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.

Tuesday, 22 January 2019

The Scriptory

[SCENE: A train. ILB, sore, is sitting nursing his nose, which is raw and hurting since the sutures were removed thirty minutes prior. DAD is keeping him entertained by talking about the play he's in.]

ILB: I remember auditioning for the last play I was in myself. I didn't get through the audition process...
DAD: But you were in the play after all, weren't you?
ILB: Yes. It's funny how that worked out.
DAD: In retrospect, the director could have picked a better play. It wasn't really all that good.
ILB: No, it wasn't.

[They reflect.]

ILB: I think he picked it because it had the smallest cast. We didn't have a lot of people turning up to auditions. A lot of the younger actors he got from Casting Call Pro...
DAD: Really?
ILB: Yeah. I was part of the company, of course, but I was one of only three or four that I recognised. I auditioned with Berrie...
DAD: Oh, I remember Berrie.
ILB: Indeed you should. We had good chemistry; we worked well together. We auditioned together to play the young couple. Maybe we were too old for the part, but I knew how to kiss...
DAD: I think a lot of people know how to kiss.
ILB: I knew how to kiss Berrie.

[MOTHER chooses this point to interject.]

MOTHER: Whoah, whoah, whoah! That's too much information!
ILB: You saw me kiss her... on stage... several times!
MOTHER: That's not what I...
DAD: There's a kiss in the play I'm doing!

[EVERYONE looks at DAD.]

DAD: Just thought I'd mention it.

Saturday, 19 January 2019

Save ILB

Since I had my accident just under a week ago, I have been off work. I may be, still, for a while yet, pending any future treatment, but that's up to the doctors to decide. Realistically, I won't be going in for at least another week, as the bones in my face need to heal before I can do much of any particular strain. I use my hands a lot at work, too, and my injured left hand is a bit of a problem. This is all subject to change.

After recovering from the initial shock on Monday, I was left wondering what, exactly, I would do to fill my time when there is quite a lot I'm not supposed to be doing. I decided, quite early on (realistically, in the taxi on the way home), that I would spend a lot of time doing ILB stuff. I'd write a blog post every day. I'd wait for the porn I ordered (which has since arrived), and do something clever with it. Maybe I'd restart Project Emmanuelle, which I used to write alongside JB. I'd make a plan for my second book.

I also planned to get a Chaturbate account. No particular reason - you just get yelled at if you're watching Chaturbate videos while unregistered.

None of this has happened, of course. With all the time in the world, it still feels as if I don't have any time; with incredibly vague plans come incredibly vague actions. Going to work at the volume I did has clearly exhausted me to a larger degree than I assumed at first, as I'm sleeping a lot more, itching with tiredness in the middle of the day, and feeling incredibly lethargic on the occasions wherein I do do something physical, even if it's just going to town on a bus. And sometimes, of course, the pain is disabling.

But here's the thing. I want to do the ILB stuff. It's not something I've had the time to do over the past year, and yet here I am being handed time (for possibly the worst reason imaginable, but still...), and I'm hardly doing anything with it. It's looking more and more like I shall have to force myself to write - as I am doing now - even if there is nothing tempting to do as an alternative. Yes, I can watch DVDs and catch up with Doctor Who since I missed the entire series, but once those are all ticked off, what do I do then? I'm even close to finishing Captain Toad: Treasure Tracker, but what do I do once I've finished that game?

I probably even have the time to travel to places, or visit people... but, alas, I don't have the money.

Which is what brings me here. I am about to start possibly my second seven-day period (last Sunday doesn't count as not being a day. Yes, I was at work, but only for half the day; I spent most of my time in hospital.) of not doing much, since for once I'm actually meant to not do much.

But I will do stuff. Because I owe it to myself.

Now somebody please come here and be nice to me.

Tuesday, 15 January 2019

Scarface

But you know that if you cross your fingers
And if you count from one to ten
You can get up off the ground again
It doesn't matter, the whole thing's just a game

Picture the scene, if you will, and it doesn't make you feel too queasy.

It's a place of work, and about five or six staff members are all shouting suggestions as maximum volume. None of the suggestions are the same. The deputy manager, who's the most senior person on shift, is on the 'phone to the ambulance service, having dialled 999 (or 112) a few minutes earlier. In amongst all this throng, the centre of attention initially but more or less forgotten amongst all the conflicting opinions, lies the injured person.

