Tuesday, 4 August 2015

#Eroticon2015: I'm going to hug you now, okay?

The sun shone down on Bristol as I arrived, and the sky wept as I left. I arrived at the Radisson Blu and checked in without any problems (incredibly gratefully, since I was scared that I didn't have the money after all), and the room and the facilities promised to be awesome, as they always are, and of course, they were.

The venue was lovely and all the sessions I visited - whether helpful, fun, useful, insightful or scary (most are a mix) - were incredbly well-run. I didn't mind the slightly shorter running times; everything was well-organised and Ru was at the top of her game. Eroticon looked to be awesome, as it always is, and of course, it was.

So why did I feel so uncomfortable for the whole first day?

It's my fault. From the very start, when I emerged from the lift to grace the pre-conference drinks, I was surrounded by people I know - to varying degrees and in various capacities, to be fair, but nonetheless, I know them, and by and large I love them all. I remember being, given how I usually am, about as open and friendly as is possible at Eroticon 2013 and 2014, and given that some (realistically, most) of my old crowd weren't going to be around, I was all ready to re-connect with those I do know, and also with those I know anyway, but hadn't met yet (for that is the beauty of blogging).

And I didn't. At least, I sort of did. But I didn't do so in my usual way. I suddenly began to doubt myself. I didn't talk much to anyone, and then so briefly, and I realised that I was thinking of myself as a bad friend, someone there because they are, not because they are wanted or anything.

And I had gradually increasing amounts of self-doubt throughout the entire first day. I acted and chatted, guardedly, with a lot of people - practically everyone - feeling more like a nuisance than a genuine presence. I shared smiles and waves with people I didn't even think wanted to be acknowledged by me in more ways than a sideways glance or a cursory nod. At breaktimes, when I used to interact as much as possible, I stood in the corner and ate my sandwiches on my own.

All while enjoying the sessions. I adored Ru's welcoming speech. I was reasonably chatty throughout the writers' panel. I laughed and applauded with everyone else at GOTN's talk (which was actually the best session of the weekend). I learned lots at the critique session, had some dangerous ideas in the self-publishing workshop, and was actually genuinely fascinated at the kinkbooth in the evening, despite it not being my thing: I genuinely couldn't look away.

So I still wasn't sure about how I felt by the time the cocktail party rolled around. I was enjoying myself but feeling morose, and I was looking forward to socialising, but since you can't hear anyone doing anything at all at Revolution on a Saturday night (our young raver's 21st, alo at Revolution, was largely the same affair) I didn't end up doing much of that either. It looked like it was going to be a miserable evening for me...

...heading back to the Radisson was genius.

And, suddenly, everything slid into place like a flat Tetrad completing a row of four. In the same area surrounded by the same people, but this time, I was ready for it. And I sat and I talked and I drank and I chattered and I even apologised profusely to someone (you know who you are!) who, as it turned out, I genuinely didn't need to apologise to at all, despite the fact that I'd spent a day and a half feeling like I needed to. And by the time midnight came, and after an inordinate amount of gossip, snacks and a seemingly endless line of drink, I went back to my room... feeling like I belonged for the first time.

The second day went like a dream. Dirty Talk had me getting my inner actor on; Michael and Molly's blogging workshops were useful, informative and terrifying; Zac's erotica slam talk reminded me of how much I like erotica slams; I even sat in on the first five minnues of Ru's newsletters session before I remembered I'd promised to be elsewhere (but what little I saw seemed good!). The readings were the best we've ever had at Eroticon and I ended up having sex that night, so yeah, that's good too.

And feeling much more comfortable on that day just made it all seem better.

I talked at a session earlier on in the summer about how stories always have a beginning, a middle and an end. For whatever reason, Eroticon was both bookended and bisected by drinks at the Radisson Blu. For me, the beginning was difficult but expectant, the middle was relaxing and recumbent, and the end was sitting in a small circle bantering with Jilly and Exhibit A and GOTN and Horny Geek Girl.

And do you know what? That's what it's all about, really. That's right. That's okay.

Thursday, 30 July 2015

¡Ándale! ¡Ándale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba! ¡Epa! ¡Epa!

