Sunday, 24 March 2019

What is there to get out of sex blogging?

I'm posting this as a rather useful (well, I think it's useful - your mileage is likely to vary) entry for Cara Thereon's Draft Folder Challenge. It is, in fact, the only thing in my folder of drafts that I haven't posted in some form or another, and oddly enough, it was nigh on complete. It's also (yet another) listicle, trying to answer the question above. Less than a week after Eroticon, with everyone still fired up, it doesn't seem like a bad thing to post!

So yes...

What is there to get out of sex blogging?

*


I love being a sex blogger.

But why? What is it about writing about sex on the internet that makes it such an important part of my life? Why, exactly, is it my favourite thing to do - and why have I kept it up for almost ten years?

It's impossible to summarise. There are so many aspects of blogging that one can write about: a few paragraphs can barely scratch the surface. But because I can - and because I'm a sucker for a good listicle - here are a few of the reasons that I still squirm a little inside whenever I crack open that compose window.


Instant gratification

It's no secret that people read blogs. Even there's a certain heady glow when you get an e-mail, or a comment, or even a tweet in response to something you've written; I'm still amazed that people read my words!

However, that's far from the only positive feeling. Writing can be incredibly liberating, and there's a dizzy sense of completion to be had from the instant you press the 'publish' button! It's a labour of love, for sure, and (hopefully) you're blogging because you love to write and you have a voice to be heard. But one of the things I love about writing is that it feels so good.

And I know at least one person who's reading my stuff... me!


Increased sexual awareness

Before I started my blog, I had only a passing knowledge of sexuality. I was aware of my own, but due to the limited sex education I got during school life and a year or so of fairly vanilla sex in the missionary position with my one previous girlfriend, there was lots that I didn't know about, and even more that I didn't know existed!

That, of course, has all changed. Years of writing my own blog, reading countless others, and interaction within the community has made me much more aware of all the changing aspects and opportunities that the world of sexual proclivities has to offer! I may not partake a lot myself, but prior to blogging, I would have been as clueless as EL James if you'd asked me what "BDSM" stands for...


Artistry

I've always considered blogging to be an art as much as it is an outlet. Not every post you write is going to be stellar, but there's a lot to get out of wordsmithery - and just as much from reading other bloggers' work. Telling stories is, after all, one of the oldest art forms in the world, and what better way to carry on that tradition?

It's worth noting that some of the "big hitters" of the early days got noticed through books they published - something that's still continuing to the present. What better way to show a little love for someone's hard work writing than to read it - whether online... or in a book?


Assuagement of guilt

When I was a teenager, I felt incredibly guilty about my sexual desires. I wasn't even comfortable with the fact that I was having any for a while!

Sex blogging has been a wonderful tonic. Everyone has different sexual tastes, but even if yours are unique, you're able to take a lot of solace in the fact that you're not alone - the community will surround you with others, all of whom have a sex drive, just like you... and they're talking about it! Where's the shame in that?


More sex conversation with your peers

As much as I enjoy talking frankly about sex, it still doesn't happen as much as I'd like, especially with my friends. Nevertheless, I now feel as if I'm unashamed enough to actually broach the subject, rather than dancing about it like a moth around a flame!

I'm now able to start conversations with sentences like, "so my friend, who's a pornographer..." or "hey, you're a hen party? Cool, we're a convention of sex writers." The looks on faces, alone, are priceless.


More sex conversation with others


And let's not forget the people you meet around the sex blogging life. These are the people you teach and those you learn from. In this setting, they're less likely to be overly shy about sexual discourse - and the amount of humour and intelligence these people employ has always astounded me - and it will continue to do so!

I think that, in that sense, that's why sex bloggers love to meet up: so we can talk sex!


A sense of community

I've been a member of many social groups in my time, but there has never been one like the sex blogger community. Like most groups, I'm sure we may not all agree with each other all the time... but there's a camaraderie that comes from working towards the same goal that is continuously being refreshed and resurgent every time someone adds something new. Individually, we may be writers... but together, we are a force!


A superhero identity

Because, with a name you use for a fantastic cause, who doesn't feel like they're in the Justice League?


More sex

Out of the people I've had sex with, more than half of them have been sex bloggers themselves. All four girlfriends I've had have been bloggers too, and with them, I've had the best sex of my life!

I'm seriously doubting that I'd have had any romantic encounters, or any sex at all, if I hadn't started my blog. It's made me much more open and available... and laying myself bare on the Internet has let people see "the real me", which is what I've always wanted. Astounded though I am that anyone would ever be attracted to me, but without my blog I doubt any of it would have ever happened!

Wednesday, 20 March 2019

70 Joys of Eroticon: Part III

Despite the feeling of impending doom that always pervades in the final hours of Eroticon every year, this Sunday was one of the best Eroticon days I've had so far. I was a little less tense, and more relaxed, by that point, and determined to get as much out of the remainder of 'con as possible. I started my list of joys at 45 on Sunday morning, so it was fairly clear that even if I had the best day possible I wouldn't be able to make it to 100 (I was taking notes too, okay?!).

But I certainly enjoyed a lot of these things:

45. Christine being full of energy and enthusiasm on Sunday morning
46. Birthday wishes via Twitter
47. Birthday applause (thank you, Molly, from the bottom of my heart!)
48. CandySnatch recounting her social media abuse, but still being fairly blasé about surviving it
49. Amber's morning birthday hug
50. The devastating amount of raw honesty shared around the room by the Anxious Writers Club

For those of you wondering, I am fully intending to participate in Cara's "share a draft" challenge brought up during the AWC session. I'll just need to find all my old drafts, and that's going to take a while, and some digging around... but I'll do it, natch!

51. Ros Ballinger reading with a great turn of phrase
52. Amy reading with a kick-ass opening like, starting completely in medias res 
53. Joy as it Flies reading with a nice, resonant, strong voice
54. Victoria being ever so Northern during her reading
55. Bibulous One reading with a power and passion that made me start
56. GOTN being both cute and filthy at the same time during her reading
57. Myles Jackman's unexpected, and unintentional, intrusion, with accompanied laughter

I enjoyed the readings this year. Usually there are one or two that aren't my cup of tea, but this time around, I liked every single one!

