Thursday, 14 June 2018


I shouldn't be watching Love Island; it's too triggering.

That's blatantly untrue - while it is triggering, in some ways, the complete escapism it presents it too big a draw, and the fact that I have a lot of shifts at work which offer an hour of nothing between 9 and 10pm (the 'dead but you are rota'd in' period) contributes to the fact that I will, in fact, be watching Love Island, so sue me.

Eyal can go suck a fuck, though.

I say this from a completely neutral standpoint, which is a much bigger lie than the one I told above. It's happened three times, and possibly more (I haven't yet watched the episode tonight), that there's a slightly forced, unnecessarily messy, and incredibly public kiss between Eyal and Megan - and, seemingly, almost always in the presence of Alex, who doesn't need to see that, because he fancies Megan.

It happened three times, and possibly more (I didn't keep as accurate a count as she did),that there was a slightly drunk, unnecessarily messy, and incredibly public kiss between Leaf and whoever - and, seemingly, always in the presence of me, who didn't need to see that, because I fancied Leaf. I mean, initially I didn't mind so much, because one of those drunken kisses was me!

The issue is, of course, that with this community, and the age range, and the complete freedom of expression when it comes to sexuality which we espoused (and the amount of alcohol), kisses appeared to be the norm. I, of course, didn't get many - a few on the cheek, maybe, and one very brief one from a friend who was in a competition to pull as many people as possible on the night. And then Leaf. Because she was drunk.

The issue was that I'd been fairly smitten with Leaf since I first met her. I was 19; she was 16, and into indie music, and cute. And she wore glasses and she was a drummer, which is always something I find attractive. I met her in London during a brief event, and every time I found that memory fading, I'd go to another event, and she'd also be there, looking even more attractive every time. I knew, of course, that this would never go anywhere - it never did with me so I wasn't going to entertain any fantasies - but I had a crush, bordering at times on obsession (half the songs on three of my self-produced albums are about her).

Of course, she was clueless. I think. I left her a lot of hints, up to and including "I Have Never... had a secret admirer" (nobody drank); I didn't really want her to solve the puzzle, however.

All of this would be a fonder memory if I hadn't been one of only three Innocent™ bystanders on one of the last nights at an event, when she engaged in a long, drunken, incredibly messy and very public (although, as I said, only three of us were there - me... and the other two members of the geek clique) with another incredibly attractive girl who was there for her first event and had swiftly become fairly well-acquainted with several pairs of lips. I don't really know what I was expecting, really - I'd snogged her at a previous event; was I genuinely expecting another one? Undoubtedly it meant moe to me than it did to her, but then again, I knew that too!

What I don't think anyone was expecting (myself included) was how explosive my reaction to the sight of seeing Leaf kiss someone else (let's call her... Chloé) was. I was upset, of course I was - although I'm still not sure why; she was completely within her right to kiss Chloé - but what I wasn't expecting was for me to dissolve almost instantly into uncontrollable, grief-infused tears. My geek friends, one of whom helpfully said "you know, it's what teenage girls do...", practically carried me outside to console me. I got one final glimpse of Leaf and Chloé in a corner before we exited the building - they sat me by the fireside, got me a drink from somewhere, and hardly said a word.

They didn't need to ask why I was upset. They just knew.

I'm still surprised by my reaction, and I still don't know what else I could have done (although, when one reflects upon it, it wasn't upon me to do anything... Leaf and Chloé probably didn't even clock that I was there!). It had been a good event, really - I'd been sleeping well, in between one of my geek friends and one of the incredibly sexually active girls who was always relatively chaste at these events but whatever this isn't about her it's about Leaf this is a completely different subject shut up ILB, and I'd been feeling quite down at home, so this was all making me feel refreshed. These trips did that for me.

I woke up the next day making sure that I said goodbye to everyone, including Leaf, and made my way (with fellow stragglers) back to the train station. I didn't know what to say to anyone by the end of the day - nobody ever wanted to leave these events. Those that had coupled up throughout the weekend were going home together. If I hadn't been so tired, it would have made me feel a little more melancholy.

And that's why Eyal can fuck off. Because if it hurts that much to watch someone you fancy snogging someone else, then how much it hurts to watch the same when both participants know you're there and that you fancy one of them is something I genuinely can't imagine.

Although I've had dreams about it. So obviously I can imagine it.

