Friday, 19 December 2014

Voyant un peu trop, non?

There's a bit in The Beach where Étienne and Françoise start having sex in one of the network of caves that leads from the beach to the open sea, and Richard is warned not to go there, as he'll disturb them. Maybe it's the late nights I've been having by virtue of my cat divebombing the bed every five seconds, but I ended up drifting to sleep last night with this particular passage in my head.

My dreamscape was a sort of ski resort with chalets up mountains, which makes no sense as I've never been skiing and it's been a fair few months since I read Belle de Neige's book, but in any case, I was out of place. There was a strong sense that everyone there was connected in some way to my sister, rather than me (or including me, clearly, since I was there as well), but in any case, it didn't seem like a sex dream. Evidently I wasn't going to be having sex with anyone.

This is until I was told to go and get Lucie and Mark (I believe this pairing may be based on a real-life couple, but as I've never met the "Mark" in question, I can't really verify that), an Étienne-and-Françoise-like couple (aside from the being French bit), from their own chalet and bring them back to... wherever it was my sister was. I don't think that bit's important. Upon nearing their chalet, I caught the briefest of glimpses of an unclothed Lucie on an outside balcony before she went inside, heard a moan that sounded a bit like pain, and then... nothing.

I crept closer to the chalet over the snow and then, in full view, through one of the windows, as suddenly as a TV being turned on, I saw them having full sex, with plenty of movement and sounds, so fast you'd think it was a VHS on fast-forward. Suddenly worried that I had, in fact, disturbed them - or that one of them would see me watching - I tried to creep silently away, suddenly very aware of the sound my shoes were making. I ended up running away and woke up with morning wood.

This is a weird one, as my sex dreams usually make no sense whatsoever. This one actually appeared to have a coherent plot, albeit for a very short time, and it had what is, to all intents and purposes, a couple being a mixture of real people and lifted from literature having sex (and, I assume, my sister too, although I didn't see her doing so - eww! - that was heavily implied), rather than me. Which, I do suppose, is very refreshing.

And it proves the important bits of me are working. So that's nice too.

Tuesday, 16 December 2014


"So what are your main interests?" asks my new job advisor. My parents ask the same question later on, as preparation for tomorrow's job interview. Exactly the same question was asked at yesterday's interview. It's almost as if people genuinely want to know.

"Well, I write my blog a lot," I say. "My last few posts were about masturbation, fancying a fairy, unwanted erections, porn, overheard sex and penis size. Oh, and I'm writing a program which chooses from a list of sexual acts for you, in case you're not sure what you want to do to elicit orgasm this evening."

Only I don't say that.

I say I'm interested in sex education and that I once taught a session on sex from a Christian perspective. But I don't say that I attend an annual conference with many more sex-related sessions, even if they are all above board, because there's an overhanging feeling that they don't want to know.

I say that I know how to use the web, but I don't say that I spend about half my time online browsing sex blogs and sex websites because I like all the perspectives of sexuality. Sometimes I masturbate to the things people say - sometimes I use my imagination. I say I know how to use e-mail, but I don't say who I e-mail; I say I know about web design, but I don't mention that all my websites look like something from the 80s and that most of my content goes into my sex blog.

I say I'm politically active, but I don't say that I campaign staunchly against restrictions of sexual material (cf. the recent ATVOD fiasco) and am proud to have friends who make pornography for a living. I don't mention that my girlfriend writes erotic fiction and that I always proofread and edit her stuff.

In fact, I don't mention sex at all.

I throw out some random stuff about literature and films and music. Stuff I love and couldn't live without, sure, but there's nothing very unique there. It feels strange to wax lyrical about myself and not mention anything that stems from my life as ILB. But I know that employers don't want to hear. People who have sex are sick. They are predatory. They are unscrupulous. They are eeeeeevil.

Sex shouldn't be shameful. Not now. Not in 2014.

But it is.

Sunday, 14 December 2014

10 PRINT "I am cool!"

If you follow me on Twitter you may have noticed a series of tweets this morning in which I tried, rather unsuccessfully, to link to something for people to download - in the end, I had to use Dropbox, which seemed to work (I do have a download page somewhere, but I keep bringing up a Guru Meditation when trying to access that, so I'll leave that for now).