58. Giving Eleanor a copy of the book I said she would truly love
59. Eleanor using the phrase "we stan a legend"...
60. ...and reducing herself, and the audience, to giggles when trying to discuss incels
61. "Readers are lazy. Really, really lazy." - Molly
62. Molly using the phrase "Google boner" (a compound noun, not an instruction!)
63. GOTN being wonderfully nerdy about content and stats

For anyone who was wondering, Blogger's own stats service is different from the Google one (even though Blogger is now owned by Google - it's been the same service for the last eleven and a half years, at least!), or the one intrgrated into WordPress. It does largely the same stuff, although in a relatively scaled-down fashion. I can still see all my readers in China, though, which is an odd thought.

64. Pathetic fallacy! Thunder throughout GOTN's talk...
65. ...and her classic art!
66. GOTN signing her book for me
67. Molly being sly and funny about the raffle
68. Hy taking a picture... of BOOBS!
69. Decompressing at the post-'con drinks at the hotel, and sneaking one final look at the Glass House. It's fitting, the most pretentious of me finds, to end 'con where it starts.

That's where the list ends. As you may have noticed, there isn't a number 70 in this list of 70.

Once again, I felt a litle bit ostracised at the final hotel drinks. Some people were beginning to trickle away, but a fair few of them were still in situ. I had something to do in London at 8:30, and there wasn't any point in going home only to come back straight away... plus, I'd promised myself I'd stay for as long as possible at 'con this year, as I always seem to leave a bit too early and miss something special.

But, once again, I sat in the corner, not wanting to intrude on any particular clique.

It wasn't until the last half hour, perched on the edge of a sofa surrounded by a tipsy GOTN, a loved-up Hy, an exhausted Molly, an heroic Michael, and an enthusiastically befuddled LSB (and her partner!), that I realised something. I may not be always welcome in every subset of people, but at least at 'con I am with my people, and as long as that holds true, there will eventually be someone left I can sit with.

So at the very end of my list, I suppose there is something else.

70. Friends

Tuesday, 19 March 2019

70 Joys of Eroticon: Part II

Saturdays at Eroticon have always been, for whatever reason, a mixed bag for me. Often, the sessions are of varying quality, but usually pretty good; there's always a sense of community at the beginning and everyone is keen to learn. In the evening, the Saturday Social happens, and what with being (i) a teetotaller and (ii) a wallflower, I'm never actually sure if I should be enjoying it or not. The next poage and a half of my notebook continued the listicle for day two:

16. Morning banter with Hannah
17. Tea and coffee... and biscuits
18. If in doubt, add dragons
19. GOTN being the "spare brain"
20. Eleanor being incredibly funny and completely unabashed...
21. ...and recounting her academic journey
22. Amy showing her incredible enthusiasm and knowledge of the subject...
23. ...and her Sex Floof T-shirt...
24. ...and her kitty ears
25. "Porn 'for women'? What the fuck?!" - Amy
26. Getting a specific post idea, completely unexpectedly, from Amy's session
27. Kayla Lords fetishising 6 am Tumblr porn
28. Kayla identifying with everyone, being a procrastinator...
29. ...and evangelising about thirty minutes
30. A very satisfying, if limited, lunch - which came around at just the right time
31. Quinn's honest and forthright admission of her vulnerabilities
32. Quinn's teaching and learning simultaneously...
33. ...and encouraging us to reflect upon our own identities
34. Hannah making her own salient points
35. A funny, spunky, quick-fire session about memes with four bolshy ladies
36. Hy rhapsodising about boobs
37. Molly (almost) saying "circle-jerk"
38. Hy referencing a mothership of bloggers

There follows the Kink Lab and Saturday Social. As I said above, I usually enjoy the 'con up until this point, where I become a little uncertain. As it happens, I enjoyed both this year, but there were some moments wherein I felt as if I shouldn't be around... or wasn't wanted around.

Not coming as part of a group, I didn't really have anyone to hang with, so I had to spend dinner on my own. I also had to kill time wandering through Camden, wasted some money on a 'phone charger that didn't work (and failed to get a refund), and then when the Saturday Social started, I also spent most of that on my own, not wanting to interfere with any forming cliques or butt in on anyone's conversation. So, alas, I spent the last part of Saturday actually feeling quite lonely.

Some of the things that were better, though, were:

39. Hannah Witton showing solidarity with a fellow abdominal pain sufferer
40. Cara Thereon applauding her own rope suspension
41. Surprisingly in-depth philosophical discussion with Christine
42. Filling, indulgent solo mean at The Diner
43. Candy floss and popcorn at the Saturday Social
44. Evening banter with Hannah

I went home earlier than I had the previous day, although by that point I was flagging, and could have done with the fresh air. I got home, collapsed into a heap, and lay there in a state too hyped-up to sleep, but too tired to function. I had one more day to go, and that was what was driving me on.

Monday, 18 March 2019

70 Joys of Eroticon: Part I

So. I manage to survive my way through another year of my grinding existence and Eroticon rolls around at exactly the same time. It is, in fact, odd how this turns out - although fortunate because I get to have my birthday celebrations a few days beforehand and I quite like money - but it's also oddly gratifying, because Eroticon is so exhausting so you feel, at the end, like you've had a euphoric birthday.

Some of you may have noticed, throughout the conference, that I was writing a list in my notebook, as well as taking notes in the sessions. This was intentional - I was writing the basis for a listicle, which I will present here: 70 (I wanted to do 100, but I ran out of space!) little things that made Eroticon for me this year.

In this first post, I'll do the first fifteen: one entire page of my notebook, entirely things that happened on the Friday evening. These were written in chronogolical order, so if there's something lower down the list, it doesn't mean it's any less important - they all happened and they're all joyous!