I hate my brain.

Sunday, 10 June 2018


At 11, I was of the opinion that I was too young for love.

Despite my Nan's assertion that I was incredibly good-looking "it must be something in your demeanour that puts them off...", and my mother's equally saccharine comparisons to Leonardo DiCaprio (which I actually found insulting; I've never really seen the attraction), I've never thought of myself as particularly attractive. Besides, at this point I was 11. That's far too young, I told myself, and I was going to wait until I was a teenager before I even started thinking about it (lies; I got a crush almost immediately after starting year 7, and even sent her a flower).

Nevertheless, I was certain that nothing was going to happen at that time, and I assumed a kind of aloof position, just to make it clear that I was both (i) intelligent; (ii) unattainable. I didn't have any friends at that point (Robinson and my friend-who-is-a-midwife, who had been my Ron and Hermione at primary, had gone to the local selective grammar; I was at the mixed-ability comprehensive), and as an immediate outsider, I developed a kind of mystique, firmly insisting that I wasn't interested in love, I would never be interested in sex, and that "nobody fancies me and gets away with it".

Uninterested as I may have said I was, the same can't be said for a couple of girls. There's the one I wrote about here, of course... and then there's one more, as well.

This girl was in my class. I knew who she was, but I hardly ever talked to her. We worked together a couple of times, but she hardly ever said a word ("je suis timide", as she put it in a French lesson). Quite a few people in the class were quite cruel to her for her unassuming nature, withdrawn personality and unflattering body shape, so I tried to be as courteous as possible to her, as a fellow victim of bullying.

It didn't take long for people to matchmake, although their reasons were, as far as I was aware, very loose at best. "You two suit," one of the girls in my class pointed out, although I thought she may have also fancied me (she had my name written on her pencil case). "You both read books," pointed out one of the boys, as if that was a pastime nobody else had ever considered. "You both like going to school," pointed out yet another, "and anyway, I thought you two got on well together."

I wasn't convinced, and in the end, I went to talk to my Head of Year about it. He, rather gallantly, talked to the class, without naming names, and after that it eased off a little. But only a little. (I remember missing the lesson when he did that and hanging in his office for a while. I didn't need French; I could, at that point, already speak French).

The problem was, however, that she did in fact have a crush on me. She tried to confide it in someone, which was probably a mistake, as it made its way back to me.
"I don't care," I said coolly to whichever rumourmonger it was who told me. "You shouldn't be telling me that sort of stuff. I'm not sure it's even true," I finished, even though I knew it was, in fact, true. I could have talked for a while about the nature of human attraction, and how not disliking someone doesn't automatically indicate true love, but I didn't (and, in the first two years of secondary school, this kind of binary opposition seemed to be the norm). And I didn't mention it at all, because if she was pining, then I didn't want to prolong her suffering.

The worst thing was that I couldn't do anything about it. I started to hesitate when going to school, and made absolutely sure to stay away from her, lest I would be seen talking to her and it being mistaken, yet again, for a relationship. I felt awful about it - it seemed to me like I was being cold and distant - but everyone, including my Head of Year, said that this was the right course of action. I continued to feel, though, that this was entirely out of my control, and eventually she sort of asked me on a date, although I wasn't entirely sure she was talking to me at first.

She asked me if I wanted to go for a walk. I told her, politely I hope, that I didn't want to - a sort of "hmmm... no, thank you" deal - and was both impressed by her courage and incredibly guilty at having disappointed her. We barely exchanged words after that, although in year 8 we were library monitors together, and it was brought up within earshot of both of us that "she used to fancy you, but it's okay, she hates you now" (binary opposition again!). Eventually, of course, things seemed to thaw, and by year 13, when I'd evolved into a floppy-haired, quick-witted, guitar-playing alternative music fan, I found myself in the same class as her again, and was quite cordial to her - warm, even. I felt she deserved to do well, as her first couple of years hadn't been her happiest.

She denied having ever had a crush on me. I suppose that's for the best. It wouldn't have dragged up good memories.

And that's the first time I've ever been asked out. Hardly one of my best moments, and although I think I handled it well enough, I didn't like the fact that it was almost competely out of my control. The mocking cruelty of my classmates, my oddball outsider status, and her faltering start - even though, academically, she was doing well - was completely new to me. I didn't like it one bit... but what could I have done? And, as I said, I was 11. I really was too young for love.

