Monday, 15 September 2014

Reconciliation

I was lazily crossing the road where a condom was once thrown at me on my way to pizza, DVDs and possibly something I eventually spun into a blog post at the flat of my friend-who-is-a-teacher when a car with windows that weren't tinted pulled up beside me, evidently wanting to get my attention. Before I could see who was behind the wheel, the window wound down to reveal the Dynamo-like features of someone I'd never expected to see again: my bully from year 7.

"Hey!" he said, cheerfully as if greeting an old friend. "How are you?"
"Hi!" I said, just as cheerfully. "I'm just fine, what are you doing?"

This is the guy who tried to choke me with my own necktie. This is the guy who spread it around the school that I was gay because a boy once sat down on my hand. The guy who told everyone who my crush was, causing more pain and anguish to her than it did to me. He who once compared sex with Britney Spears to spending a week with Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, on whom he appeared to have some sort of psychosexual fixation. The one I should have never, ever, ever told about the causes of my erections.

We eventually bonded over how ridiculous the Warhammer character "Orion, King in the Woods" looked and the fact that we shared a table during GCSE Science, although this is because he was told to find a table with people who are likely to help him and chose the one with three eggheads on it.

In any case, this was not the person I had expected to see driving a car in my neighbourhood.

"Oh, I'm..." He paused, managing to look shifty. "I've just come back from seeing my... girlfriend."
"You've got a girlfriend?"
"Well, she was my... is... was... yeah."
Oh, so she's a fuck buddy? I thought, and from a look at him, I could tell that he was thinking the same thing.
"Have fun?"
"Yeah..."
"Good. Well, I expect you'll want to be off..."
"Yeah..."
"Well, good to see you."
"Yeah, you too." And I felt that he genuinely meant that.

He drove off, with me looking on.

Good to see that he's keeping the end up.

Sunday, 14 September 2014

Pearl bracelet

I am sorry to report, as if it made any difference to you, gentle reader, that my orgasms of late have been fewer and further between than usual of late, other factors getting in the way such as marvelling at exactly the amount of healthy and ebullient glow exuded by Robinson and wondering how to make green buttercream icing that actually stays on the top of cakes.

This doesn't excuse the behaviour of my last two orgasms, although I forget when they were exactly, both self-induced (because I'm good at that, yo), after both of which a ring of semen managed to form in an almost perfect circular formation around not just one side, but both sides of my right forearm, giving the curious impression that I am in fact wearing a bangle made out of semi-colloid milk.

It was so geometrically aligned that I almost felt it a shame to wash off, although I can't go Through Life with a cum bracelet on my wrist - it'd be a talking point, I suppose - although exactly where to put the tissue also caused an issue. Wherever it went, there would be some left, and (dextrous as my left hand may be) it would be difficult to circle 360 degrees around my wrist and make sure I got it all off.

So in the end I grabbed some toilet tissue and wrapped it wound my arm like some soft of emergency bandage, and then pulled it off in one fell swoop...

...which kind of worked well enough, at least until next time I came, when exactly the same phenomenon happened, and I was both satiated and dumbfounded at the same time. Not a condition to be in if you're meant to be puzzling out exactly how gravity works in this situation.

But next time, I think I'll use my other hand. And we'll see how that works!

Tuesday, 9 September 2014

Extramuralisation

My mother is trying to "help" me look for jobs at the moment, as my current job isn't doing very well as the usual "paying me any wages" lark, but her method of bustling in with her iPad and shoving something vague under my nose isn't too effective. Part of me thinks she's genuinely trying to help, but most of me assumes she's just showing off her iPad.

She's also been giving me vague jobseeking advice, as if I've never done it before. One of the things she said today was, "get yourself out there."

I don't know either.

Assuming this refers to direct contact outside, as opposed to behind a screen like most people tend to do, I've no idea if that's the way to go. With anything, rather than jobs. Even with... well, you can see where I'm going with this...

A number of times I've seen those "horny slutty naughty dirty girl" types on Twitter - the ones that probably don't exist - claiming to have had sex in the past three minutes with a guy randomly plucked off the street, who - as it turns out - happens to be an ex-lumberjack who's turned his hand to being a marine, firefighter, policeman, professional bodybuilder and The Rock. Forgive my touch of cynicism, but I'm doubting the veracity of all these claims (although I'm pretty sure it may be easier for a girl to push for sex in this manner...).