It's National Orgasm Day tomorrow and, coincidentally, it's also (technically) the first day of Eroticon 2015 (well, it isn't, but the meet and greet is tomorrow evening, and I'm considering it such because that makes 'con seem longer). Despite what this seems, I don't consider this a particular fortuitous circumstance: what with all the travelling, drinking and socialising, I somewhat doubt there will be space for orgasms when the night falls (or beforehand, indeed). Last time this happened, there was certainly little time for climaxing on the even of the main event (ahem)...

...although there was sex the day afterwards.


I haven't had an orgasm for over a week. I had a few furtive wanks during the past month when I was in Somerset (this time my window faced other windows; if I didn't close the shutters I occasionally saw naked women walking around in the opposite building, so I'm assuming they'd see me in turn), but not quite as many (I didn't have as much time as last year... or as much porn); last weekend I was hovering in an uncertain state of constant questioning - "do I leave? do I not leave? do I stay for an extra day? do I go for lunch? do I go and check if my colleague has put on a skirt yet?" - so I just let it pass in a haze of tiredness with an undercurrent of Another Brick in The Wall, Part 2 following me around.

And this week I've had a terrible cold and a constant low-level headache. Yes, very sexy.

But I think that, despite it all, there's a bit of me that's been holding off a little. I can't very well bring myself off in the middle of the day with the curtains open (there may as well be a massive neon sign above my window reading MASTURBATOR, plus my sister's moving in and she'll know); night has been reserved for little more than naked cuddles and coughing fits - not that I complain about the naked cuddles - and it just seems inadequate that, when there's a day for orgasms at the end of the week, I should be doing so during the week.

What's wrong with me?!

I think part of the reason I've not been trying to give myself over to basking in the hair of angels is that I don't tend to have quick orgasms. It doesn't happen. It takes me a while, and there's very little stimulus that speeds up the process; I come when I masturbate, or occasionally during sex. There has to be at least some amount of effort, as I discovered during my formative years when I was about 19 to 25 and often spent about half an hour or more with my penis in my fist before the Olympian conclusion (or at least doing it by halves). I can't have a "quick wank", because I won't have a "speedy orgasm", and therefore I'll have built myself up so much that I'll end up frustrated to the point where I'll be eating full jars of Nutella with a spoon while watching myself do so in the mirror.


Anyway, so, yeah, it's National Orgasm Day tomorrow, and I don't care, because I'm going to be at Eroticon, where everyone is gorgeous and sexy and it's not going to be at all difficult to not be in a constant state of arousal all the way through the entire event and...

...my head hurts.

Tuesday, 28 July 2015


"What's that like?"
"How intense?"
"Stop! STOP!"

I stopped, pulling my hand back. As it left her vagina there was a slight trail of gold in the air.

"Stopped! What's the matter?"
"It's really intense... like, too intense! I'd be screaming!"
"But... but that's good. I like making you scream."


There was a clunk in the next room as my dad put something down.

"But if we were in a hotel room..."

Well, we're going to be in a hotel room this weekend. So that's something particularly loud to try. Putting it into the bank.

I still brought her to orgasm with my hands last night, though.


Saturday, 25 July 2015

Eroticon 2015: Meet & 1337

It's less than a week until Eroti *(%$*%(^$(

...sorry, I'll try that again.

It's less than a we +)&(&*+*^

...one last time.

It's less tha !%"!^"¬!¬

I do apologise. I'm just suddenly incredibly surprised that it's less than a week until Eroticon 2015 (phew, managed it without cracking up into excitement!) and that I should really be less surprised, seeing as how I've been counting down to this ever since it was announced. Although the fact that I'm falling to pieces at the moment, as my throat is committing seppuku and my head is currenly eating itself from the inside out, may be something to do with it.

Rest assured that inside I am a raging volcano of emotion. You just can't see it under the exterior that's currently rocking a "dead to the world" look.

Anyway, let's do the annual Meet & Greet, so you know which idiot to avoid if you're also going to 'con this year. And it's adapted from the rather awesome one written earlier by Molly. Go read that too.


Name (and Twitter name if you have one)

Innocent Loverboy - or "ILB" if you're lazy or have limited space to write that.