1. Seeing everyone I wanted to and hugging even more people than usual
2. An extra-long hug with Rebel while holding a complete conversation
3. Amy's beautiful smile
4. Buying GOTN a drink, one year after I initially promised to do so
5. Jayne Renault turning up and looking amazing 
6. Every single moment spent with the vision of loveliness that is Amber Mallory
7. Baby Martha grabbing my finger with incresdible grip, like my niece used to do
8. Dancing with Quinn
9. Talking to Ruth (formerly Ruby Kiddell) without it feeling super weird
10. Actual conversations about actual industries I've actually worked in... with actual Eroticon delegates
11. Oversharing with Sparrow
12. Nobody called me fat
13. Being able to say, "I'm Innocent Loverboy", and even occasionally getting recognition for the name
14. Finally asking Nick why he is a PTFE person
15. Eating a burrito on the way home and realising that I was really going to enjoy this year

And I did. It's an odd sensation travelling back home in between 'con days, because - since I've been to every 'con since the first one back in 2012 - part of the experience remains staying in a hotel overnight: full immersion in the Eroticon environs. It's just not practical for me to do that, so for the third year in a row (Lord!), I went home after all the shenanigans. Thank you, Night Tube!

As I said in point 15 above, I had a feeling of anticipation on the way home that I was going to enjoy Eroticon. It's not been an easy year, overall, but a better one than the last few. If Eroticon was the way to end it, it had better be a good one. And, if I was going to make it as memorable as possible, I needed to spend as much time there as I reasonably could.

So I got home, flipped open my notebook... and started to write.

Monday, 11 March 2019

Womanised

I didn't write anything for International Women's Day last week because I didn't have the time, really. To be fair, I didn't have a clue what to write, when there's so much already written about it.

One of the things I wanted to write about was my own woman - but, then again, I'm not entirely sure that my girlfriend is a woman. While 'she', and 'her', and 'girlfriend' are still in play, she is uncertain gender-wise, and if it turns out that she is anything else, writing a post about her on International Women's Day may have been jumping the gun a bit, when it's more fitting to do that on Bi Pride or... well, any day I like, really. She's in my life every day, so why not?

As a cisgender, heterosexual male, a lot of the choices I've made in my life have been - consciously or not - due to women. I stopped buttoning up my school blazer because a girl I had a crush on told me to. I grew my hair long because of a young lady, and cut it short again because of another. I stopped wearing my school trousers to Woodcraft. I pretended to believe in Hell (even though I never have) to conform with a group full of attractive women, and although most of my friends are female, sometimes I still feel like I'm not doing enough to impress them.

One of the consistent myths about teenage boys is that they are only after sex. I'm not sure that's entirely true - I, for one, didn't feel like I was ready for sex, and while my attitude to it probably wasn't healthy, I had plenty of crushes. The feeling in the pit of my stomach when it turned out that an attractive girl - not even someone I fancied, just any attractive girl - was an empty, hollow one. With Lightsinthesky, my token black friend, Music Man and the others managing to couple up, and my nascent relationship with Soldiergirl fizzling as soon as it started, I began to feel like the last man on Earth.

Among the things about my current relationship is that I don't feel like I need to change anything for her. She can take me for what I am, and although I'm constantly amazed that she finds me attractive, I truly believe she does. I think she is, as well.

As I get older, I'm finding the choices I make are more due to my own self-image than because of whatever I think women think of me. I've never really seen myself as physically attractive, so I try to appear erudite and witty, although I'm often nervous as fuck deep down inside. I like to think I'm kind and considerate, and will certainly present as such. I genuinely am actually quite intelligent, which comes with a whole host of issues, but it's overall a positive quality. I've been told, over and over again, that there are a lot of positive things about me.

It's genuinely hard to believe. The things young women used to tell me still stick. I'm fat, they told me. I'm ugly. I can't run fast. I can't play sports. I'm far too soft. I'm stuck up. I'm selfish. I cry too much, and anyway, boys don't cry.

I can't hug you, because you're crying, and boys don't cry, said one female friend. What do I do?

Going to Eroticon makes me nervous about my self-image. I always go, and I always enjoy it. But the week before, I'm wracked with paranoia. Eroticon is full of insanely hot people in a bubble of body confidence and sexual energy. ILB is losing his hair at the age of 33; his eye has a recurrent chalazion that genuinely won't go away; his nose is too big; his skin, too rough. He even had a plan this year, to do a planned diet and daily exercise so he could at least appear at a healthy weight by the time 'con came around, but then he fell down the stairs and smashed his face, and since then, he's been nervous about doing anything, in case he falls again.

Part of this is just me being me. I over-analyse myself and that's how I work. A lot of this, I think, is how I see other people. I try to think the best of people and I genuinely try not to compare myself to the people I know and love. It's difficult, sometimes, when family members are heaped with praise, friends do well in their professional lives and don't seem to have problems with money, or incredibly attractive women have equally attractive partners. Even as someone in a long-term relationship, that's hard to handle.

But, after decades of indecision, one thing is clear. How I feel about myself isn't the fault of women. It's my fault.

I won't be any thinner, or hairier, or any more handsome at Eroticon this year. I wanted to be, but I won't be. I'll try to dress well. I'll get a haircut, and a shave. I'll do the best I can. Next year, I tell myself; next year, I'll look better. Next year, I won't feel like the least attractive person at 'con. Every year, I feel like that.

But if my girlfriend can accept me for who I am, then I should be able to as well.

Let's work on that.

Thursday, 7 March 2019

World Book Day: #amediting

It's World Book Day and, appropriately, I've been commissioned to edit a book. So that's what I've been doing for the past few days: editing.

Well, I say editing.

Realistically, and with no disrespect to whoever wrote it (I only have a name and it's not one I recognise), it's more like re-writing the whole thing. Every sentence - maybe even every clause - needs to be altered... or, in many cases, replaced entirely. What should have been a simple spelling and grammar check has turned into a hellscape of fixing every word in a long, rambling text broken up into incredibly uneven chapters, with no apparent knowledge of full stops and capital letters (since I need to add all of those).