He's on his side, bleeding from the head, legs still in the awkward position they landed in when he collided with the floor. His arm is going numb from being pressed underneath his head. He doesn't know where the blood is coming from, exactly. But he knows the NHS is there for him.

Five minutes earlier.

I'd finished the morning shift, and since it was quiet, I'd decided to take a few minutes off for lunch, so (as is the procedure) I'd extricated my Glee lunchbox from the 'fridge, poured myself a drink, and set up on the kitchen table. I went upstairs to the bathroom beforehand, remembering to wash my hands, so as not to be infectious. I have a cold coming on, and wanted to stop its spread.

At the top of the stairs, I stumbled. I don't know why, or on what. But I fell forwards. Flailed, but failed to catch onto the bannister. I tumbled down the stairs, hitting all fifteen as I went on my way. My face was the first to hit the solid wooden floor of the downstairs lobby. My colleague was the first to see me, and the first to scream.

Thirty minutes later.

ILB is in a neck brace and strapped into a stretcher laden with blankets. The ambulance has blue lights flashing and sirens blaring as it hurtles through London to the nearest hospital with a sizeable enough trauma centre. He is staying conscious by talking to the pretty paramedic with auburn hair and swallow earrings. She reassures him that they will be there soon, and that he will get help fast. He can't feel any pain any more; the nitrous oxide has taken it all away. He is floating.

One hour later.

I'm in a hospital bed in the resuscitation ward. The medical student, who reminds me of somebody but I'm not sure who, comes through to check I'm all right. I assure her that I am, even though I'm not. The results of my full-body CT scan have come through, and as it turns out, although I've broken a few bones in my face and have lacerations here and there, there are no neck or spinal injuries. She removes my neck brace and angles the bed upwards a bit.

My 'phone has been ringing on and off for the last fifty minutes. I have no idea who it is, or how I'm supposed to take a call. I can't move my hands.

Two and a half hours later.

"You have bilateral nasal bone fractures, fractures of the nasal bridge, plus your septum, plate of the ethmoid, and there's possibly a haemorrhage in your sinus, too. There's a laceration on your nose, but that will close up in a few days; the stitches should help..."
"Why can't I see out of my left eye?"
"Oh, yes. Well, there's nothing wrong with that. You've just got blood from your wound clouding your vision. Blink a few times and it should clear, but that side of your face is badly bruised, so it will swell up and go blue by tomorrow. It should have gone down in about a week, though."
"What about the broken bones in my face?"
"Yes, well, the maxillofacial team will talk to you about that. They should heal by themselves, but it's impossible to tell what your nose will look like afterwards. You may want to have an operation, but you'll need to discuss that with the consultant..."

Three hours later.

He's feeling unsteady, but taking careful steps forwards isn't as bad as he'd thought. The T-shirt and shorts the staff nurse gave him aren't quite as good at the Debenhams jumper they cut off him, his only decent pair of trousers or the boxer shorts the medical student removed, but he is lucky he got away with broken bones in his face and lacerations across his nose and hands. It could have been worse. If he'd landed on his chin he might have broken his neck. He still has all his teeth, even.

His mother has called an Über. It's a long way back home. It's a fair bet he won't be going back to work today. Or tomorrow. Or, indeed, for a while yet.

Five hours later.

My whole head is pounding. The scar across the bridge of my nose feels like it's on fire. My eyes, my hands and my legs are sore. My face is very tender. I'm incredibly aware of my nerves jangling.

The following day, I'll be going back to the hospital. The doctor there is going to explain the procedures going forwards. I'll also be needing to call work and discuss things. I'll need to see a GP and get a sick note. I have test results to collect, as well. Maybe I'll even have time to clean the blood off my face.

But for now, it is time to rest.

Saturday, 12 January 2019

Crash Space

For the past few days, the sofa bed in our lounge - that usually functions as a sofa - has been, well, a bed. We had my girlfriend's mother visiting for a while, and because there are suddenly no hotels in London or something (I don't know the actual reason; I just went with it), we put her up. For the time being, this now means that there's a bed in two out of the four rooms in our flat. One more and we get the Glenn Quagmire award.

I'm sure I'll be putting the sofa back together at some point. That just may not be now. In retrospect, it was actually quite a good decision to leave the bed down, at least until this afternoon.

Let me paint you a picture. ILB, not at work for the first time in quite a while, is chilling in the lounge, both the newly-repaired central heating and Peter the Heater making sure that chilling doesn't involve a lot of chill. He has had lunch, cleared out his e-mails and watched the DVD of Teen Titans Go! To The Movies he got for Christmas. He's aware he should be doing something, but he's not sure what that is. He is, essentially, being lazy.