The next time someone asked me out, of course, I was 17. And I was ready. I said yes.

Thursday, 7 June 2018


Yesterday I left the job I have been doing for three years, hereafter "job 1", in order to move onto that which the more Romantic among us may term as "pastures new", but the more realistic would term "a new job, which isn't as fun, but pays more and is probably less bureaucratic and micromanaged, and anyway, ILB could do with the money, as he is fed up of eating cardboard to survive".

I wasn't sure how to feel about leaving my old job. I was expecting tears, but they didn't come. I handed out cards, finished a fair amount of paperwork, and said goodbye to clients who probably felt more upset than I did. With a few exceptions (including this blog), my job has been one of the few constants that have been there during my last few years. Inflexible and irritating occasionally, perhaps, but always solidly, dependably present - as was I while doing it - and, perhaps crucially, it was in the industry that suits me. I liked the basic aspect of the job, and I will miss it. 

My new job - job 3 -  doesn't quite have the same responsibilities. It's still a fairly responsible job, insofar as I am responsible for some fairly important stuff and the clients have to trust me with their personal affairs (not that type of affairs - what is this, Ashley Madison?), but it isn't the same job. I'm even keeping the door open to job 2 so I can do occasional days there now and then and not feel like I've left that entire world behind me.

It's not that I hate my new job, either. It's deceptively relaxed. It looks difficult - in fact, read the job description and it looks like a bit of a killer - but it genuinely is quite relaxed. If I can go to a shift that starts at 3pm, do a couple of hours of genuine work and spend the rest of the time tuning musical instruments, sitting in a quiet room catching up on rest, or watching Love Island on the TV in the main room - and get paid for it - then I'm all right with how things stand.

Famous last words, I know.

Yesterday afternoon, as I left the building for probably the last time (although I will have to go back to collect pay), I didn't feel anything, except for "uncomfortably numb". I called my dad on the way to the bus stop, but wasn't even sure what to say. I'm not sure anyone was. I didn't know how to feel; I still don't.

Also, one of my new colleagues has massive tits and isn't even bothering to attempt to hide them. So there's that.

Anything to lower the tone, ILB. Tsk, tsk.

Sunday, 3 June 2018

Warm glowing warming glow

Post-orgasm the other day, my sex princess described herself as "glowing".

Very accurate.

Were I a visual artist (and I'm not), I'd depict sexual pleasure as a light, warming glow around the areas that matter... in fact, sometimes I even do that during sex, if I'm in the flow and get lost in the moment. I like to imagine the glow as encircling the people involved, covering them in brightness and bearable heat. I even sometimes visualise the way it moves - tendrils of glow stretching, and then breaking, as I pull my fingers back out of her, or maybe engendering like spren when the first taps of pleasure begin to beat out.

It's almost impossible to visualise an orgasm (although GOTN ran a memorable competition once so people could have a go), but it's an important part of erotica writing - and cybersex, sexting, or directing porn, one supposes - to try to depict sex, at least a little accurately. You can do that with your imagination, and thus you can be a little more creative. So I imagine the glow.

I'm not sure what she meant by glowing. Maybe she was in some sort of transcendental state where that was all she could mention. Maybe it was just the heat she was experiencing. Maybe just a word (it's a very pretty word). Sweat beading on her skin, she was most certainly glistening in the light.

But I like the glow. And I like basking in it myself.

Sometimes I see people out and about practically surrounded by that halo. Maybe it's just me and my dirty mind... but I wonder, sometimes, how right I might be. If it's any indication, there are plenty of highly-sexed people in North London this summer.

Saturday, 2 June 2018

Barenaked lady

It's happening. Slowly, but surely, it's happening, and joyfully, I'm not the one to have initiated it, which must mean that she wants it as much as I do.

I always sleep naked. I have done since I was about 12 - I mean, I own pyjamas - a couple of pairs, hypothetically, even if I'm not quite sure where they are - but they are for social occasions. It's much easier to take off everything and dump it in a little pile before getting into bed... and it's warmer. After a while, anyway. Living in a succession of share houses has proved a little problematic when I'm needing the bathroom in the middle of the night - my dressing gown has been useful in that regard.

