because she hasn't been posting a lot of late, but she is amazing company, has a blasé attitude towards sex which is refreshing, and her words - when they appear - are well-chosen. She's gorgeous, as well.

(ii) Cheeky Minx from Love Hate Sex Cake
Minx usually makes the list, but she didn't this year (although I think I nominated her anyway!), also due to a lask of posts. I read her blog every day, though, just in case there has been another of her artfully erotic pictures, of wistful thoughts, almost like poetry. I've also gotten to know her a little more over the past year, and can report that she is wise and intelligent, as well.

(iii) Charlie Powell from Sex Blog (of sorts)
I couldn't go without mentioning Charlie. As a writer, she is inspired; as an artist, she is tantalising. On Twitter, she is a blast - if you don't follow her there, do - most of her tweets making me laugh, or at least smile with the knowledge that she is back. I love this girl, and all that she stands for - mostly, in my mind, that she is a survivor.

(iv) Amber from Gay on Tuesdays
I spent quite a lot of time talking to Amber at 'con back in March, and was bowled over (scared, actually!) by her energy, enthusiasm, positive attitude, and lovely smile which shows nearly all her teeth. She described herself, at the time, as a wannabe sex blogger - the resulting blog is looking to be a valuable resource, full of humour... and it has a cracking good title, which is never a bad thing!

The ILB Bit

Where does this leave me for the rest of the year? Well, obviously, I have more posts to come. I'm aiming to make excape velocity this year, and I'll do that if I write 17 posts before the New Year... which, with a full-tme job, is difficult, but not impossible.

It's December, which means it's also soon to be the anniversary of me starting this blog eleven years ago. These days, that means updating my about page, so I'll get to doing that just before Christmas. What I will fill the blog up with remaind to be seen, but I'm sure I will get some ideas: I did today, after all!

I've had a lot of adventures this year - some good, some bad, some stressful and some blissful. Some I've talked about, some not. But one thing I've learned in eleven years of sex blogging: there's always going to be more to come. And, having said that, that's now exactly what I'm going to go and do.

You're welcome for that image.