Easier to believe (although I've never actually seen it happen) is the idea of picking someone up in a bar, club or pub - although all three seem too loud, in my opinion, to flirt with anyone without having to shout in their ear. I don't know about you, but yelling "I LIKE YOUR HAIR!" into somebody's ear may lead to a restraining order rather than rampant sex. In any case, this - I believe - is "getting yourself out there".

The young raver told us a story recently where a random bloke in a park came up to him with an iPhone. If it were me, I'd assume he'd have found me a job to apply for, but instead, he asked the young raver to list the colour of three little boxes at the bottom of the screen.
"Red, yellow and blue," the young raver nervously reeled off, painfully aware that this bloke had his hand on his thigh.
"And what's the colour in between the boxes?"
"Erm... a sort of off-white..." squeaked the young raver.
"Okay, thanks!" said the man, and ran off.

Amusing though this may be, it got a few of us thinking (and laughing). Perhaps this is a version of "getting yourself out there". After a little bit of searching, I'm fairly convinced that this was an iVersion of the Hanky Code, and indeed there is even an app, which may well be what this guy in the park was using - assuming, perhaps, that our young raver friend, as he has a quiff and had just been doing yoga, is gay. He isn't.

I relayed this story to H at her house, at which point she reminded me of Grindr, which - one may assume - is a slightly safer way to look for gay hookups. But then, I reminded myself, despite its geosocial aspect, using a dating app doesn't really constitute "getting yourself out there" in the traditional sense. I've never done either, really.

But I do suppose that using colours on an iPhone to hit on the young raver in the park was just the kind of direct approach that my mother thinks I need to get involved with. So do please excuse me while I go for a jog, and if I stop you and show you some colours on my 'phone, kindly offer me a job. That is obviously what I'm searching for.

Friday, 5 September 2014

Toodaloo

"It's not going to go away, you know."
"What isn't?"
"The water around the toilet. The leak or whatever it is. It's been there for a while."
"What? When did you first notice it?"
"Last week."

My parents threw me an exasperated look. To be fair, I hadn't given much thought to the microscopic amount of water on the bathroom floor which I'd found to be easily dealt with via a bit of paper towel. Indeed, as it was the bathroom, I'd expect it to be slightly damp, what with sink and toilet and weird space-age shower capsule thingy and everything that one may expect when one wishes to achieve wetness.

Or have wetness thrust upon them, but I'm not going to make that joke.

Half a day later, all the water was turned off and Mane's mum appeared at the front door brandishing a chemical toilet of the type one uses at camp. Cheerfully aware of exactly how to use one of these, I stomped through the garden to place it in the shed, which (in the absence of a perfectly rectangular tent pinched from the Scouts when they weren't looking) seemed like the perfect place to put it. The shed is out of the way, not inside a building (other than itself), and it's at the end of a stretch of grass - so you'll get dew on your cold, tired feet walking to it first thing in the morning (or in the middle of the night, which always seems to happen to me).

My dad wasn't keen on this idea, so he relocated it to the bathroom and sat it next to the real toilet.

I have a certain affection - if you can call it that - for chemical toilets, although they are essentially just a combination of bucket and Jeyes fluid, I've always found them something of a necessity if one wishes for a bit of self-induced sexual relief while at camp. However, I could tell that my parents weren't particularly happy with the (temporary) solution, so some genius hit upon the idea of using the toilet at my grandparents' house, which is about two minutes' walk away. The same genius also reminded everyone within earshot that he often needs to use the toilet, and that since there's only one key, he may as well be there to let people in.

So, yes, I did end up housesitting for my grandparents after all. For a day or so. Better than nothing, right?

We now have a toilet which doesn't leak (the reason, it turns out, was something to do with hungry rats) and a de-humidifier, which appears to be having zero effect on the bathroom floor but making everything in there toasty warm, on constantly, which'll be nice in the winter but perhaps not so much for the environment. Whether or not this, as opposed to a toilet tent on a campsite in Essex, is an adequate place to masturbate in is not exactly clear, but I'm certain that it's perfectly adequate.