ILB has been exhausted for weeks. Getting up has been a victory.

He is reflecting on what to do next. He would like an orgasm, but something is holding him back. He isn't sure what. There isn't any genuine reason as to why he shouldn't be enjoying an orgasm. It hasn't happened for a few days, mainly for reasons outlined in the previous few paragraphs.

In any case, he has the time and he has the technology, so ILB brings himself to orgasm. (I shan't bore you with the details. It involves a lot of text and a fair amount of frantic pumping. You're welcome for that image.) He almost instantly phases out and slumps backwards in his computer chair, staying like that for... a while; he isn't quite sure how long, exactly. He had forgotten what long, drawn-out orgasms after long, drawn-out periods of time do to him. And, as has been said, he is exhausted.

ILB would usually, at this point, clean up, followed by going to make a sandwich or hot drink in order to replenish afterwards. In fact, he is up to doing neither of those things. His first instinct is to go to the bedroom and lie down, since every cell in his body is screaming at him in protest at his making them do anything at all today.

He pushes himself to his feet. He is dizzy, and fading fast. Maybe he hasn't quite gotten his legs back after that odd period he spent post-orgasm. A few more steps and he may fall. He can feel himself fading.

ILB falls, sideways, with a flump onto the bed in situ. There is a small clink from somewhere, a creak from the bed itself, and silence. ILB had deactivated, at least for the moment: he is part of the formless mass of blankets crowning the valiant sofa bed. Technically, he isn't comfortable... but his body is thanking him for it.

And that, gentle reader, is why I'm pleased I left my sofa bed how it was.

You'd almost think this was planned.

Tuesday, 8 January 2019

Peter Peter Convection Heater

I'd apologise for eating the plums that were in the icebox, but since the icebox is the lounge, that would be confusing. I don't even like plums, but that's not the point.

Our lounge is the "icebox", because it's large and airy and has three huge windows which are exposed to the unfriendly elements outside, and more to the point, we've had no working hot water or central heating since before Christmas, so while it's good for keeping our Christmas chocolates solid, our lounge is less suitable for human habitation.

Which is a problem, because my girlfriend's mother is arriving to stay with us for a week, and we're planning to have her sleep on a sofabed in a room seemingly designed with pneumonia in mind.

Although service engineers have just been at work replacing the corroded pump in our boiler that looks like it's been in situ since the Roman occupation, earlier this week I cracked and, tired of hunching on the sofa watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine under a pile of blankets the size of Torchwood Tower, texted my parents to ask if they had any ingenious solutions. Half an hour later, they turned up, and with a light in my heart and three pairs of socks on my feet, I finally plugged in Peter the Heater.

Peter the Heater is an appliance that has, frankly, seen some shit. I had Peter in my room back at my parents' old house when still in my early 20s, and before that, my late teens. Peter heated the place when it looked like Guantánamo Bay, all floorboards and cracked plaster, and when I returned to find it spruced up beyond all recognition, he found his place once again - often between my computer chair and my bed, so that whichever position I was wanking in, he could make sure my legs never got cold.

I'm uncertain as to whether or not he had any other purpose. That's most certainly what I used him for.

For such an old appliance, and bearing in mind I wasn't his first owner, Peter is doing remarkably well. He heats up in a flash - although it sounds like a bit of a struggle at times, he manages it - and, although the heat doesn't really radiate out as far as it could - one needs to treat Peter like a campfire, sitting by him and warming one's hands, possibly with a plastic mug full of hot chocolate and an acoustic guitar singing Green Grow The Rushes Ho! in increasingly drunken ways - he is effective. For a couple such as us, where it was becoming more of a luxury to go out into the single-digit temperatures just to warm up a little, his small, humming presence has been a godsend.

As I struggled out of bed and fought my way through still-wet clothes that weren't drying on the rack above the cold radiator this morning, I was beginning to wonder exactly what we'd do with Peter once our central heating was fixed. I remember turning it off at various points during the day due to it just being too warm to function.

Fear not, though, friends. Peter is still operational.

For the radiator is on the other side of the room. Peter is in the place where he belongs - right next to my computer chair.