Despite the fact that we spent our first night together naked (and didn't actually get around to havng sex until the following morning), the lady with whom I sleep doesn't often do the naked thing as freely as I. Which is fine - I mean, as long as I get to hold her in bed I don't mind what she wears - but I do sometimes find myself missing the soothing, sexy satisfaction of skin against skin, or the shared body heat, or the easy transition to sex.

Over the past month or so, however, I've occasionally had the good fortune to come home and find her disrobed. Whether this is a deliberate thing or not, I'm not sure. But it is pleasing, and it both looks and feels good, and it's hot. I don't think I'm particularly attractive, but I'm fairly sure she does, and I'm not afraid to show her my body; I adore hers, and I'm enchanted by the idea of doing so more often. I'm even finding myself to be more relaxed when sleeping naked with another naked person. It makes me feel - for want of a better phrase - safe. Safe in my vulnerability.

We are getting a flat at the end of the month. I am expecting nudity. Like, all the time.

Sunday, 27 May 2018

Soft Porn Sunday: Lisa Boyle & Sam Mongielo

Soft porn is an odd beast. Its aim is to titillate, but because it's often also classified as "drama" (or "comedy" or occasionally "thriller"), its secondary purpose is to entertain. A good film that finds that balance, walks that tightrope, is a rare find, and while I wouldn't say this is the best, it has its fans.

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

I've mentioned this film and this character before. More than once, in fact. The character of Montana Stillman is a fascinating study, although I've never quite worked out why (apart from "Lisa Boyle is really hot")... until now.

Montana is portrayed as a relatively negative character, for all the wrong reasons. Lisa Boyle, who was in her thirties when she appeared in this, is playing Montana, who is in her late teens (or early twenties at the eldest - I still maintain she's meant to be about 17 or 18 in this). She is the stereotypical "promiscuous teenage girl" type - sexy and alluring and irresistible, but wild and debauched and in need of taming, and her story arc (never mind the rest of the characters) ends up with her having calmed down a little. And this is what I don't like.

Soft porn has a job to do, insofar as it is lots of teenagers' gateway to sex. With a character like Montana, you could portray her positively - she has a shining enthusiasm for sex, and is (presumably) practising it safely; she doesn't cheat (by the time she has sex with Billy, she has broken up with her boyfriend Scott), she doesn't do anything particularly wrong, and she proves that she knows how to enjoy sex. Characters like that could be seen as better rôle models: they embrace sex wholeheartedly, do it without hurting anyone, and show in a visual way that one shouldn't be afraid of sex.

Maybe I'm reading too much into this. In any case, this is Montana's first sex scene in the film and she's having sex with her boyfriend in her stepmother's car, and that's the really important thing here.

Forgive my character analysis. There's some amount of motivation here - although it could just be sex for sex's sake (which is also fine!). It's a time-honoured trope to have sex in an open-topped car, and tropes are the hill that softcore dies on, and this scene is done well (even if you can see the boom at the start of the first shot!). It happens at night, but it's well-lit, so you can see everything, and believe me, you do want to see.

This scene works particularly well in terms of character assassination when one considers the fact that,
Cupboards? Possibly a garage.
throughout the entirety of it, Montana is the one in control. We open with a pan across the car to her gently riding astride a sitting Scott (Mongielo... no, I don't know who he is, either), apparently wearing a full set of clothing, but clearly without any underwear on (something which is repeated, later on, with Billy... maybe she doesn't own any knickers). There's a lot of kissing going on, and a certain amount of dialogue.

Which is done well. Montana has completely given herself over to hedonism ("I find this extremely exciting... don't you?"); Scott, however, is putting up a token resistance - "what if we get caught?" - all the while helping Montana undress (her top half, she keeps her skirt on) in between deep, lustful kisses. Eventually, of course, he acquiesces, although I don't imagine it would have been possible to refuse, since he's already clearly meant to be deep inside her by this point and we are joining them in medias res, and just to prove his point, leans her back and does something unspecified which makes her go "oh yeah!" in a very pornstar-ish way.

However, as I've said, despite all this, Montana is the one in control; she is the one who persuaded
Boobs. Just because.
Scott to go along with this, she is the one on top, and she is the one with an amazing body (although Mongielo isn't bad-looking either), and it really is her show. For the second half, she spends her time riding him with incredible enthusiasm - this is what we are here for.

As a teenager, I used to watch this with a more critical eye, and picked up on a few points which I particularly liked about this scene, and they are:

1) Movement.