I'm on Twitter as @innocentlb, because every other sobriquet was either taken or too long for Twitter's 15-character limit to accept (accordingly, I'm on Spring.me as the same, and my e-mail address also has "innocentlb" in it).

Is this your first time at Eroticon? If No, what is your favourite memory from a previous Eroticon and if No, what are you most looking forward to at Eroticon 2015?

This is my fourth time, after attending Eroticons 2012, 2013 and 2014 - the only one I didn't sttend being Eroticon USA in '13. I'm incredibly pleased it's still happening in the UK this year as I doubt I'd ever make it to America!

So I guess that's a "no", allowing me to talk about what I'm looking forward to the most. I'm with Molly here - the sessions are usually great and the venue is fantastic (and the sex is good), but the best thing about the whole shebang is the people that you get to meet and hang out with - if you're an avid reader then you pretty much know them already, n'est-ce pas?

I'm also looking forward to the inevitable orgy. It's basically going to happen this year, and knowing my luck, it's probably going to end up being in my room, as that'll be the tidiest.

Which 3 sessions have you already earmarked as definitely going to?

This is an easier choice for me this year as there are a few sessions I don't want (or need) to go to (and a few that I do), so my current plan is: GOTN's session; critique session; crafting creativity; sex and censorship; creative drop-in; traffic tips; A Game of Boners.

But I also like the sound of voice-over drop-in as I rather enjoy reading my own blog posts out loud! So this may all be subject to change! (Hmmm, not that easy after all...)

What drink will you be ordering at the bar on the Saturday night?

My usual staple is a Friar Tuck (Coke with Blackcurrant), although I wouldn't be averse to a nice cool lemonade at points.

If you wrote an autobiography what would it be called?

Finishing Last. I'm aware that I've already written a book called that, but it's still a good title - and says it all, really!

Where are you writing this post and what 5 things can you see around you (not including the device you are writing on)?

Good question! I'm writing this post from the room I'm (temporarily) staying in in Somerset, where I've been working for the past month (I am vacating this room, and the wilds, tomorrow, back to London where I can switch back from steam-powered netbooks to electricity) - which also explains the lack of blog posts in the past few weeks. Ironically, I'm much closer to Bristol now than I will be when I get home, so it's a sort of "there-and-back-again" deal...

Right to left, I can see: a stack of papers; a packet of drinking fudge that I haven't yet mixed into a drink (but plan to); an opened packet of sugarfree gum, two segments of which I am chewing; a duvet wrapped up into a ball, and a bright yellow sheet of paper bearing the legend "It's meant to be foggy all day tomorrow in the north-east!"

...Don't ask.

And the last one… If you could go out to dinner with any 5 sex bloggers or erotic writers, regardless of whether they are coming to Eroticon or not, who would they be?

OK, a lot of people are going to say that this is a difficult choice (which it is), so I'm going to do two choices:

(i) ILB, plus Blacksilk, Lady Pandorah, Jillian Boyd, Rose Monrou and Emma Whispers - the gang, basically (including all three Musketeers), although I don't even know if most of them are going to be at Eroticon this year! Sadly, I suspect not.

(ii) ILB, plus Jillian Boyd, Charlie Powell, Girl on the Net, Horny Geek Girl and Charlie J Forrest - this one's more realistic and is a wonderfully diverse cross-section of the circles I travel in!

Honorary mentions go to Bunny White and Dorian Silver (although I know from personal experience they are better to share a meal with than a drink), SJ (aka Twist), Exhibit A, Naked Cyclist (from Love and Lust...) and Hannah Mimieux. Hey, this genuinely is really hard.

Any table I'd start would probably accommodate DomSigns too, for the lulz.

Tuesday, 21 July 2015

TMI Tuesday: "Tell me something about yourself..."

So it turns out that there's a game (well, sort of a game) where you tell everyone on the table something interesting about yourself.

You can kind of see where this is going, right?


1. When was the last time someone you were talking to crossed the boundary into TMI? How did you handle it?

The big boss at the place where I'm working recently found out that I'm a sex blogger (although he doesn't read my blog). He thinks it's funny (evidently!) and, for a while, inroduced me to new staff as "and this is [ILB], watch out, he's a sex pest!" followed by a noise that can only be described as "LOL".