What is the program? Well, it's the result of something that @seasideslut tweeted off the cuff this morning:

My interest was slightly piqued when she asked for suggestions of a sexual act to perform (listen to the file yourself if you are curious why!). She also suggested, later on, that she needed some sort of roulette to choose... so I programmed one for her.

I need to point out that I'm not much of a programmer. I tried to teach myself when I was younger (much younger) and, although I turned out a few games that I distributed to my friends, I never really got past BASIC and mostly had to use text as I didn't end up using anything to render graphics with. However, programming a sex roulette seemed fairly straightforward - I just needed to use a random number generator and assign values to each number.

It took me ages and several false starts. In the end, I did manage to compile a very simple program which will choose from a list of ten different sex acts for you - and you can download it here!

It's still very basic, but I did enjoy the challenge, and what's more, this is an ongoing project now, so I can certainly add more to it. One thing that I'm hoping to add more of is a wider range of sexual acts - so something like a range of acts involving BD/SM, a number of different sex positions, things like that (suggestions in comments?) - which I can eventually implement into a version 2, if I can do that in BASIC (and I think I can, it just involves multiple subroutines).

Anyway, I had fun making this, even if it was just a way to fill up a Sunday lunchtime, so I hope you enjoy my small amount of ridiculousness too.

Saturday, 13 December 2014


When I was about 17 or 18 I started masturbating. And then I stopped.

I should point out here, for the confused, that I'd been fascinated by sex for the best part of a decade by this juncture in my life. Having felt sexually charged since the age of about 11 and watching soft porn on a weekly basis (or more) since about 12, I'd been wanting sex for as long as I could remember. At the tender age of 17, I finally did have sex, and after that I started masturbating.

I'm aware that it's usually the other way around. But this is how it happened.

Despite well-meaning friends (Esque, to name a name which isn't her name, included) linking me to sites that would "teach" me how to masturbate, I still had no real desire to do so. I could get hard with alarming ease and I knew exactly what worked for me - the scenes and pictures and ideas that still have some resonance today. I enjoyed the sensation of being turned on and how long I could remain erect for (usually until I got bored and curled up into the foetal position crying until it went away), but I never really craved a release. I wasn't even aware of what it involved, assuming that semen looked a bit like piss.

After I'd had sex - even though I'd still never managed to orgasm apart from that one time in my sleep - I went back to the soft porn I had at my disposal - again, the same scenes although that collection has been bolstered somewhat since - only, this time, my hand was involved too. I had no idea, still, exactly what to do - but I eventually developed a way of wrapping my thumb and index finger around my foreskin and rubbing to and fro which seemed to work, along with the time-honoured method of full-screening the low-res videos and sitting as far back from the monitor as possible in order to make it look swish. The first time I made myself ejaculate I don't actually remember, but I do remember it being glorious, and most vividly the subsequent trip I made to the toilet - every night after every orgasm - with my dog sitting outside, fixing me with an accusatory stare.

Presumed guilty.

And then I tried to give up.

Why, when I'd just discovered something fun, free and frisky? I'm still not sure, but I certainly felt guilty. I'd been feeling guilty about watching the stuff since I started - it was, I rationalised in my head, all the fault of the girl(s) I had a crush on, since if I had someone to date, I wouldn't've had to cure my solace by virtue of UK Living and Channel 5 - but I felt much more so about actually taking matters into my own hands, even if it was in a quiet corner of my room where my computer happened to be.

Since I had a girlfriend now, and I was having sex, I naturally assumed that, this time, I could give up. Sure I could. I'd tried before, but found no reason to continue - I'd just live with the heavy feeling of guilt in my chest for the REST OF MY ENTIRE LIFE and engage in frantic prayer in my final moments - but, once I'd found out how to masturbate, I could stop, right?

So I deleted all my stuff.

This also felt wonderful. I was free of my sin and vice and usually celebrated by listening to James ("This is what I'm all about - James! I don't need the porn any more!"), but a couple of days later, I always went back and started the slow, laborious process of trying to stabilise Grokster for long enough to download, once again, the exact same scenes so I could start masturbating to them again. I never saw myself, really, as an addict... because I wasn't: I was a young adult doing young adult things. In the back of my mind, however, I still saw it as wrong - leading to a vicious circle of downloading, wanking, deleting and James that I really wanted to break.

I finally - FINALLY - broke the circle at university. How? By failing to give a monkey's any more. The minute I sat at my new laptop in my tiny room in halls, I racked my brains for ways to pass my copious free time, seeing as how I only had six hours a week of lectured and seminars. Well, if I was going to wank, then I would wank - and damned be the consequences.

