Friday, 27 March 2015

Carrot and coriander with croutons, please!

Lightsinthesky once decided, on my behalf, that I had a girlfriend. The girl in question (my friend-who-is-a-midwife, if you were wondering) was unaware of this, and remains unaware. It was news to me, as well. I've never shown any attraction towards my friend-who-is-a-midwife, other than, y'know, being a friend. Lightsinthesky begged to differ.

I've still little to no idea how this came to be. I had a crush - as I tended to do along with EVERYONE ELSE THAT AGE - and Lightsinthesky, despite me telling him that he didn't know who she was, made a snap decision to settle on a person he barely knew with a memorable name. (His explanation? The only clue I'd given him was "colour". My friend-who-is-a-midwife's surname is the same as a kind of soup. Soup "is a colour", according to Lightsinthesky. You couldn't make it up.) And, somewhere along the line, this developed into a girlfriend. He told someone, who then told everyone else. I remained oblivious until the following week.

"Hey, ILB. I hear you have a girlfriend," said a portly boy whom very few people liked.
"I do?"
"Yeah. Lightsinthesky told me who she is. Cool, bro."
"Uhm..."

Then he just kind of wandered off.

Another few days before it happened again, this time in Science class.

"Sir! ILB's got a girlfriend!"
"I see. And I don't care."
"I haven't!" I interjected, irritated now. "I wish I had but I haven't! I don't know where this story has come from!"

"Her name's [...]," proclaimed the portly boy.
"She's an old friend," I exclaimed with the patience of a saint. "She's not a girlfri..."
"I've run a race against her once!" interrupted one of my irritatingly cheerful friends. "She's a very good runner!"
"Yes, I'm sure she is, but..."

"And she's very friendly!"
"Yes, I know she is, but..."
"And her name is a bit like a soup!"
"Yes, I know it is, but..."
"Have you tingzed her?"
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!"

I'm still unsure as to the meaning of the varb "tingz". I'm aware of "ting" (things), "tang" (food and drink) and Tian Tian (a panda in Scotland). I believe it has something to do with tongues, à la "lipz". North London slang is weird.

In any case, this continued for a few weeks until I actually did go on a first date with someone completely different. And, in this case, it didn't take long until Lightsinthesky printed out her picture and carried it around in his trenchcoat pocket.

Just for proof this time.

Thursday, 26 March 2015

Competition update: A WINNAR IS U

Six entries in seven days - not bad for a small competition. And I do realise it was a rather challenging brief, despite its simplicity - it took me three tries to write my example...

All the entries were fun to read, and all different; it took myself and Jillian Boyd a while to choose two main winning entries, and they are...

Tighter Than That!: Submitted on the day the competition started, this one manages to tell a whole story in short, snappy sentences. You win a pack of books.

Left to Fate: This was my favourite. A story told entirely in conversation. I love the humour. You also win a pack of books.

I also decided to give a third prize, and this goes to:

Sex and Awkward Silences, for a story which tells more than it seems! You win a copy of a book by me.

And that's all for this year. Normal service will resume tomorrow, and please do check back in March 2016, assuming I haven't died by then, for another book giveaway!

Monday, 23 March 2015

View from the Other Side: Foxes, Kitties and Abject Confusion

I do love a good wedding. Indeed I do. But the best weddings, in my humble opinion, are those where there isn't a lot of confused milling about for us poor plebs who get to be mere guests. Some of the weddings I've been to, even those where everyone is involved in some capacity, do have strange floaty periods in which I'm not sure anyone knows what's meant to be happening.

Not so this weekend.

It certainly doesn't sound fun when written out on paper (or, indeed, in a blog). A wedding where the vicar sings complately atonally and doesn't switch her radio mike off, gets the bride's name wrong and stage whispers her instructions for the whole congregation to hear. Hymns which cause the the groom to shake with suppressed laughter at the suggestive bondage references, and all of which poach classical music for the tunes. Incidental music which is, frankly, terrifying.

Doesn't sound good. But it is.

It also doesn't sound feasible that I'd enjoy a reception with a limited range of vegetarian food, drinks for which one has to pay, a DJ with only a very restricted idea of what the guests would enjoy, a slightly sick feeling in the stomach from eating too much (although that one's entirely my fault), a wisecracking DomSigns on super mega ultra hyper nonstop talking mode, and two guests not turning up for the wedding breakfast because they were too busy having sex.