Lisa Boyle's body movements during the riding shots are less fluid than they are in some of her other scenes. She is much more staccato, rocking back and forth, as opposed to just bouncing up and down. There's no real rhythm to it; she's just having sex with great zeal. There's a sense of urgency to the whole scene (get off before you get caught!), and the way she really takes this and owns it adds to the sex as well. As I said... she's enjoying it!

2) Music.

Montana has a noticeable musical motif which comes in during both her sex scenes. It does, in fact, signify a sexual peak in both cases - here, the noticeable twenty-note melody comes in just before the (fairly realistic, if you consider a shared "uhhhhhhhn" realistic) orgasm. Because it's so recognisable, actually, it's only the thought of this music that gets me hard - and sometimes I've been able to orgasm to the music, never mind what's happening on screen! How often can I say that?!

3) Hair.

One of the tiny things I notice: Montana has a really nice haircut at this point, including one strand that's been particularly styled. By the end of the scene, her hair's in a bit of a mess, but it does stay in place (mostly). The fact that she's spent some time styling her hair 'just so' and is willing to mess it all up for a quick fuck in the back seat of her stepmother's car is something that I, for whatever reason, found particularly hot.

4) Disregard.

Through a quick intercut to Elke (Shauna O'Brien), we are reminded briefly that this is in fact a car she's not meant to be in, never mind having sex in - but, despite Scott's feeble protestations early on, it's clear by the end that neither of them care. Montana is bouncing away merrily, making all the right noises at all the right times at an increasing crescendo; she hits the horn at one point and doesn't slow down, and the whole pace increases as we go on. She also doesn't seem to care much about Scott at one point - she's holding onto his shoulders and riding him so hard that the poor boy only seems to be able to sit back and take it!

5) Comedown.

Everything finishes with a wicked grin from Montana and a sweaty, horny hug as they come down. The plot reappears after this, through an untimely interruption by Elke ("I heard a noise...!"), but it's worth those few seconds to re-acclimatise after the intensity of the scene (and this is the point where I pause and clean up. No, no apologies here.).

This is an orgasm, I think. With all the noise it's hard to tell. 

As I said earlier in this post, I've been watching this scene since I was a teenager and, even though I think Lisa's other scene in this movie is better, this is the one I keep coming back to, and have continued to do so throughout my life. It comes in peaks and troughs - there was about a year where I didn't watch anything from Friend of the Family at all - but, at the end of the day, when I need this, it is here for me. It may be the scenario, the cinematography, the clothes, the music, or - hell - the boobs, even... but it's something to which I return.

And it almost always helps me get to where I'm going. For that, Friend of the Family, I love you. ❤️

Wednesday, 23 May 2018

Help! It's the Hair Bare Bunch!

The other day, while feeling me up, my girlfriend noticed something unusual on my crotch. Just to the right of my scrotum, and encroaching on my personal space, was a small, incongruous growth. I hadn't noticed it before, because it had been secreting itself beneath my thicket of hair.

I generally take good care of my pubic hair. It's not like I style it, but I do shampoo, condition, and even blow-dry it if I have the urge to. I occasionally trim it if it gets too wild (getting a hair caught under the foreskin isn't fun), but most of the time, it's a jungle out there! - albeit a clean one.

In any case, it was quickly ascertained that the uninvited intruder was a spot - in an very inappropriate place, perhaps, but a spot nonetheless. Although it doesn't hurt when I wank - which is a relief - it does rub against my pants, and sometimes it throbs with discomfort. I needed, I decided, to take a shower, and pay particular attention to this area. Shower gel, rinse, repeat... the whole caboodle. The problem remained, however, that my Amazonian rainforest got in the way...

So, for the first time in my life, I shaved my snatch.

Having no comparison, I don't think I did it particularly well - I used my electric beard trimmer and missed a few bits - but the main objective was well achieved. I didn't have any hair left to speak of (apart from on my balls; what is this, Brüno?), and when jumping in the shower, I found I was able to apply a thick layer of foam to the skin there - and the groin, the inside thighs, and balls as well - very satisfying!

I have been informed, by female companions (and, if memory serves correctly, 47 too - although that may just be conjecture...), that a shaven pubis itches terribly when the hair begins to grow back. Though I have yet to experience this, I have decided that I am prepared for a slight tingle if it will facilitate blasting a rogue pustule with tea tree oil or the like. Plus, y'know, new experience. What's a sex blogger to do, if not write about this sort of thing?