Worst of all, Word doesn't appear to be saving all of the changes I make, so every time I open it, I have to blitz through the entire thing to see if there are any sentences which have mysteriously reverted to ALL CAPITAL LETTERS or being typeset in light blue Verdana unlike the rest of the book. Then, and only then, can I get on with re-writing the actual text. I've done six chapters so far and I'm still not sure where it's going, or what it's meant to be.

I've turned off the bar on the side that lists tracked changes, as trying to read through that is turning into an adventure.

While this is eating up my free time, and probably is worth much more than the £55 I have been promised for editing an 18,000-word work of mystery, there are the occasional unexpected benefits, like tiny bits of the original text that I just don't seem to be able to let go.
Coming to a dead end, with a wall twenty feet high barring her way, she turned around, only to see twenty men coming on her. These men, all seemingly between 30 and 50, had her to their advantage. One of them, a brutish man, grabbed her neck, hard. Mary lashed out with her left hand, but then another of the men bit it, while yet another man, to her right, grabbed the back of her hair, and pulled it hard, forcing her head back.
I wonder how carefully this Christian publisher vets their authors...

Monday, 4 March 2019

We should all be mermaids

There's a scene in The Shape of Water where Elisa describes, through tasteful gestures, how she has sex with the Amphibian Man when he doesn't initially appear to have a penis. From what I can tell, some scales move aside and create an opening... from which a penis appears.

I'm going to assume, from now on, that this is how mermaids have sex.

I mean, if a penis can come out of an animal (and it's not only the fictional creature I'm talking abut here - many animals, such as dolphins, have retractable penes), then it makes sense, similarly, to think that with such an opening, a female (or somebody with a vagina, however they identify) could just as easily have a hidden, but controllable, opening, behind which the vulva is located.

And furthermore, if one is going to engage in mermaid sex, then that seems to be the natural assumption. It doesn't quite have the sexy connotations of spreading legs... but nevertheless, in my head, it still works.

I mean, it must be in my head, because in the dream I had, the mermaid with whom I was having sex most definitely had a vagina. And my penis - external genitalia in my case - was certainly inside it, so clearly I must have gotten there somehow. Not that the dream had a beginning or an end, however, so I've no idea how successful we were in our attempted coitus (or how she came to be in my bed, or... well, who she was, or anything. Or why I was having sex with a mermaid when my girlfriend - my real one - was also in the dream, and naked. Ay me.)

It's amazing how these revelations come about, isn't it?

Friday, 1 March 2019

Are you ready to be distracted?

I'm sitting in the chair, second from the right, impatiently tapping my pen against the wodge of paper I've been handed. It's a small room, because that's all they booked. It's full, because it's so small (and there's a huge table in the middle). It's hot, it's stuffy, it's uncomfortable, and the only drinks they have are tea and coffee, because the café is closed.

I'm on my third cup of tea.

The chap doing the work training session (which should, in the future, be me, because I have no fear of public speaking) is doing his best to make the whole thing at least a little entertaining for us all, and in fact, is managing to succeed. He's mostly bantering with my boss, with whom he appears to have a little 'history', but at least I'm learning something. And I don't have to take any notes, which is a bonus.

Except by this point I appear to have stopped taking anything in. He asks a question which would be the perfect opportunity to jump in with one of my smartarse comments. I made everyone laugh a few minutes ago when replying to "what is composure?" with "it's when you write a piece of music". I'm silent, all of a sudden. And sleepy. And I'm beginning to lose awareness of my surroundings. Am I falling asleep? Is this reverse-tea, containing whatever the opposite to caffeine is?

I put my hand up and ask to go to the bathroom. I step out into the lobby of the ultra-smooth corporate building and take in a few lungfuls of fresher air. This is a nice venue, I think to myself.

At this point, I realise that I've just become aware of the environment around me, and more to the point, that for the last ten minutes I've been fantasising incredibly vividly about being given a blowjob in a hotel room. A specific hotel room and a specific participant. And that's actually where I've been - miles away from this room, this training session, this building and this job. In a hotel room, in the middle of the night, with a pair of lips wrapped around my cock.

I push my glasses up to the top of my head like Captain Shame used to do in his Twitter avatar. Rub my eyes. Walk around in a circle for a bit, to the general bemusement of the receptionist. Amble to the bathroom, use the toilet, and stroll back, regulating my breathing. Sit back down. Take a cake. Listen to the trainer once again.

This will be something to blog about is the first thing I write down.

Sunday, 24 February 2019

Road Man

However you want to view it - as a spiritual experience, altered state of consciousness, or simple scientific explanation offering up something to do with a lack of oxygen and increased heart rate - the moments after orgasm are a blessed relief. I don't always have time to enjoy them; sometimes I have somewhere to be or something to do, and maybe there's a little twinge of guilt somewhere in there as well. If I have a lot of time to myself and I have a particularly huge orgasm, then I'll go and lie down for a bit afterwards. It's probably the only way I'll get any sleep.

Then there are the moments just after those moments. My late teen orgasms were always followed by incredibly increased hearing, to listen for footsteps. In university, I used to let the rest of the sceme play (if it was something I was watching) or play out in my head (if it was something I was imagining) before returning to whatever I was doing. In my twenties, it was a mixture, coupled with becoming a dab hand at the volume switch on the side of my laptop.

Now, after I orgasm, I enjoy the buzz for a while, then just get on with my day. And, of course, I clean up.

I live, and for the majority of life I have lived, relatively near (ie. within earshot of) a main road which is one of the primary routes into and out of London to the northeast. It's the route I take to get to work, and it's also the route via which most of my adventures (that is to say, the ones that don't involve London) have started. It's also the road I used to cross (via a big metal bridge) to get to school, so I know it well enough. At some points, in fact, it's the distant rumble of that A-road that makes me feel more comfortable. Weird, I know. But it's home.