And so I quit quitting.

Best. Decision. Ever.

Thursday, 11 December 2014


Last Sunday, through a shocking number of random actions on the part of (mostly) my mother, I found myself in Wimbledon watching a pantomime.

It was my girlfriend's birthday. Through another uncountable number of random actions, it had come to our attention that Tim Vine and some other celebrities, including some woman from Dallas ("Linda Gray", I am told), were appearing in a production of Cinderella - you may have seen the posters if you're one to travel on the Underground - and my mother instantly thought it would be such a wheeze to go and see it (psst - my girlfriend is uncultured, and has never seen a professional pantomime before), and so that became her birthday present.

That, and a copy of the new Stephen King book disguised as RƎVOUTION by Russell Brand, but that was my idea. Comedy gold.

I think I've seen at least one pantomime every year - it's, I am told, a very British thing; I can't imagine life without the idea of the panto. In fact, up until the age of about 18, I was taken to the same one every year: the semi-professional affair at my local theatre, inevitably starring some C-lister who appears to be tired, drunk, or both, plus a load of fresh-faced youngsters fresh out of drama school, doing their best with a script trying slightly too hard not to sound recycled - it's brilliant. Always has been.

That is until I saw the one I was taken to at 16.

It was, as if this matters at all, Snow White. Not the best production of Snow White - that's the one that I was in a few years back, where my job was to cut down trees and make jokes about my big chopper - but an okay one, nonetheless. Like EVERY PANTO EVER, it contained a chirpy rendition of Reach by S Club 7, and the ending sequence was Mambo No. 5, just... because.

I couldn't wait to write in my paper diary when I got home. Not just because I enjoyed writing... but because it was the first time I mentioned girls. Or... one specific girl.

...and, above all, my entry ended, the Spirit of the Woods was played by the most pretty girl I have ever seen!!!

I reflected upon this, and then added some more exclamation marks. In fact, the rest of the page was pretty full of exclamation marks, once I'd finished.

I wasn't too keen on going after that. My mother kept persuading me to accompany the yoof youth of my church to the panto because "that pretty fairy might be there again", but she wasn't. I knew she wouldn't be. Her name wasn't even on the poster, and neither was her picture; in fact, as far as I am aware, she may not even exist. But I know what I saw, and it was enough to make my heart skip a beat and my breath to catch in my mouth.

Nothing that good stays for long... but, back when I was 16, I felt like the most fortunate boy in the world - just to catch a glimpse of this radiant beauty, even from the dress circle.

It wasn't the first time I thought somebody was beautiful... I'd had crushes before then, of course... but this was certainly the first time that I was entranced. And the first time, after all, that I understood the interest in the absolutely unobtainable.

Linda Gray really doesn't match up.

Monday, 8 December 2014


I'm sitting at my computer, hovering halfway between sleep and death, trying to finalise the resignation from my current job - which I've been putting off on account of the fact that it's impossible - when a whole load of things hit me at once. An indistinct memory of coach journeys in the rain, black shapes moving outside the window as I listen to the whole of Gold Mother. A joke half-told but left unfinished. And sex. So much sex. I'm reading words and they blend into the screen, into each other. As a momentary distraction to what I'm doing, I crack open blogs and I skim as fast as possible through what's there to read, as if trying to hide this indiscretion.

I can't tell when it happens, or even why. Other people's desires become mine and I squeeze my thighs together because I know not what else to do. I feel myself getting harder, more and more turned on than I have been for days, because of a few words on a screen and the sexual urges add to the flickering lights in my head. Am I tired? Am I horny? I manage to wrestle my thoughts together to ask myself whether I want to deal with the constant throbbing strain in my trousers or whether I should just ignore it and carrying on with pretending to work.

Part of me wants to do each, tells me not to be too greedy, too lustful, too debauched without debauchery. Most of me wants to just walk a few paces and collapse onto the bed, maybe curling up into a little ball and hiding my head in my arms like I used to do when I felt like this. Or just get under the covers. Or go somewhere and walk... just walk... if my body will allow me to. Physically, I feel like a mess.

And my head screams loud and long inside and I want to feel the burn of lust just as I want to go to sleep, but I know I should be awake and working on not working or in a coach in the rain listening to Gold Mother or writing in my blog or reading yours and it all adds up to much, too much, much too much...