Sunday, 6 January 2019

Soft Porn Sunday: Kim Yates & Nicholas Franklin Bray

Just to prove I do eventually post everything I originally intend to, I've finally taken the plunge and reviewed the other sex scene featuring Kim Yates and Nicholas Franklin Bray (credited here as Nicholas Yff, which is probably impossible to pronounce - unless you're going to go with "yiff", which conjures up a completely different kind of porn...). The first one had the iconic music, but I always considered this one (which I do believe happens earlier in the movie) to be the hotter scene.

Plot's still really stupid, though.

Appearance: Timegate: Tales of the Saddle Tramps (1999)
Characters: Jenifer & Sheriff Bart

I shuddered while typing "Jenifer" without two of the letter N. Seven years since I last reviewed this film and I'm still bitter.

Anyway, Jenifer's "other", "shorter", "hotter" "sex" "scene" takes place inside. On a bed. Yes, I know! Absolutely shocking, unless you haven't read the first review and have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about. Akin to the other one, it also features Nicholas "Yff" Franklin Bray, but as a different character. Here he's playing either Howard or the sheriff, but I'm going with the sheriff for this one, just because it seems more old-timey.

Yes, I know the entire film is set in the Old West. Give me a break.

Let's start with the music. Unlike the other sex scene, this one doesn't rip off anti-war campfire
It's curtains for you, Jenifer.
songs, but then again, the music actually fits the scene better. There's much less disrobing here and it more or less cuts straight to the sex, so you don't need a build-up. A couple of guitar chords to set the pace give way to some rapid, but steady, pretty stings work with woodwind undertones, synthy licks, all underscored by an unintrusive drum beat with extensive use of hi-hat. It gradually increases as the scene goes on, but it remains relatively understated, which is Actually Good Use Of Soft Porn Music, as it doesn't distract you from what's happening on screen.


Anyway, the bonking. As I said, this scene doesn't really have much of a build-up and kind of throws you into the sex, which flips from astride to upright doggie style to missionary in the space of three minutes... mind you, that's three positions in three minutes, so there is a fair amount of each, if there is one particular sex position that tickles your fancy. Personally, I prefer the first third, as Dawson is given more to do, and the sex is pleasantly bouncy. Doggie style, up against the bed post, has its moments, but is a little slower and doesn't really capture the same intensity. The missionary bit at the end is good, though - it's shot well, shows off both actors, and is filmed in close-up, so you're not too distracted by the home décor which dominates the second part.

Soft porn candle! Hiding in a lantern this time, are we?

I hasten to point out the fact that I have no idea where this is meant to be taking place. Presumably, considering the plot, they are either in Bart's house or the brothel where Jenifer works - and that makes sense, what with the candle-lit lanterns and sepia-toned pictures, not to mention the wooden walls - and the real fireplace (sans fire), although in one shot, there appears to be a TV, so either this was written by someone with a passing knowledge of nineteenth-century America or there's part of the crew set-up briefly in shot! Still, it's a fairly faithful recreation of... wherever this is.

But the thing I remember most about this - at the moment, bearing in mind I've just watched this a
Legs. Just to prove they've got 'em, or something.
few times - is the clever use of costume. Jenifer (who is a prostitute, lest we forget) spends the entire scene wearing a huge feather on her head (which never falls off, and actually provides a focal point for the camera, it seems!), black silk gloves, a headband, and nothing else. It's a nice costume, but there isn't much of it, so it gives Yates a chance to show off her body, which is a nice one. Bray isn't bad-looking, either, and he isn't wearing anything.


However, something which isn't difficult to notice (apart from the flower) is the fact that Jenifer is also wearing a collar. A real one, including something that looks like and may well be a lock. Quick checks into other sex scenes featuring Kim Yates without it, so all hopes of her being a collared sub who refuses to take it off ever for nude scenes are hereby dashed. Zounds!

So - music, check. Nudity, check. Sex, check. Set, check. Costume, check. What else is there?

I shall tell you!

In the last few seconds, Jenifer flashes a huge smile - and that, dear reader, is the thing I remembered
I didn't even know Oral-B made a toothpaste!
the most about this. In fact, it changes the shape of her face so dramatically that it's not instantly recognisable as Yates... but it does humanise the whole thing massively - Jenifer displaying an emotion which isn't often too visible in these scenes (as opposed to the open-mouthed amazement or blank expressionless face which often accompanies the bump'n'grind). A genuine smile can make a massive difference, and here it does.


Thank you, Jenifer! I'm pleased you enjoyed the sex! I'll hold your feather steady while you come down!