Oh, and the aforementioned girlfriend thinks it's hilarious.

Sunday, 20 May 2018

The Fear

It's two o'clock in the morning, and I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor of my gran's lounge watching softcore porn on her cable TV.

I'm not meant to be staying up this late watching soft porn. I'm not meant to be watching soft porn at all, of course - I tell my parents I spend a lot of time watching The Box, which realistically I do as well. Viva Forever always makes me cry, and as far as I'm aware, "releases" me from my thrall and send me to bed in tears. I'd much rather stick with the softcore stuff, and only really flick over to The Box when I get bored.

It's 2 am, and I'm considering going to bed. I'm bored with Janeycam by this point, which is the only thing that's on. The problem becomes, now, exactly how to get back upstairs before my parents, and/or my gran, realise that I'm not where I'm meant to be; it's been my usual practice to sneak upstairs and into bed, but that's usually happened at about 10:30 or 11pm, and is probably passable when one considers I could have gone downstairs for a drink of water. The small hours - even if it is a school night - may not be a time which doesn't arouse any suspicion.

I hear my mum cough from upstairs and immediately freeze. I've been spending the past year or so in  state of constant paranoia relating to my parents - watching soft porn makes me hard, but it also makes me anxious, and I'm convinced that the most sensitive part of me is my ears - to listen for footsteps.

I snap off the TV, jump to my feet and hit the light. The room is bathed in darkness, a soft warm glow emanating through the windows from the street lamp outside. It's then that it occurs to me that this may not be enough; if she were to open the door, she'd find me in the dark, which may be even more confusing. Time to enact my contingency plan.

For I had a contingency plan. My gran had a preference for large squashy armchairs, but because she had to slide across to them from her wheelchair, they always had to be slightly raised on little legs, to facilitate height. There was one in the far corner of the room - furthest from the door - which was my emergency escape. Should I ever be at risk of discovery, I would scamper across the room to the chair, crawl under and secrete myself in the foetal position. I wouldn't be easily seen in the dark, and in any case, the chair wouldn't be in line of sight when the door was opened.

I didn't have a back-up plan ("escape out of the window and somehow get back into the house" was probably beyond my capabilities), but I needed to have something. This, I decided, was the time.

I skip along to the corner and squeeze myself under the chair. It's a tighter fit than I thought it would be. The air is musty. It's a little too warm. I try not to breathe too loudly, but my heart is beating with such strength that I'm sure it can be heard. I hold my position, my ears pricked, paralysed with fear, the giveaway erection now painfully buried in the folds of my belly. I try to think of something to say should I be discovered. I settle with "it's cooler down here", which isn't true. I have no idea what they'll do to me once they find me.

Five minutes later and I realise that there are no footsteps. My mother may have coughed due to her thyroid problem. It probably isn't in their regular practice to check on my bedroom every ten minutes and go hunting for me with a shotgun in case of my absence. At 14, I don't really know.

I pull myself out of the corner with a rustle of fabric which probably creates more noise than that which I'm trying to avoid. Breathlessly, I slink across the room, open the door, and tiptoe all the way down the hall and up the stairs. I make it to my bedroom, close the door, lock it, and breathe a deep sigh of something between relief and shame.

I hear footsteps about ten seconds after this. But here I'm behind a locked door. I don't need an escape plan. I'm where I'm allowed to be.

I'm still scared, though.

Thursday, 17 May 2018

Fullscreen +2

While compiling a list last year, I worked on discovering a way to watch streaming softcore directly from the browser window without having the rest of the host site around it. With the sort of glossy smut I usually watch, I have my DVDs and 20 Disks of Wonder™ stuffed full of individual scenes I wasted my time downloading throughout the years - but now there are sites that host this stuff (á la Pornhub, but less corporately hegemonic); if there is one particular scene I want to see, trawling through my Disks might not be the easiest solution.

It's what the internet is for.

So the other week - at a very inopportune time, too; halfway through work - I was suddenly struck with an urge to watch two specific scenes. Same actress, same film (even the same background music, in fact, that's the sort of thing I notice) - and while they are both on my Disks, exactly where they are remains a perpetual mystery. Nothing to do at work, I skipped out a little early, bussed my way home, and took to my computer...