However, I'm not particularly keen on exhausting myself in front of a dehumidifier. So, for the time being, I think I'll stick with my chair.

Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Look and Read

What's the best kind of masturbation?

From my own point of view, I like it long and drawn-out. Years of bashing myself about have given me a certain amount of stamina (at least, that's what I call it) which allows for a lot of time taken during sexual indulgence. This also involves sex, of course, but it's more apparent during masturbation.

So I like to take my time, building myself up and letting myself fall back down again, then rebuilding. While all this is going places, my mind opens up, a cataclysm of glorious visions and imaginings constantly forming and reforming according to where my body, my mind, by throbbing piercing cock, want me to go. Not so much a merry wanderer of the night as an explosion of sound, colour and - more often than not - words. Even a single word can get me going if it's used in the right way.

Sunday night was an example. I'd just finished getting my girlfriend off with my hands. She lay there recovering, curled in a little ball of cute, when I felt myself twitch with long-unsatiated need. Wrapping my thumb and forefinger around my shaft, I felt the gentle throb, its size and weight in my hand, and as I began to masturbate, I fell into fantasy once more.

My girlfriend revived, went to get a drink and sat there reading a magazine for a while - naked - while I lay supine, not really concentrating on the task at hand as much as losing myself in the moment. Certainly a rather protracted moment, I realised afterwards, but I still hadn't brought myself over the edge, and I was almost giddy with the speed at which my mind flicked through words and pictures, the increasing beat of my heart willing to burst out of my chest, and the thunder in my ears as I was brought closer and closer.

As orgasms go, it was quick. But then the destination is just one part of the journey. I'd taken my time, as only I know how, and that made it all the more pleasurable when I felt my warm, sticky mess shoot all over my stomach and chest.

And as I lay there breathing shallowly and steadily slipping away, I reflected on how I'd gotten there.

That's the best kind of masturbation.

Friday, 29 August 2014

To purr is human

As you'll probably know if you've been keeping track, I've just spent a week house-sitting for my auntie and uncle and two cousins; I did this last year and I've just done it again, both setting a precedent for an annual activity and escaping my parents' house for a short time, both of which are relatively positive.

As I seem to remember, last year's escapades were something of a sexual frenzy, with lots of loud sex, doing it in the middle of the day and in various rooms, with plenty of time to spend being naked and generally taking care of each other with large amounts of skin.

None of that happened this time, and I mean none - we didn't have sex even once, even though I did spend some of the time naked (albeit largely because I was too lazy to get dressed); to be fair, I didn't foresee this being a Thing That Happens, although I could take it in my stride, just about. I certainly had plenty of dreams about sex (although no sex happened in any of them - it was on the cards, though), I just wasn't having any actual sex.

This isn't my fault, nor that of my girlfriend. The blame lies squarely on THIS:

Your soul is mine, human.

This is a kitten named after a field marshal, and she is just about as vicious. While most cats choose a diet based on meat and vegetable protein processed into kibbles, she prefers to subsist on feet and pen lids, causing several amusing hours of chasing her around the house making sure she doesn't choke to death on plastic - followed by several more hours having one's toes mauled while trying to concentrate on Doctor Who. This, of course, continued long into the night; once she had worked out how to headbutt open the door to the bedroom, her arrival would be heralded by an unmistakeable flump and a sharp pain somewhere in your southern hemisphere, be it a foot, ankle or (in one case) thigh.

She was, of course, utterly indiscriminate about when or where she did this, whether you are half-sitting, half-lying on the sofa in the lounge after having a long and crucial meeting at work followed by a long and crushing walk back through the rain, eating a dinner you have worked long and hard to prepare (or ordered from Domino's: I'm not always that brilliant), or being super-affectionate with your girlfriend in the hope of colliding skin with skin. This is her house and she will make the decisions.

This isn't a new thing, but my cat is a little more discerning. In my old house, she would time her scratches on my door to coincide perfectly with the start of my masturbation to soft porn every afternoon. She would meow loudly if I didn't open the door for her. And, sometimes, she would be sleeping on my bed and I'd forget about her, only to finish myself off and turn around to find her sitting up with her judging eyes trained on my face.