I'm not sure if that's TMI or just a lie, as I'm far from a sex pest(!), but it was a bit OTT if not TMI! Still, it's good to see his enthusiasm.

2. When was the last time you were talking and realised you had crossed into TMI? How did the other person react? What did you do next?

See above, basically. Although he found it fascinating, in addition to amusing.

To his own credit, his "tell me something interesting" story was riveting - about hidden homosexuality in the greatest actors of our time. I mean, I'd heard most of these stories before, but the way he told them was brilliant!

3. Which subject matter is mostly TMI to you, i.e. you don’t want to hear?
a. sex
b. medical treatment or history
c. bodily functions
d. icky food
e. finances
f. political opinions
g. other – tell us

Atheism. I still find it baffling that - while radical atheists are getting at radical theists for stuffing their religion down people's throats (which I don't agree with; even as a religious boy, I've never thought evangelism is a positive step) - some (although not all) take the step into that territory themselves, occupying the same smug, self-satisfied space occupied by the "ask me about Jesus" street evangelist or hate-preaching non-Muslim Muslim.

What I'm trying to say here is that I don't want to hear it. I've heard the same argument from both sides and both seem to be lacking substance. And both sides also claim to promote tolerance! How does that work, then?

4. Do you ever entice people into TMI, such as try to get them to share something that should be private?

Erm... I'm not sure how to answer that one.

Okay, so. I'm a chatterbox. I like to talk and I like to hear people talk and I do love a good conversation when the mood strikes me. And "TMI", whatever that may be, always seems to be the most interesting way to get a conversation started, or make it amusing (depending on how the story is relayed). But I'm not sure I really try to elicit TMI from people. It just tend to find me instead.

5. Do you enjoy swapping TMI tales – “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours?”

Oh yes, of course I do. Last week I ended up in a room with all my colleagues (who were drinking beers and ciders and other things I know nothing about) and we were swapping these stories all and sundry. I've got a yarn about thongs shaped like elephants which I've been dying to share since I got here; it took about five minutes before I started it...

Bonus: How do you feel about Pope Francis embracing “climate change” science?

Love it. I love most things about Pope Francis; he's not perfect, but he's the most progressive Pope for generations - a real man of the people and exactly what the Catholic Church needed after the hard-nosed and conservative Benedict.

Taking on the climate change battle was a brave move and a smart one from someone with so much influence.

Saturday, 18 July 2015

Fiction: Key

A little flash fiction, as an attempt to blow the cobwebs away after a day spent mostly eating fudge and watching Humans.


I look up. Brian looks angry. It's not an unusual look for him, but still, it's never a portent of hugs and puppies when he talks to you. We're always told that positive reinforcement is the way to do things, but I suspect Brian didn't get that memo.

"Are you asleep, girl? You're playing in the wrong KEY! Get a GRIP!" he bellows.

I nod. I heard - vaguely - what he said, but I'm not going to acknowledge him with anything rather than a sanctimonious little nod. I'm not asleep - not exactly. I'm just elsewhere.

That is to say, I was. I was in the back room. Five minutes ago.

I've always been fascinated by the timpani. As a strings player, I probably shouldn't be... but they make a rich, deep sound, and I love the way it resonates. At times it cuts through the whole orchestra and I can feel its rumbles through the depths of my 'cello, vibrating up the strings and making my fingers - and my body - sparkle with motion. And then there's the way it looks. Skin stretched out on its top, pockmarked from decades of beats from the sticks. The bounce that a percussionist manages to create with his skilled hands.

The things one could do with a timpani...

And then there's our percussionist. Richard. He's always been a bit of an enigma, concentrating hard on what he does, tongue between his lips as he concentrates (and, of course, I've imagined the thing he could do with that tongue). He holds the beaters loosely in his palms, the precision like a second nature to him. Since we're both playing in the bass clef, we sometimes sync up. And I occasionally catch a glance from him, across the bandroom... and my heart becomes a timpani itself.