But I did. I loved it.

And I loved our hotel room and I loved the other guests and I loved the best man. And I loved the sex that I had later that night and the hotel breakfast which I made love to all over the table and the journey back, during which I was practically unconscious on the coach.

But most of all, I loved the wide smile on the face of the groom and the sassy humour of the bride, and the way they held hands and kissed and danced together.

Yeah, okay, so, maybe it doesn't sound too unique, when you consider the fact that I've been to a wedding with music hall cabaret and a ceilidh. But it doesn't need to be unusual to be special. And, when all is said and done, it was - without any doubt - absolutely the cutest, most adorable wedding I've ever had the pleasure to attend.

And that is what'll stay with me.

Friday, 20 March 2015

Universal

I clicked open the window and pinged my way into the chatroom, upon which I found Louise and the couple who had yet to meet in real life waiting for me. Ever tardy, it doesn't stop the fact that this was my idea; Louise and I were heading for a relationship that didn't actually happen, and these two - who would meet in real life the following day - would keep going for years, on and off. One of them has an UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS.

Oh no, wait, that's me. I have an UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS. This guy is HUNG LIKE A LANCASHIRE DONKEY. (This is, of course, apocryphal - I've never seen it, even when we ended up playing Strip Poker and he took all his clothes off.)

I digress.

My idea was that we would hang out in the chatroom and... well, chat. Louise had other ideas: namely, that there would be confessions. I assume that what she was expecting was an admission of cybersex - both between them on MSN, and between us over IRC. But neither of them confessed anything, even though the guy with the massive penis had told me earlier on that cybersex did occur via MSN and that he would freely admit it after a while.

He hasn't mentioned it since.

The subject of porn came up, as it does when you put four teenagers into a chatroom. Louise - always the brazen one (and, incidentally, now a millionaire, so I do occasionally wonder why I didn't marry her) - was quick to admit that she had seen porn - "loads of porn" as she put it. I, of course, had seen a good quantity of porn by that point; all three of us, simultaneously and falsely, stated categorically that we had never ever ever seen any porn whatsoever, leaving her the sole deviant in our sordid little group.

Fast forward a few years and you'll find me lying on a bed in Blackpool while the guy with the huge penis is discoursing loudly with the other guy who knows a lot about sex comedies.

"Carry On Emmannuelle is the worst, of course," said the guy with the huge penis.
"I don't even know why they made that," admitted the laughter-lover, "although it did make it seem more similar to the Confessions series, and those were quite popular."
"Those were funny," I pointed out. "Carry On Emmannuelle isn't."
They both nodded sagely.
"Have you seen the original?"
"Emmanuelle?I" replied the guy with the third leg. "Yeah, I've seen it."
"And then there are all those unofficial ones that came after it," pointed out the VHS-collecting guy. "With Krista Allen in them."

"Ah, yes..."

There was a pause through which the preceding years echoed down the hallway.

So you HAVE watched porn! my brain yelled.

Not that I mentioned it, though. I mean, I couldn't very well tell anyone that I had.

Tuesday, 17 March 2015

ILB's 30th: Erotic Microfiction Writing Competition!

As of today, I am no longer in my 20s, and therefore I commence the twilight of my years with grace and artistry, muttering about the price of tea and queuing in the post office for hours on end, only to discover they don't do road tax. I don't drive so it would be a pointless endeavour anyway.

Thirty. I never thought I'd live this long.