But at least she doesn't bite. So she has that advantage over this small but possibly slightly evil kitten.

Still, who was I to assume we'd be having sex? As we all know, unlike other pets, cats don't have owners - they have staff, and it was clearly the boss' decision.

I never thought I'd be saying this, but I'm very glad to be back at SH.

Tuesday, 26 August 2014

Friendship is Magic

Reasons I shouldn't be watching My Little Pony:
- The colours are too bright
- The voices are too high
- The accents are grating
- The storylines moralise too much
- There doesn't appear to be much going on
- Pinkie Pie is really annoying
- Pinkie Pie is really, really annoying
- Oh God, Pinkie Pie
- I'm not a brony
- I'm not in its target audience
- I have much better things to do with my time

Reasons I am watching My Little Pony:
- All of the above

Sunday, 24 August 2014

Back in the saddle

Just two days ago I was asked if I would house-sit for a week or so; if you've been reading this blog for a year or so, you may recall that we did so for five weeks at a similar time last year. Although this is just one week, it's still nice to have a break from SH and dwell on my lack of money and uncertain future in a different location.

I recall making a lot of important discoveries last year in this most unlikely of locations. In a chat room I was directed to social porn GIF-scraping roulette The Worst Drug (I recognise this; it's from Russ Meyer's Up!). I joined the UK Sex Forum and then quickly stopped posting because I got bored with it. I discovered that not being serious can lead to sex, sugar condoms are probably not a thing, some people don't know slang, acting makes me horny, and my sister's best friend is an invaluable soundboard for advice.

Make a cup of tea and read all those, then come back here. Done? Okay, good.

And so here I am, netbook installed firmly in the same place as before and leeching off some WiFi which may or may not belong to the house (I'm not sure). I haven't discovered anything yet other than the fact that wearing stiff work clothes for three days in succession is a really bad idea - as is eating from the Indian restaurant down the road. But I am, to a point, relaxing; I'm taking things easier; I have a lot more space here than I do at SH; I'm sleeping more than I usually do, as well.

Frankly, it isn't quite as comfortable as it was last year - it's colder and I feel a little ill-at-ease right now - but, overall, considering what I got out of the experience last year and all, I do suppose this is a Good Thing.

Stick around. Any epiphanies happen and you'll be the first to know!

Thursday, 21 August 2014

Don't call me doll

When I was 21 I bought a sex doll named Rachel.

I was young, horny and bored. I hadn't had sex for three or so years; I'd just come back from university and I had nothing else to do. I wasn't writing ILB yet; I was masturbating furiously with my right hand to things that I knew I liked, but I wasn't doing much else. Crucially, I was unaware of the whole sex-positive community, really - I didn't read many sex blogs and I didn't really know what sex toys were. I mean, I knew they existed, but I didn't really know what they were for, as such...

With a mixture of anxiety and excitement, I got to browsing sextoys.co.uk and, skipping on the standard options for boys, decided upon a sex doll. Again, I had no real idea - I knew this was a sex toy in the shape of a pretend person; I also knew it was inflatable, but I had very little concept of the fact that it was plastic, like a rubber ring - I hadn't even thought about it, assuming instead that sex dolls were made out of some sort of soft, foam-like substance.

When it arrived, I'd barely even gotten it out of the box when I decided that I had made a mistake - the doll was very plastic, looked nothing like the girl on the packaging, and had a massive open mouth below garishly painted eyes. It looked like I'd bought a dead fish.

"No," I told myself. "No, no, no." By midday, I'd sent it back. I have since never bought another sex toy. But then, I probably wouldn't tend to use them anyway.


And then today Cara Sutra came up with this idea. It's true that I've never really thought about it much - I don't own a sex doll (three minutes doesn't count) and, as far as I'm aware (although with friends like the young raver you never know) I don't know anyone who does. But there are obviously people who do. They are sold and they are bought. So why are they different, exactly?