And then five minutes ago it happened. In the back room. I was bent over, my hands flat against the taut skin of a spare timpani. As he eased himself inside me, my fingers roamed over the surface, feeling the grooves and dips, trying not to moan too loudly as I could feel his growing cock filling me up - smooth and firm, oh-so-deep - as he held onto my hips, steadying himself against my rocking body.

I tapped out a rhythm with my thumbs, which he matched with his thrusts. I bent over further, my boobs pressing against the drum, hair spilling over my shoulders and brushing the skin, making a sound like the pattering of rain. He was quieter than me, his sounds little more than heavy breathing... but every little noise - from the slap of skin against skin as he entered me over and over again to the tattoo my fingers were beating as I bit my lip and tried not to gasp with pleasure - reverberated around the room, bouncing off the shevles stacked high with sheet music. Our own little symphony.


Another look in Brian's direction.

"What key are we in, girl?"
"Uhm... D major, isn't it?"
"Then why are your fingers in the wrong position? You're playing an F natural - it's F sharp! Or do I need to remind you again?"
"No, no, I'll remember it, boss."
"I should think so."

I shift my hand accordingly, and as I do, I give a little tug on my skirt as well, just in case Richard is watching.

He is. A single note floats across the room from his direction. Just one. But it's most certainly in the right key.

Because, if anything, we were not dischordant.


With thanks to my colleague "Five" for the keyword suggestion.

Thursday, 16 July 2015

The erotic story of girl leg

I definitely am seeing this, right?

I looked away... and then looked back.

So this is actually what's happening? She's genuinely not wearing anything on her bottom half?

I mean, that's what it looked like. Obviously she was wearing something on her bottom half. She must have been, right? It's been cold this week. Everyone else was wearing trousers, or long skirts at the very least.

Maybe she's just wearing very very very sheer tights.

Her T-shirt was a bit oversized, and as I reasoned, there may very well have been something on underneath it. I just couldn't see anything... which was the issue. And, the more I looked, the more it became apparent. Her legs were bare. Incredibly.

Should I just... ask her? Or advise her to put on a skirt. Maybe she's wearing one. Maybe it's bunched up under her tee. Maybe she spilled coffee on her jeans and...

She turned around to give me a friendly wave, which I returned; it was at this point that I realised, to my relief, that she was indeed wearing something other than her oversized T-shirt and what appeared to be ballet pumps.

Is that a pair of shorts or a belt?

In retrospect, it probably doesn't matter - I don't think I've ever seen her wearing anything longer.

now if you'll excuse me i'll be in my bunk

Saturday, 11 July 2015


7.20 am.

Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep...

I'm already awake. Dreading it. The instant my alarm goes off, I know I'm going to instantly want to sleep. I haven't been sleeping well - I never do - but my bed is screaming in protest as I roll over and wrestle my 'phone into submission.

7.30 am.

Beep beep. Beep...

I'm still awake. Time for me to get up.

7.55 am.

I get up.

It's Saturday. Fuck. I'm not meant to be working on Saturdays. I'm not used to this practice; I haven't really done Saturday work since my first job after graduation. This is unexpected and my new (temporary) boss was as apologetic as she should be. I don't think she wants to work, either.

I drag some clothes on and cascade my way to the cafeteria, where we get free breakfast. My Portuguese colleague is complaining about the fact that it's a full English - he's not used to hot food at breakfast - and I'm not overly happy with the vegetarian selection, but we both eat it. I don't think he wants to work on a Saturday, to be fair.

8.30 am.

We arrive in the office. There's nobody there.

9.00 am.

We're meant to have started... but we haven't. More of our colleagues are here, even our boss, but there's a crucial part missing and we don't know where it is. There's a moment of indecision, and that's when my stomach decides to start screaming. I'm burning from the inside out and I barely hear my boss receiving a message telling her to tell us that we're not actually working today; we got out of our beds for nothing, and that we should now enjoy a day off.

I practically sprint back to my room and force down an antacid tablet, then dash to the toilet as fast as I can. I place my hand on my stomach and focus, trying to let the pain beat itself out. It does. I relax, for the first time since the previous evening.

9.30 am.

There's sunlight streaming into my room through the window. Both are open, giving me some much-needed ventilation. I strip; everything comes off. I am naked, exposed to the world outside my window, except the world isn't looking. I'm alone in my room. Naked.