Anyway, now that I am Old, it's time for the second of my annual Book Giveaways, where I run a little competition to win a pack of erotica books. It's a bit more complicated this time around, so there will actually be RULES! Here they are:

(i) This is an erotic microfiction writing competition. The prize is a pack of random erotica books. I have two to give away, so there will be two winners!
(ii) To enter, you have to write a piece of fiction (preferably in the erotic or romantic genre) of approximately 30 words (you can have five either way) to represent the 30 years that I've managed to survive on this God-forsaken dustball. Keep it sharp, keep it snappy, keep it sexy, but try to keep it under 35 words. Just a snippet.
(iii) You can post it on your own blog if you wish, but please do link back to this post if you do. Other ways to enter: post it as a comment here, or if you really must, do e-mail me your story, but you have to be OK with me reposting your story on ILB if you do that.
(iv) The winners will be judged by myself and possibly Jillian Boyd and/or another blogger or two.
(v) If you win, you must be okay with sending me a name and address to send it to. You can use a pseudonym if you like, but bear in mind that this will be sent in the post so people may see what's on the packet.
(vi) No number six.
(vii) And the time limit... you have one week! Please enter by Tuesday 24 March!

I quite like writing microfiction, so here's an effort by myself, to break the ice: 

* * *
I thought of her.

How I felt her in whatever I did. How she made me fall so effortlessly into her. How my heart pounded as she whispered my name. 


And how wet I was. 
* * *

35 words exactly!

So get writing! My wings are a-flappin' in anticipation to see what you all can come up with!

Sunday, 15 March 2015

Disrobe

It was with a heavy heart and a tinge of resigning myself to the task at hand that I made my way to the shops at the end of the road for the third time yesterday. I don't mind going to the shops - in all honesty, it's a five-minute walk - but I had just started playing Kaeru no Tame ni Kane wa Naru and was looking forward to more hours of wrestling with the odd combat system and wondering where the hell frogs came into the picture. Nevertheless, I bundled up in my coat with my 'phone and wallet and iPod and set out to get pasta.

On the way back I saw a man taking all his clothes off.

Okay, so maybe that's not as weird as I originally thought. People take clothes off all the time. I do it every day just before bed (or just before sex). I'm sure everyone reading this does that too. And maybe I'm reading too much into this because this man was slightly large and he was doing so in an incredibly brightly-lit room without the curtains closed. Perhaps that was an oversight; I, too, have done that - perhaps more times than I'd care to remember. My room in the shared house at university didn't even have curtains on its window.

The thing is, I know this man.

Or rather I know his daughter. She was at school with me in the year above. I remember her name and the couple of times I spoke to her - mostly, when she asked me not to report her for smoking in the corner of an alleyway after school (people did worse things in the alleyway; I had to walk through it on the way home) - but, because of her (and the fact that this house is opposite my grandparents'), I know who he is. He's a builder. He's quite successful. He's got a few vans and at least one daughter and a nice house which I pass on the way to and from the shops.

I know this wealthy, successful builder with at least one daughter and a nice house and here I was watching him taking all his clothes off and sitting down at a desk. For what purpose I do not know, and do not wish to know. I felt slightly sullied by this whole experience - like I had experienced more than I should just like the last time I looked through a window. How dare he take his clothes off in full view of... well... me?

I continued on my way home slightly disconcerted by this before it dawned on me that I hadn't taken one thing into account.

Why shouldn't he?

Saturday, 14 March 2015

/hint?

Today is steak-and-a-blowjob day and I am genuinely surprised that that is still a thing (if, indeed, it is or has been or ever was a thing, and not just something some guy made up somewhere for some reason).

I don't eat steak. There are alternatives, but I don't eat steak.

I don't orgasm from blowjobs. I mean, I quite like them, but I've never actually reached the peak during a blowjob, despite porn teaching us differently.

But never say never.

Apart from the steak thing. I mean, I never have eaten steak and I never will. That's an actual never.

What I'm trying to say here is...

Well, it can't hurt to try...

Right...?

Friday, 13 March 2015

Sex & Depression - ILB's Tale

At the age of about eleven I started to notice the fact that I was feeling sad without any reason to be so. I assumed at the time that this would just pass, and that as I got older I would be happier. I didn't really want to get any older - I just knew that I would and may as well abandon myself to the inexorable passage of time. Three years of tears and bullying followed and, by the time I was 14, I had decided that I was depressed. It got steadily worse and worse, until the age of 16 when I was self-harming on an almost daily basis and, at one point, attempted to throttle myself with a large rope Mane had brought to camp.

I went through counselling, saw my psychologist every week and began to work with depression, rather than just assuming it would go away of its own accord or something magical would happen in order to stave it off. Talking to him certainly helped - I was still suffering hours of slightly freaky episodes and trying to find reasons to make it to school without jumping off the bridge I had to cross in order to get there, but at least I had someone to talk to about it.