All in all, this is a good scene in a typically bad movie. On its own, isolated from its surroundings, it works. And for that, I am pleased to say that I am almost satisfied.

Wednesday, 2 January 2019

2018: A Year End Review Thereof

2018 was an odd year, wasn't it? It wasn't, in my opinion, a good year, but it wasn't as bad as 2017, and certainly better than 2016, which can still fuck off.

It was a year of massive change for me - I changed jobs, and got a flat, in the middle of the year - the upshot being that I didn't have as much time to post as I've previously I had. I made a genuine effort to up my posting in December, but I still didn't manage to make escape velocity (which I thought would be easy! How the mighty fall!).

Since Christmas, I've done a few positive things, which are all meant to start the year out right. I've bought a ticket to 'con, ordered myself some porn, and squirreled away some money. I've started making a mental list of things to do which I can look forward to.

I've also got people I'm grateful for - not just my friends in real life, but online people too. This year, I've been grateful for Anna, who has always been a pleasant presence on Twitter, Daniel, who remembered my birthday at 'con, Charlotte, who I promised I'd mention 'cause she is awesome, and Sati, who I met for the first time this year (and want to spend more time with now!). And, of course, there has been the constant existence of Jillian, without whom...

Throughout these twelve years, my blog has been my lifeline - without it, I don't know where I'd be, or what sort of a mental state I'd be in. Here, then, are twelve posts from 2018: my favourite one from each month. There are so many more to read, but just in case you don't have time to read them all...

January: Eulogy
January started off the year with the sad news that an old friend of the family had died. One of the kindest people I'd ever met, in fact, who was also one of the first gay people I'd ever met. I didn't get to go to the funeral... but I did write a eulogy for her. This is the ILB version, with added personal history.

February: Lady Rolo
A post for Valentine's about something that happenes while I was still at school. Yes, there are a lot of these posts, but if it's a formula that works...

March: Ten Things I Got Out Of Eroticon 2018 (The Human Beings Edition)
Those of you who were at Eroticon last year may remember that I was quite ill. That I left the Saturday afternoon sessions because it was my birthday and I was going to see Hamilton. That I left the Sunday evening quite quickly because I was meant to go to a musical event. In all the hubbub I wasn't quite aware of how sick I was, but it didn't distract me from all the amazing people I met at 'con. Out of so many, here are ten of them.

April: Review: QUEEN/BEE by Hot Octopuss
Sex toy reviews aren't usually something I get to write, and since I'm no particular fan of sex toys, maybe that's for the best. This, however, was really fun to test, and I had a ball writing the review. If you're looking for a funny sex toy review post and you're all done reading Epiphora, then maybe you could give this one a go. You know, if you have the time.

May: The Fear
This was going to be the prologue to a book I have yet to write before it turned into something else. The first sentence, at least, remains intact.

June: Warm glowing warming glow
I'm no longer allowed to refer to my girlfriend as "sex princess", so this is probably the last post in which I'll be able to use said phrase. Anyway, this post is about the feeling after sex... and it aligns quite well with the incredibly sexually-charged summer everyone in the country seemed to be having this year. I don't recall any other summer making the whole nation horny.

July: Bring it on now...
The very best thing about writing this post was the amount of times I got to type the phrase "DEATHLY SILENCE". It was a fun one, although maybe it says more about me than anything else I've written this year.

August: Universal Declaration of ILB
Written in the style of the preamble to the UN's Universal Declaration of Human Rights, I enjoyed putting this one together. It was a story I wanted to tell, but I wanted to do it in a relatively unique way. This seemed to fit.

September: Incredible Thoughts
Written in the style of Incredible Thoughts from the film POPSTAR: Never Stop Never Stopping, I enjoyed putting this one together. It was a confused jumble that I wanted to share, but I wanted to do it in a relatively unique way. This seemed to fit.

October: Logical Man
Another story from my past. I'm not quite sure why I chose this, but it certainly conjures up the memory in my head almost perfectly. Maybe it's just the idea of simpler times that had me write it... but, in any case, I wrote it, and the fact that I hadn't done so yet was the perfect excuse to do so.

November: ILB's Operating Manual
Those who wish to elicit an orgasm from your functioning ILB, take note! This is how you charge the sex machine!

December: Year 12
Not so much a post as a round-up. As it turns out, distilling twelve years into a few hundred words is a relatively difficult task. Who knew? I also updated my about page on this day, but that didn't count as a post, so I write this too! Aren't I nice?