I put my head in my hands and push my computer back and lay my head down on the desk, slumped like I've been defeated in battle, defeated by my own swirling head and my tired, beaten body

and I blink

and I sit up

and I go to make some tea

and I sit back down and I look back at the screen

and I breathe



and I wonder to myself exactly what's apparent, and what's not, and if there's always something more at work than we think there is.

And so I open a window myself. And I start to type.

Wednesday, 3 December 2014

Coalition-approved list of porn restrictions:

The following sexual activities will be deemed either acceptable or unacceptable at R18 classification level.

Squirting during masturbatory journalism - known as the "Femail Orgasm" - is acceptable if uninformed, intolerant and not delicately researched or taking popular opinion into account. It is also acceptable to infer that this is lapped up by many, even if the moral outrage contained within is simulated.
Swallowing male semen is acceptable because this is the new Coalition policy on how to control the population explosion.

Medical guidance on fisting leads Ofcom to not believe it's dangerous to perform. However, the CPS’ guidelines specifically cite fisting as obscene, mostly because they saw Quentin Crisp make a joke about it once and therefore assume that it's always a gay thing. One representative summed it up as: "eww."

Enemas are acceptable if once they are squirted out they contain faeces which hit the general populace, colloquially known as "shitting on the country".

Vomiting may be acceptable if it isn't performed as part of a sexual act. Why one would put vomiting in porn if it isn't for sexual purposes is not specified.

Public Sex
Should the content feature nudity or anything else at all which might outrage taste and public decency, then clearly it is not acceptable, whatever it is. Exceptions to this rule include George Osborne's cold, dead eyes, Michael Gove's education cuts and anything to do with ATVOD.

Wrestling is acceptable, but only if knock-out moves are not used or if it's a peaceful protester being wrestled to the ground.

Face-sitting without any breathing restriction is acceptable, but the airways must always remain open, so any amount of breathing restriction is not allowed. The rationale for this inflexible rule is that men trying this at home might die. Of course it's never, ever performed on anyone of any other gender, so let's not let men die, shall we?

This will depend on the opinion for which the person is being trampled upon. If it is an opinion promoting less restrictions on porn, it is perfectly acceptable.

Bondage and Restraint
There needs to be an obvious way for the person in bondage to signal to stop. Hence it is acceptable if not all four limbs are tied. Putting an octopus in bondage to circumvent the "four limbs" rule is also not allowed, because octopi can't speak human language and probably don't know the safeword.

If a weapon is used to threaten a participant into perceived non-consensual activity, then it is not acceptable. If it's believable, then this dangerous activity known as "acting" must be involved and stopped at all costs.

Power Tools
The use of power tools is unacceptable, since there is a need to disassociate power tools with violence. It's not like that's ever happened in mainstream cinema or anything.

Is likely to be acceptable as long as freedom of expression is what's being gagged.

[With apologies and sincere thanks to Myles Jackman for putting up what are, sadly, the actual restrictions.]

Sunday, 30 November 2014


A while ago, I started writing the script for a softcore film, partially because I wanted to, but mostly because I wanted to see if I could. I've actually no idea how scripts for erotic films are written, although I do image it varies according to writer/director and what the crew generally want to see.

Anyway, I never really got past the first couple of scenes, probably because I had no idea where I was going with it. Taking another look at it today, I decided that it would probably work best as a short film: about seven or so minutes of laughs, stargazing and sex. So I left it where it was, added a bit of an ending and retooled it as a short.

Since I'm not really about to do anything else with this, I'm putting the script up here (under a Creative Commons license): 

Hooray for the sharing of (un)finished projects! Of course, one day I may have to post some fiction here too...

* If you're getting the "forbidden" message, try copy-and-pasting the link, and/or refreshing the page - it works after a few tries!

Friday, 28 November 2014


In my hotel room
Sounds from next door, someone's getting laid
God's name's proclaimed
The end is on its way

"So tell me," my housemate said, in his far-too-loud-for-decent-conversation voice, "did you hear Rodge and Shell shagging?"

I reflected on what to say. My first thought was to tell him to not mind this and enquire as to how he'd managed to drag himself out of his self-induced stupor and shrug off the human sloth attitude in order to come down to the kitchen. I also thought to ask him about why I hadn't heard him having sex with his own girlfriend. One of her friends, drunk, had wandered into my room once to find me reading a fantasy book. She didn't then have sex with me, of course. Nobody ever did.