My GP was very much against putting me on any sort of medication. I saw a neurologist who ran a test on me who suggested it, as did most of the other medical professionals I saw. My psychologist didn't have an opinion on the matter. My counsellor at school suggested alternative therapy. My Christian friends suggested prayer. In the end, of course, I found a way out through sex - having sex with my girlfriend at the time and masturbating at random intervals when not with her. I was, as we all know, dumped shortly after the beginning of university, and at that point I was probably the closest I ever was to ending it all. Perhaps the only reason I didn't do it was that someone else on my campus did it first, and I didn't want to downplay the tragedy of that poor guy by topping myself.

Still, I was miles away from home, didn't have any friends where I was, and had been dumped. I was an absolute mess.

My new GP put me on SSRIs straight away. He had no alternative - said he saw them as a weapon, and he stressed that he was putting me on a low dose - 10mg - so that it wasn't going to be a massive physical change I experienced; I might just even out a little. I'd never had much of an experience with drugs - I took mebeverine for my IBS for a while and it had no effect whatsoever - and had a sneaky suspicion that I was automatically immune to many of their effects - but I took the Citalopram like the good little student I was and...

...nothing.

So he upped the dose to 20mg.

Nothing.

40mg.

Nothing.

I was still screaming, crying, cutting and throwing myself against walls repeating the word "why?" in increasingly agonised voices. My new counsellor, who liked to say the word "fuck" a lot, suggested all sort of therapies, none of which seemed to work. I was teetering on the brink and the SSRIs weren't helping a damn.

So I stopped taking them. In a snap. This wasn't difficult, or even a bad decision. They weren't doing anything for me so I just stopped. I didn't go cold turkey or lose any sleep or have any randomly psychotic episodes. I was in no way a sadder person. I was the same person in every way except for the fact that I wasn't taking a pill every evening.

It was only at that point that I noticed SSRIs did have an effect on me in that they had killed by sex drive, almost completely. By this point I had stopped kidding myself that I could give up masturbating to soft porn and had started to build up a repository of the things I downloaded - the original files are still on my Disks of Wonder™. I was also ordering it from Amazon and further afield, as I was aware that I could. I just wasn't enjoying it as much when I was on SSRIs - I could get hard pretty easily, I just wasn't arriving at the main event. (47 and a few other people told me they felt the same way - and my little hobbit friend, who lived near the university itself, told me that he couldn't even get an erection using Citalopram!) But, almost from the moment I threw away my SSRIs, I started having the most amazing orgasms - long, protracted, blissful ones of the sort I still have today. The type that make you blank out of existence for a while. Those orgasms.

My orgasms before I started taking SSRIs were probably about the same. I just had no idea how much I appreciated them.

So I threw myself headlong into things which distracted me. I joined a band. I wrote my heart out in my blog, along with more poetry and short stories and even much longer bits of fiction. I went for mile-long walks in and around the campus. I went clubbing. I danced in my own room. Sang. I even went and bought a cowbell, for want of some form of musical instrument to hold while I had James at maximum volume to keep me company. And I masturbated.

A lot. I masturbated like I didn't even care. I appreciated every single orgasm, even if I had to work for it. I wasn't going to beat depression, so I may as well wank my way through university while I could. And so I did.

I'm still feeling sad without any reason to be so. But I also have my own developed sexual identity with a good realisation what works for me and what doesn't. And I developed that and all the associated outlets without having to rely on a drug to help me stay on track. In fact, I did better without it. And I know that I am just one case and may well be an exception here.

But I'm living with depression. And having orgasms along the way.

Wednesday, 11 March 2015

Mania

The Manic Street Preachers put on a big concert when I was about 16. Much as I appreciate the music of the Manics - one of the odd glut of bands I like which nobody else seems to - I didn't go to the gig, possibly for the simple reason that I couldn't afford to go (but also perhaps because my parents wouldn't let me go to a gig on my own). In any case, a few people went along, and they turned up at school the following week in a set of identical, thick, grey hoodies bearing the Manic Street Preachers logo and tour dates on the back.