Why am I bringing this up, when originally I started talking about wanking? Well, the other day I had a particularly large, and particularly pleasant, orgasm. One of the ones you have to wait for... and work for. Since I had time to spare that day, I took a moment afterwards to let myself re-acclimatise (as opposed to just jumping up and getting on with... whatever else I was meant to be doing). I had my eyes closed, my legs were bare, cum slowly working its way down from where it laid...

...and all I heard was the road.

Which, I've just realised, is odd. If I listen very closely, I can just about pick it up, but with the windows shut (and, since I was having a wank, the curtains were probably closed too), I can barely hear a thing from outside - much less the dual carriageway ten minutes' walk away. Yet there I was, sitting in my computer chair, and there was nothing else but the cars. The faint hum from the traffic increased rapidly to a deafening roar, and for a while, I just sat, still, sleepy, phasing in and out, car after car after car pushing its way through my consciousness, until slowly, gradually, my heartbeat came back in and brought me round.

Which is why I'm now going to start looking for houses near meadows with birds singing and slow bubbling brooks... because, if this is what's going to happen, I'll be able to have all my orgasms and then walk out cheerfully into a Disney film.

Wednesday, 20 February 2019

~* eRoTiCoN 2019: MeeT & GReeT *~

I've been looking forward to doing this! Yes, for those of you who don't know, I'm attending Eroticon once again this year. That shouldn't be a surprise, really, since I go every year... but, unlike last year, I'll be there for the whole thing this time! A genuine shock, I know.

I was very sick last year, and as it turns out, I was sicker than I thought, since I thought I had a cold and it turned out to be bronchitis... this year, I'll load up on Vitamin C well in advance, to prevent that happening again. Yes, I'm aware that's not the most effective of methods.

In any case, there's a Meet & Greet to get cracking with, so what's the story, morning glory?

Name

Innocent Loverboy - still abbreviated to "ILB" if you're only capable of remembering three letters. That's "I'll be", by the way, not "illb". Sorry to spoil any fantasies, or anything.

You can find me on most social media using @innocentlb - confusingly not my blog URL. Isn't the internet fun?


Tell us 3 things you are most looking forward to at Eroticon 2019.

(i) Seeing my long-distance friends and spending time with them in person. Yes, I stole that verbatim from Molly, but I agree with her. There are multitudes of people I haven't seen at all since last year's 'con (in fact, I don't think I've seen any of them!), and this appears to be my annual opportunity to do so!
(ii) Hugs!
(iii) I don't know if this makes me sound self-centred, but it's my birthday (again!) on Sunday 17th. I'm looking forward to spending it at Eroticon!


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

Kremlin Dusk by Utada Hikaru. It isn't at all relevant to Eroticon, but it's one song to which I'm guaranteed to sing along!

Other than that, anything by Barenaked Ladies, Smash Mouth or Roxy Music will probably get me singing. And I'm seeing James the weekend beforehand, so anything at all from their 41-year back catalogue would do - might I suggest Curse Curse, since it's about listening to people having sex in a hotel room? (Or is that more relevant to Woodhull?)


What is your favourite item or book you’ve purchased so far this year?

I actually bought nine DVDs of soft porn earlier this year, so...

Okay, this probably needs a bit of context. None of the most recent Emmanuelle films are available commercially. Since Alain Siritzky's passing a few years back, his back catalogue is entirely in jeopardy, but the Emmanuelle Through Time series never got aired in its entirety, so there aren't even dodgy rips available to download.

In order to get legitimate, high-quality copies, I used my Christmas money to buy the whole series from the director Rolfe - who, kindly, sent me two bonus DVDs. Not bad for a little over a hundred quid!


You can have an unlimited supply of one thing for the rest of your life; what is it? Sushi? Scotch Tape?

I had to think about this. I've hit upon 'drinks' as an answer, and I think that makes sense - statistically, I think the most money I spend in my life goes on buying drinks. Cut out the need to stock up on bottles of Diet Pepsi and I'd probably be loaded!


What is your favourite quote from a movie?

"So you're telling me we're filming a music video for a rock star who's here but you can't find."
"Yeah..."
"Have you checked his trailer?"
"Yes..."
"The dressing room?"
"Yes..."
"Well, how many people have you got looking for him?"
"Well, just me. Aha! People!"
[Turns on megaphone.]
"People! I need a 20 on Alvin! Whoever isn't doing anything, stop what you're doing, and go find him!"

- or alternatively:

"Ever since I was born... I was dope."


What is your word suggestion for next year's Eroticon anthology?

Wow, next year's. You're keen. In order to come up with something suitably pretentious, I'm going to go with "Light". I'm surrounded by light during sex, so it seems appropriate.


Complete the sentence: I feel...

...uncomfortable about my body.

Yes, that's a bit of a downer to end on, isn't it? There's a long story behind it this year, rather than just generic moaning, but I genuinely don't have the spoons to go through it all right now. Maybe being at Eroticon in less than a month will make me feel better about it all.

Here's hoping.

Saturday, 16 February 2019

Innocent Walkerboy

For the last few days, I've been experiencing a gradual return to work, which is the best they could give me following a relatively uncertain interview on Tuesday morning wherein my boss wasn't sure if she was comfortable with me doing any work at all (except washing up, which is something I have ended up doing anyway). As I reminded her, I have annual leave coming up next month (around the Eroticon weekend, naturally), and I really ought to get back to work before that.

Lies, of course; I just really need the money.

Although so much has changed in my life over the last decade or so, one of the things that has remained constant (and I just cracked open Google Maps to research for a comment on GOTN's blog, so excuse the massive nostalgia hit) is my appreciation of time to walk on my own. It's relatively limited now - it's not pleasant to walk around suburban North London in the winter anyway, and I often find time slipping away in lieu of domestic duties, pre-arranged attendances and general laziness - and it was, I tended to find, much easier when I was living in my parents' old house.