I fall onto my bed and sleep where I fall. I don't even bother to get under the covers.

1.55 pm.

My breath hitches in my throat and my body spasms wildly. I arch my back and let out a noice between a moan and a grunt. Very masculine, considering who I am. My first orgasm for days takes me a while to recover from. To be fair, I have time. I wipe the large amount of glistening semen from my stomach, hands and chest. I stretch. My head slowly brings itself around. I sit up on the side of the bed, the sunlight bathing me in radiance as I do so.

I get lunch at three.

Sunday, 5 July 2015

Thoughts from under the raincloud

It is raining.

I've been in Somerset for a week. I haven't been having any sex, nor have I been watching much porn (well, some, but not much). I haven't been masturbating (as much as I usually do).

I've been busy.

Almost too busy. The temporary job I've got going on here has been keeping me on my feet pretty much constantly. I'm getting up at 7:20 every morning and ending up in bed at about 11pm, or later (or earlier, but then I start reading one of the multitude of sci-fi novels I've brought with me)... I'm not used to this sort of timetable, really; my actual permanent job has me finishing mid-afternoon and that's the sort of thing that I'm used to. It affords me more time to write my blog and complain about my repetitive life to whoever's listening.

And get sexy.

Certain parts of the day pass in a haze of tiredness and on Friday I was almost ready to drop. However, I was also aware that the weekend was forthcoming and - handily - at one moment I had a sudden rush of clarity. I was OK. I knew what to do and how to do it. I was safe and all was well.

Last night I masturbated. Saturday night and everyone was out late. I'd had a strange day of contradictions, but I'd taken a bus into the nearest city and spent some time geeking out at a random nerdy expo I'd found (seriously, I found it; I'd no idea it was happening - I also won a game of Smash Bros. U by accident, seeing as how I've never so much as touched a Wii U before) and needed some release before today (a day where I knew I'd need to do at least some work - I've done it now). There was a strange cacophony of noise coming from somewhere close by - I suspect a hen party - although not so much as to be able to see the source through the dusk outside my window (I'm on the top floor), but as I crept closer and closer to orgasm, it all became part of the background ambience.

This was my release... my reward, if you will.

I came; my orgasm was rich, deep and exhilarating. I floated for a while, feeling my heart beat and my body melt, and then brought myself 'round in order to clean up.

At that moment, I heard gleeful laughter from somewhere in the distance. Pulling on a top, I padded to the kitchen in order to make a coffee - and from the window in there, I could see some young people kicking a football around, laughing and joking, lost in their own rêverie.

I returned to my room and lay down on my firm bed, letting everything go.

And, for a while, was content.

Tuesday, 30 June 2015


"Is this yours?"

I handed her what, I was pretty sure by that point, was a vibrator. Granted, it didn't look like a vibrator - it was more spherical and I couldn't see any way to turn it on... but maybe that was the point. Some vibrators aren't obviously sex toys to the casual observer. But, since I'm a sex blogger and additionally since this had fallen out of her bag, and she seemed moderately crestfallen that I'd picked her thingy off the floor, I was about 80% sure that this was, indeed, a vibrator: one that she was carrying discreetly just in case she needed it at any point during the day.

It happens, apparently.

I accepted her hurried thanks as she threw it back into her bag and put it from my mind, finishing all my tasks and going for lunch which, thankfully, was laid on for me - although it's not the best food in the world. It's free; that's what matters right now.

In the afternoon, her friend took something which looked exactly the same out of her bag, opened it with a turn, and ran the lipsalve over her mouth.

"Oh, it's lipsalve!" I ejaculated, while the inner me facepalmed about four million times.
"Yes - of course - we all have one. Why, what did you think it was?"
"Nothing in particular," I lied smoothly. "It looks a bit too big to be lipsalve."
"Well, that's what it is."

I turned my back to get back to my work. Nothing lost, nothing gained, I suppose. I just need to stop assuming everything has a sexual connotation.

I erotically picked up my magic wand of paper, unrolled it like fresh bedclothes and unleashed it upon the expectant throng.

"So, as I was saying..."