One of my friends (yes, she was a friend, I've had friends before) has the (dubious) honour of being the first girl I every had sexual fantasies about. I don't even recall when these started; I must have been relatively young and it may have even been something to do with being seated next to her in French. Throughout the successive years, I had very conflicted feelings, among those I had for other girls throughout the period: I liked her as a friend, for sure. I didn't fancy her, not really. But I did want to have sex with her. That was very clear.

I went through six years of frustration and repetition getting crushes that were romantic in nature on a number of different girls while still having a vague sexual desire for my friend, and since I didn't masturbate, it wasn't as if I could channel the feelings into anything more than a faint, uneasy buzz from my head to my crotch and the occasional sexual fantasy late at night. There was a very vivid one around year 9 or so when I'd imagine having sex with her standing up in the middle of the science lab in which my form was based. She hadn't removed her glasses in this one.

Anyway, I liked her in the Manics hoodie.

I've no idea why (other than the fact that I like the Manics). It was big and bulky and kind of hid her body shape - although the was tall, taller than me, and broad-shouldered, so there was no escaping that - but it suited her. And I knew what she looked like underneath - I could see, in my mind's eye, her generous boobs, her well-shaped thighs and her defined bum, and in a large grey hoodie she was even more appealing, like a present to be unwrapped. I hated myself for coming close to objectifying her in my occasional moments of wonder, which is why I was so confused when she started wearing more revealing bodices and posting pictures of those sort of things on her own blog, lace and all.

Because I didn't find those pictures sexy at all.

Proving to myself once more that what you don't know is far more enticing than what you do.

Sunday, 8 March 2015

Girl

Dear sixth form girl with long blonde hair and large boobs,

I am very sorry about what I said in my LiveJournal. I don't even know how you came to read it, but I am assuming that nearly everyone in the sixth form read my LiveJournal. To be fair, you nearly ran me over once, driving out of the pub car park with a cigarette in one hand and a pint of beer in the other. I saw you, but I don't think you saw me. Mind you, what everyone interpreted about what I wrote in my LiveJournal was incorrect.


But if it caused you pain, distress, or embarrassment, I do apologise. That wasn't my intention, and I shouldn't have named you. Then again, I was 17.


You should know here and now that I have absolutely nothing against you. I don't know much about you, other than your name and the fact that you are in most of my classes. I assume that you are reasonably intelligent and you certainly do appear to be a very loyal friend, on account of the fact that if any of your friends are away from class for whatever reason, you also fail to appear. For all I've seen, you are an average 17-year-old girl, and for that reason, I probably shouldn'y have written about you at all. But I was pissed off, and I wrote.

I have no problem with you at all, as I said; it's what other people said about you that I have a problem with. You would walk past in the corridor and boys talked in an undertone about the things they would do to you. I find that offensive and I'm sure you would too. I frowned and humphed a bit, but I never said any of that stuff. I didn't find you particularly attractive and the things other boys said was frankly disturbing. I have a problem with that, and I'm thankful that that isn't the sort of thing I put in my LiveJournal; it's incredibly offensive and it wasn't my opinion anyway.

The teachers worshipped you as if you were some sort of goddess. They gave out photocopies of your essays as an example for the rest of us as to what to do. I think their praise of you was contradictory - careful cross-examination of what you did in your essays and what the teachers told us to do tended to bring up some clashes in terms of interest - and, although your essays were good, I didn't like the writing style. It's not my place to judge, so I didn't say anything, but I felt that the teachers were being unfair on this occasion - and on the next occasion, where they did exactly the same thing.

The abusive comments I got on my LiveJournal post suggested that I was jealous of your popularity and good looks. That I wanted the attention that you were getting and I was just being a bit of a bitch. This wasn't my intention - I was 17, as you know, and I was hearing sexist things said about you by people I considered my friends, and near enough being told I should be you by people who were supposed to be educating me.

That's what I had an issue with.

I didn't mean to insult you and I don't think I actually did. Maybe I overreacted a bit - but then again, maybe you did too, and maybe the boys who whispered about you and the teachers who lauded you and the people who left the abusive comments overreacted too. Maybe everyone was at fault and if I'd never heard any of that stuff I never would have said anything.

I just think you should know.