Before we moved, I was living with my family in a nice, large 1930s building with four bedrooms, adequate living space and a Jigglypuff painted on the wall of the converted loft. I was also single for quite a lot of that time (pretend girlfriends notwithstanding), and even for the bits where I wasn't, I didn't have someone living with me (Willow doesn't count; she's a cat). I was lonely, but adjusting to life after three relatively unpleasant university years; also, after having done so every single day for the final term of my final year, I had taken to having long walks in the surrounding area - often just me, my iPod and 'phone; no wallet, so I wouldn't spend any money and had to walk home if and when I got lost.

In the summer, this was a wonderful thing to do. It was exercise, of a sort, so I didn't feel guilty about it; there was a canal (and still is) nearby, so it was easy to find a waterside path to follow; I knew all the hidden entrances to the park which was officially closed after dusk (but was full of drunken teenagers having clandestine sex in the shadows, so much so that I started a tally); Tim Booth had just released a new album, so I had something fresh to listen to; most importantly, it was free. As night fell, I would find my way back to a main road, walk back to my house, let myself in using the keysafe, and then probably have a wank, since I... well... since I'm human, I guess.

These days - except for the wanking - I don't have that time, so I basically do all of that on my way to work (or, at least, on the way to the bus stop). I walk down the road, monologuing to myself - I do that a lot: usually stand-up to an imagined audience, answering questions that haven't been asked, or discoursing loudly about porn to a fictional cinema full of people having attended the film club I'm never going to start - before plugging my iPod in when I get to the bus stop and mainlining the odd mix of indie rock, musical theatre soundtracks and classical symphonies for the 20-minute ride to work.

It's not enough time, I know. It seems long in the morning - since my bed complains loudly when I get out of it - and even longer when I'm going home, the cool night air soothing but less and less welcome as you wait for a useful way to get back to your damn ass flat in order to access such luxuries as "food" and "shelter". I don't even really mind it, since I like travelling in many ways. It just doesn't have the same gravitas as purposefully getting lost in your leafy suburb, or walking down the riverside path in Oxford that the Seamstress showed me, or clambering up peaks with Woodcraft.

What I need, my subconscious tells me, is a nice, long and pointless route to walk down - one that involves trees, fields and water, none of which are immediately accessible from my flat (although there's a park fifteen minutes away; it's just not quite the same). I don't have any wish to run, nor do I have any money to spend so going to the local town is not really a useful option, but if I could just find the time to do so, maybe a stretch of my legs and a breath of clear air would do me at least some good.

Anyone fancy a stroll?

Sunday, 10 February 2019

Soft Porn Sunday: Judy Moulton & Jarod Carey

Among the things I like when it comes to sex, somewhere near the top of the list would have to be the concept of desperacy - when one is part of a couple so intent on having sex with immediate effect that everything else goes out the window, including basic hygiene, so one is basically making a mess in order to do it. How one does that without being slightly preoccupied with the cleaning rota afterwards is a mystery, I will admit, but it's still a trope I like.

It happens quite a lot in soft porn - the "one-armed sweep of the table" is a classic, for sure - and, whenever I think of that, this scene pops into my head. It starts with a fair amount of food play, which I genuinely don't like - food play squicks me out - but I adore the way it ends. And it made me come the other day, so let's do it, shall we?

Appearance: Passion Cove, Series 2: "The Bet" (2001)
Characters: Mona & Paolo

I've featured Passion Cove before, and I've even featured this episode before. It's memorable to the point of having a conversation with myself ("Oh, cool!" / "How cool?" / "Very cool.") when 18-year-old me saw a repeat and realised which episode it was, and although the aforementioned scene with Tina New is a lot hotter than I remember it being, it's this scene which is what I remember. I'm not really familiar with Judy Moulton from anything else, either, which is always a plus, as I'll immediately identify her with this character, and furthermore, this scene!

(Sorry, Judy.)

In any case, this is sex scene number three of three. Hunky handyman Hitmonchan Hitmonlee Hitmontop Paolo has already had sex with wealthy, successful, unreasonably attractive singleton Cassidy (Gabriella Hall) and wealthy, successful, unreasonably attractive singleton Dusty (Tina New). He's busily making dinner for the house (because handymen... do... salads?) when wealthy, successful, unreasonably attractive Mona (Moulton) decides to "have a go". Needless to say, the salad ends up on the floor and Mona ends up on the table; Paolo, presumably, is going to need some ice, if he's had that much sex in the space of a day.

Paolo clearly doesn't need much persuasion, since he's worked out quite early on that if you act
Is he using this or advertising it?
clueless and wear quite revealing clothes, then you get to have sex with beautiful women because this is Passion Cove and that's what happens. There isn't even much build-up, either, because... as I may have mentioned... they are desperate. That, and there are only five minutes of the episode left, so they probably needed to wrap this up quickly.


My brain divides this scene into two parts: the "food fight" bit that lasts for the first one minute and forty-seven seconds, and the SEX!!!, which lasts all of about forty. There's even a noticeable break - a cut to the other two characters engaging in casual voyeurism and Tina New doing her best Atlas impression - between the two. Because of that, here's a lazy way to divide up the review...

1. Food Fight!

As I said six paragraphs ago (Jesus, I do go on a bit), I'm not into food play, and to me this just seems like a horrible waste of the salad bowl, miscellaneous vegetables, bowl of flour and "here's one I made earlier"-style cake that already adorn the table. Nevertheless, there isn't a lot of food that gets manhandled - just some whipped cream to the face and some unspecified vegetable oil (yes, I know - must be a bugger to shower off). This is mostly preparation- disrobing (involving flour), touching (involving oil), and wanton salad destruction, although for those of you who have your priorities in order, you'll be happy to know that

To be fair, though, I do think this is quite fun. Paolo deliberately sweeping everything off the table (except the cake) is done in an efficient manner - the desperacy I was talking about - and they even film the salad bowl smashing on the floor, just so you know.