There remained the problem of finding the scenes - I wasn't going to go down the illegal route of torrenting the entire film (and besides, I was horny, I didn't want to wait!) - but, fortunately, Google delivered the goods. Both scenes available on various video-sharing sites. One of them had even made it onto YouTube - maybe they're more relaxed about boobs now?

So I did my thing. Delved into the page source and pulled out a couple of direct links to the player, scenes up full-screen in browser tabs without ads, popups, or disturbing cartoon porn in the sidebar to distract me.

Softcore, as it were, as nature intended.

The wank, in case you are wondering, was glorious, and satisfying: a slow, protracted session, shaft in hand, foreskin gliding effortlessly back and forth as I mainlined these two scened. Comfortable familiarity. Movement. Camera. Music, Skin. My cock, stiff against my palm, beating out a rhythm in time with the sex on screen. This was something I knew.

Eventually, of course, I came. All over my hand, my stomach, and the floor too. I grabbed a towel to clean up the mess, and then collapsed onto the bed, just for good measure. I didn't even put my trousers back on.

I've had lots of wonderful wanks in my life - this being probably one of the best I can remember - but this one, due to the amount of effort I put into getting the scenes up on screen (sans distractions, adverts, slowdown or lag), will always be noteworthy.

The "technical achievement unlocked" wank, perhaps.

WHAT an achievement.

Saturday, 12 May 2018


Last Friday, I went for a job interview. This isn't a new thing for me, really; it became apparent recently that my current job - soon to be one I'm leaving - isn't doing me any favours. I spent weeks wrangling to get any payment, eventually getting February's salary in mid-April, and although I enjoy the basics of the job, the amount of administrative paperwork that I'm now expected to do - unpaid, of course - could barely be termed tolerable, especially when it's quite clear that at least half of that is completely unnecessary.

Anyway, last Friday I went for an interview. This was a long one - a few hours with a number of applicants. There was a skills test, which I passed - followed by another skills test, which I passed. There was a mid-point cull, which I survived. I ended up on a sofa in the staff room, debating the various merits of multicoloured pens with the remaining applicants - 5 of us, for 4 available positions. In my case, the one I'd applied for had one other surviving competitor, who I had a lot of respect for... but the one who impressed me the most, the youngest, ended up being one of the reasons I wanted the job so much. I think we could be friends.

I left the interview feeling refreshed and relatively buoyant. I didn't even take my business suit off for the rest of the day, and arrived at work that evening still wearing it.

I had a nailbiting weekend, followed by a relatively sedentary Bank Holiday. I was incredibly nervous throughout work on Tuesday, keeping a close eye on my 'phone and becoming increasingly jumpy every time I heard a noise which may have been a call. I'd been promised a response and being made to wait isn't always a good sign. Maybe they're just chasing references, I thought to myself. I went home, set up and went hungry for hours, unable to leave the house because my 'phone was on charge. Sod's law states that the instant I left, they would call. I waited for three hours before taking my 'phone off charge; I had a (very) late lunch; went back home and sat and waited.

They called at five. I got the usual, all-too-familiar response of "x person is slightly better qualified than you". I pushed for feedback; they gave me a bit. Nothing particularly useful, but the one thing they did pick up on is something I'd actually highlighted in the interview. They hung up; I sat there and mourned. I called my parents on my way out to get some more food, and the one thing I did hang onto was that this possibly couldn't get worse.

Halfway through the Eurovision semi-final, the letting agency turned up for a meeting. I was expecting a fairly easy encounter, as all their previous meetings have been relatively relaxed.

Instead I was served an eviction notice. The landlord is unwilling to keep the share house and is going to renovate it into a family home; everyone has two months to pack up their things and get out.

For those of you that are counting, this is the SIXTH time we have been told to move in about as many years. We moved here for exactly the same reason a few months ago; we haven't even finished unpacking yet. The lesson I'm taling from this is that a succession of greedy landlords have very little pity for millennials who need somewhere, if not affordable, at least stable.

I went to sleep that night feeling doomed. I didn't have the job that I so desired. I was being evicted - again. Flat prices, which my girlfriend started looking at, are ruinous, and the other job I've been offered (which might afford us some leeway in the amount of rent we can pay) are being increasingly difficult insofar as paperwork is concerned. I don't even have a start date for that.

Gateway to hell creaks wide open and there's nothing I can do to stop the fall.