Rodge lived in the big room between myself and Mister Human Sloth. He spent most of the time working on his PhD, playing Worms2 against the rest of us and winning, eating inordinate amounts of cheese on toast and banging his girlfriend Shell. He wasn't particularly discreet about it; they usually started having sex at a time in the morning where the French girl who lived downstairs was at the university building across the road and Mister Human Sloth was asleep or playing Counter Strike with headphones blocking out except people shooting at him.

Shell appeared to be quite vocal during sex and the sounds emanated from Rodge's bedroom (and, in one case, the bathroom), resonating around our house and possibly the rest of the neighbourhood. I didn't actually mind them doing so - I wasn't having any sex but I wasn't going to begrudge them having as much as they could, and I used to take their yelps and moans as a cue to put on some porn myself and join in, in my own special, slightly ashamed way.

But the reason my sleepy housemate had asked this question was evident. Of course I'd heard Rodge and Shell shagging. Everyone had. You didn't have much of a choice. But, as far as I'd heard, they'd broken up a week earlier.
"As far as I heard, they broke up a week ago," I replied.
"Yeah, I know. Mind you, it was her birthday the other day, maybe they had sex for that."
"Sex for your birthday?"

"Well, would you prefer anything else?"

I considered the one and a half years I'd spent not having sex. "No," I conceded, truthfully.

And so it continued for the rest of the year. I never really asked what the deal was, although our French girl did. She got a non-committal, jocular answer, from what I could tell.

I returned to the same house for the first half of my final year to find that I was the only one left. Rodge had gone. The French girl was in France. The human sloth had gone back home and, oddly, became a policeman, last I heard.

And so I was alone. And it was me making the noises this time...

Tuesday, 25 November 2014

TMI Tuesday: The Thing(s)

I'm not well. I basically fell asleep at work this morning, and upon bringing myself round, I found it very difficult to stand up. Or speak. Or lift heavy objects, which (ironically) is what I spent the following hour doing.

I also can't write. I've got a bit of block going on, so I'm diving back into the murky waters of this blog to try and dispel some of the fog. The theme this week is "taking things seriously"... and I've only just realised the pun.

I must be ill.


1. Think about your environments – home, office, vehicle, what sort of inanimate objects hold special meaning and significance for you. List/name the objects, tell us why they hold a special place. Share some photos if you dare.

I have a good few objects which I treasure, because I'm a bit of a hoarder and abhor throwing anything away. Perhaps predictably, my comics collection, entire bookshelf and large amount of CDs are special due to entertainment purposes. As is my soft porn collection, for perhaps more obvious reasons.

I also have a few fluffy cuddly toys which are special to me, such as one that I made myself (and have remade a few times), and my little cuddly rabbit, which I bought when I was 19. I've had him for ten years now.

And there's some gaming stuff too, including an almost-complete set of Robin Hood figurines, which are now collector's items by virtue of the fact that you can't get them anywhere any more. I bought them yonks ago and they were really cheap!

2. Are any of your treasured items worth a lot of money?

Yes - my retro consoles. I've got a functional NES and a working SNES (as well as an incomplete N64 and a GameCube), and a complete working retro console apparently fetches a lot on the market these days. However, I'm not the only one with such items - my granddad has a Spectrum that still works, to a point, and 47 has a working Atari VCS, which we've played against each other!

3. Would you ever part with that item? If yes, under what circumstances?

No. Nor would I part with my Luigi-design GBA-SP, DS, 2DS, Wii or Pokémon Mini. I like the ability to play any sort of Nintendo game as nature intended. (With the exception of Wii U - yet - and Virtual Boy. Although I can emulate the Virtual Boy.)

Actually, I'd swap my NES for a Virtual Boy - since I only actually have one NES game...

4. What is the oddest or strangest item that you covet and proudly display?

A colour photocopy of my passport with my dad's driving license on top of it. This came about by accident - I was taking a scan of my passport without realising my dad's driving license was in the printer too. I also hit the photocopy button instead of "scan", and so I got an odd piede of impromptu photographic art, which I - in one of my more pretentious moments - decided was representative of the gap between generations. or it just looked cool.

Anyway, I stuck it up on my wall, next to my signed James poster.