Critical hit!
Paolo lifting Mona onto the table is... well, it's shot well, it just looks like he doesn't need to, it's hardly a huge leap...  before he drizzles her with what may be oil or honey, although whatever it is, he waves it around like a plonker first, so maybe it's product placement. There follows a certain amount of naked touching (accompanied by annoying wheezy giggling from Mona, which is either excitement or an asthma attack - possibly both), although no actual penetration has taken place at this point.

Because the show wants you to know that. Cassidy and Dusty are
Atlas Shrugged
hiding around the corner, and it cuts to them expressing their shocked disbelief that the hot single man who's had sex with both of them is now having sex with somebody else. That's the break. It's okay, though, because they both wander off and then


2. SEX!!!

And this is the bit that makes me orgasm. There follows some sex, Mona on her back and Paolo still standing where he was a few moments ago, but clearly inside her by this point... and it increases in intensity, from a simple bump'n'grind to hand holding, intent thrusting, bending over forwards and putting more effort into it... despite the cheesiness, it genuinely does convey that they are getting lost in the moment, Mona's excited moans and even the occasional vocalisation from the otherwise-silent Paolo accompanied by an odd Muzak-like poppy soundtrack.

They even cuddle at the end. Hoorah for that and... oh, it fades out swiftly. As you were, then.

*

PAOLO used STRENGTH!
The question here is: do I sit through the whole scene when I'm in the mood to have an orgasm? Frankly, I don't. The scene gives you the mid-point cut and that's the point I tend to start from. Much as I like the preparation and the vegetable homicide, more often than not this is my "finisher" scene. I do occasionally watch it in its entirety (along with the other two sex scenes - they get better as the episode goes along, so it's a nice build-up), but mostly it's the last few seconds that really get me hard, if they don't in fact get me off.

But that's the wonder of soft porn. It's incredibly versatile, just like BirdsEye potato waffles. Which I like with cheese. And salad.

Damn it, Paolo.

Thursday, 7 February 2019

LouLink

Louise and I have a thing (well, maybe it isn't a thing; maybe it's just coincidence, but I'm going to assume it's a thing). Maybe it's ESP, maybe it's familiarity, or maybe it's just dumb luck, but whatever the reason, the thing is that, whenever I think of Louise, I tend to hit upon exactly what she's doing at that precise moment in time. Or thereabouts.

For example, I got a message from her last week to ask me how I was doing since I was still in bandages and showing no visible signs of recovery. I reassured her, and asked how she was... and how she was managing to wield a tablet while in a swimming pool. I still don't know why I asked that, but as it turns out, she was indeed sending me messages from her tablet while treading water in her pool (I'm assuming it was on a towel on the side or something; I didn't go that far!). She did, I'll admit, then check to see if she was visible on Google Street View... but that could have been taken at any time.

[NB. I'm on Google Street View. There's a snap of me eating a pastry while on my way to work. My face is blurred out, of course... but my questionable fashion choices are there for all to see.]

Probably a coincidence, right? But then, just a week earlier, I'd sent her an e-mail to ask for clarification on something... and got a reply almost instantly. I'd speculated, in the body of the e-mail itself, that she was probably at work, but if she wasn't, I was okay to wait until she was in order to get one back. Louise hardly ever goes to work these days, and as it turns out, I'd hit upon the one day that week she was sitting in the office with little to do.

That, and I called her to make contact once because I knew she'd be on a train with time to talk.
That, and I sent her an e-fax once on the assumption that she'd just be setting up a fax machine at work.
That, and I once almost sent her a text, but guessed (quite correctly, as it turns out) that she'd be having sex, and it would be polite not to interrupt her.

The thing is - if it is a thing - both amusing and humorously not at all useful. We are close, and have been for a while - friends, and former lovers - and there are things she knows that I've never told anyone else. I'd like to think it's the same the other way around. But it doesn't help, when she is two continents away, to know what she's doing at any given time. She doesn't like to talk on the 'phone, and since MSN isn't a thing any more, our long evening conversations are no longer a luxury. I don't often have a reason to contact her at all, really.

But it's not just me who has the thing.

Because, just as I opened this window and began to type, a text message pinged from 6,100 miles away.

My cooch is burning! Are you writing about me? :)

It's nice to know that her way with words hasn't changed, either.

Monday, 4 February 2019

Decisions

"What can I do for you?" asked the cute GP.
"Well, I've been off work with a broken face," I said slowly but clearly, "and I've just had my cast taken off by the maxillofacial team. I wanted to know if I needed a letter to confirm I'm fit to get back to work. You're very cute," I added, only I didn't add that. The fact that she was cute didn't necessarily make her a good doctor. Her response is what made her a good doctor.
"It's your choice, actually," she smiled. "Your sick leave is valid until..." She checked. "...Tuesday."
"Do you need to write me a note, or...?"
"Nope! You just discuss with your employer when it's all right for you to go back! You've got over a week! When do you think you're OK to go back?"

I reached, almost unconsciously, for my nose, and immediately wished I hadn't, as it's very tender there, having had plaster ripped off this morning in an East London hospital. Barring the occasional pain (which is being regulated well by serious "fuck you" NSAIDs), I'm able to walk and talk and use my hands, so hypothetically I could go back to work now.

So I smile back, and am about to say this to the cute GP.

But then I'm reminded of the other things. I'm reminded of the serious lack of sleep I'm having, probably as a result of the general anaesthetic I had last week. I'm reminded of the creative project I've startes working on, and how I need to get on with that. I'm reminded of the occasional pains in my chest, legs, hands, and back. I'm reminded of all the housework I said I'd do, but haven't had the energy for; I also owe my girlfriend a meal at Nando's tomorrow as a celebratory "hooray, nose isn't totally fucked!" event. I need to regulate my sleep pattern. I need to tidy my house. I need to update my blog.

And, judging by the fact that I had an orgasm immediately before I left the house and was already wanting more, I needed to do something about my sexual arousal, which has been all over the place.

"Next Tuesday, you say?"
"Yes. You're going to talk to your employer?"
"Yes, I am. Thank you very much."
"You're quite welcome. Nice to meet you."
"Yes, you too. Thank you for your help."

And I walked from the clinic, the better path clearly illuminated in front of me.

Thursday, 31 January 2019

Altered states of consciousness

Tim Booth will tell anyone prepared to listen about his belief that, through the normal day, one goes through different states of consciousness, and this informs the state he's in while performing. I don't entirely disagree with him - it's just that in my life the different states of consciousness are based on how little sleep I've had and how ambient the music I'm listening to is. At the moment, for example, I've just come off a night of zero sleep and have on some very trippy music by my friend Murphy, so I may as well not be here. For all I know, this isn't happening.

Which is a rather roundabout way of putting things.

A couple of days ago I had surgery to reconstruct my shattered face. It wasn't too difficult - a simple operation, although the amount of bandages I now have on makes me look like The Joker before his unmasking in Batman. However, I did need to go under general anaesthetic before going under the knife. I've only ever had general anaesthesia once before - when I had my tonsils out at the age of five. I was sedated a couple of years ago during an endoscopy, but I was told this would be a different experience.

They weren't kidding.

Since the anaesthesia, I have been experiencing various altered states of consciousness with alarming rapidity. I had an incredibly extreme sexual fantasy while under anaesthetic - I don't recall all the specifics, but cock and breasts and many wet vulvae were involved - which vanished as soon as I woke up in the resus ward. I slipped back into sleep almost immediately afterwards, and found myself in a different ward entirely (I'd been moved while sleeping), having lost time. For the rest of the day, I reclined at a 45-degree angle, with periods of napping and some periods of feeling incedibly wasteful. One of the staff nurses told me that I needed to sit up more, but my nose started bleeding like mad every time I tried.

So I languished. Sleep. Rest. Wake. Rest. Wake. Sleep. Wake. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain...

...arousal. Deep,deep, yearning arousal.

Sleep go to sleep go to sleep go to...

I was wide awake by the time I got back to my parents' house, and for the iirst time, ravenously hungry. I ate a meal and went almost straight back to sleep, albeit in my sister's bed this time, and wasn't entirely sure where I was when I woke up. I was fully awake, though, padding around the house to get my bearings, and suddenly feeling like I was meant to be doing something that I'd forgotten to do (which isn't true: I'm under doctor's orders to rest). I had brunch, but felt nauseous, and slightly upset myself with the idea of seeing food and not wanting to eat it.

Truly, I am a mass of contradictions.

Yesterday afternoon I worked for an hour or so and then had the sudden and completely immediate, unpredictable need to lie down. I stumbled to the bedroom and passed out, then awoke and had two dinners, went back to bed and completely failed to sleep.

I should be lying down now, or at least tired. Slumped somewhere in a chair or on the sofa or back in bed. I'm growing more and more aroused, steadily, by the second, so maybe I should be doing something about that. Maybe, if I went to bed now, I'd actually go to sleep and catch up on what I've missed. Maybe I wouldn't. Either way, I'd be obeying doctor's orders. Getting up at 6am to watch The Martian while drinking Sprite Zero and then listening to ambient music while writing a blog post from scratch wasn't something they told me to do.

But it wasn't something they told me not to do.

You see, it's easier for me to work this all out if I write it down. My blog was the perfect place to do that. In the past 48 hours, I've been awake, unconscious, asleep, happy, sad, pensive, busy, lethargic, stricken with malaise, possessed of a manic energy, and with intermittent, brief but incredibly powerful moments of extreme horn.

At the moment, I am tired. Tired of it all. I just want to turn off the world and slip off for a while. Come back when I've recharged and let it start turning again from the moment I left it. But the planet doesn't work like that. It keeps spinning, and like it or not, it's taking me with it.

Heaven knows how I'll feel by the time the afternoon rolls around. But maybe, if I rest now, I can have a few moments of blissful unconsciousness before I have to shift again.

Sunday, 27 January 2019

Solidarity ILB

I say, quite early on, that I've already voted. We're making our selections for people to represent us... and I've already voted. I'm quite keen, and anyway, I had a few spare minutes, so I thought I'd better do it before the deadline comes. I wasn't entirely confident that I'd make it to the hustings, and listen to people speak. As it happens, I'm there early, and only one candidate turns up. I politely sit and listen to her speech.

It's all very impressive. She reels off a list of things she's done, but nothing stands out. Everyone says they've done the same things. I'm waiting for the unique bit.

And then she mentions sexual health. My ears prick up a little when she says she volunteers for a charity teaching sex ed in schools across the country; I'm more impressed by all the professional activities she does around promoting good sexual health. Consent is mentioned; body autonomy gets a nod as well. She mentions condoms and dental dams and gets a laugh. And, finally, she mentions that she writes a blog about sex.

The person chairing the meeting asks if there are any questions and my hand is already in the air.

I fanboy a bit about good sexual health; I ask her more about her work with the charity. At some point during my gush, I mention that I, too, am a blogger. I make a mental note to ask her where her blog is (and, for the record, it's a good one). By the very end of everything I've said, and everything she's responded, I am feeling very sorry that I've already voted. Had I known this, I'd definitely have voted for her.

I'm careful not to tell her where my blog is, but I assure her I will read through hers. In the break, I get out my (new) 'phone (my old one smashed when I had my accident), and open it up. I'm just getting started on her Twitter feed when I notice there's an e-mail notification, which I tap on. It's nothing important, but while my e-mail program is running, I figure that I may as well check the voting record to see if there's any way I can change what I originally said.

Tap. Swipe. Tap. Swipe. Yes, please, a cup of tea would be nice. Tap. Swipe. Lemon cake would be lovely, thank you. Tap. Tap. Tap.

An announcement is made and I sit back down. I've done a fair amount of digging, and as it turns out, I can't change my vote.

But, as it also turns out, I voted for her in the first place, so that's just fine.