For a start, I'm not talking about RealDolls, although they are in vogue and now have a UK-based distributor. I was contacted a while ago by the company keen to get me talking about RealDolls; it's not really my sort of thing to promote products, but I am aware of the idea - a silicone-based skin, adjustable skeleton and customisable features - not to mention a massive price tag: it's a doll for the wealthy and those who want a companion. Seaside Slut's recent post had some excellent examples of the kind of thought that goes into their construction.

But what about the blow-up kind? The kind that you inflate and get on top of, the kind that I bought and couldn't use? Is there a stigma? And, if so, why?

From my perspective, eight years after I almost used one myself, I'd still feel a little awkward about doing so. Although a sex doll is, effectively, a pretend person, they certainly don't look realistic enough to actually hold the suspension of disbelief long enough to fool yourself you're actually having sex with someone. I certainly wouldn't be able to. And, from what I hear, the feeling is entirely different from anything you'd experience in another type of toy, your hand, or a vagina. Aesthetically, I don't even think they're particularly pleasing... unless you're a fan of the grotesque... and, in some cases, they could even be considered "wrong" on another level.

Pipedream's "Extreme Dollz" are disproportionate enough (and described as worse!) to be something approaching offensive, in my opinion!

So why would you use one? I don't know, but I'm assuming for the same reason one may use any sex toy - they're designed for sexual gratification. Unlike most toys, they are in the shape of a person, so if that's what you actually want, I don't see why not. But then again, I said no, so why? Is there, as Cara suggests, a stigma? I've seen sex dolls used as a form of ridicule in Fawlty Towers among other things, often characterised as something for sad, lonely individuals in social isolation. Where this idea has come from, I'm not sure - one could use any sex toy as a basis for the same assumption, and this generally doesn't happen - so I'm assuming it has to be the human shape.

I can't, for one second, imagine that anyone at all can believe they are actually having sex with someone while using a Fleshlight or a REV 1000 or a PULSE. To be fair, I'd struggle with a sex doll, too - but evidently it works for some people, if only because there's a face and a vagina where there's meant to be one (or a penis, if it's a male sex doll). But, if there is a stigma, then it's got to be that.

This just puzzles me. While I appreciate that YKINMK, I have noticed something like a blind spot where dolls are concerned. I've never seen one reviewed on a sex blog and no sex toy manufacturer documentary I've ever seen mentions them either. It's almost like dolls are a forgotten sex toy, a relic of a bygone age or something you only have if you are single and absolutely desperate.

But everyone has something that works for them. I don't understand, but then, it's not my place to judge!

Sunday, 17 August 2014

Soft Porn Sunday: Brittany Joy & Jason Sarcinelli

After my shock discovery that wasn't actually a shock of the Emmanuelle Through Time series last week, it only seemed right that I should do an actual Soft Porn Sunday scene review, rather than continuous "ZOMG! SELF-REFERENTIAL! BLIMP!" mutterings. I even downloaded the second film of the series, Sexy Bite, but since that's mostly blithering vampire-related idiocy and more humping the deus ex machina device I decided not to go with that. So let's look at the last sex scene from the first one.

Which, you know, I should have done last week. I just didn't.

Appearance: Emmanuelle Through Time: Emmanuelle's Skin City (2012)
Characters: Emmanuelle & William

Most of the budget went on that beanbag.
 
Whichever continuity you want to throw at an Emmanuelle series, the title character will always have a standard person-with-whom-to-have sex in the cast, mostly so they can throw in a sex scene or two for good measure. In the original series, it's Jean; in Space, it's Haffron; in Rio, it's... actually, I've no idea, I wasn't paying attention. It's established within the first fifteen minutes of Emmanuelle Through Time that her regular sex partner is named William, and he's even given a job ("He's the captain of the blimp, keeps us afloat"), so he has an excuse to be there. It's also established that he has an "arrangement" with Emmanuelle ("Sex with no strings attached!" - HER ACTUAL WORDS), so hooray for lazy excuse! Humping commence!

This scene happens towards the end of the film, after everyone's managed to return to the real world. Things are back to normal, fifty years of continuity have been retconned out of existence, and the main cast are back on their ridiculous double-breasted blimp. Time to get naked, apparently - preceded by the line, "are you ready for a new adventure?" Absolutely. Bring it on.

Unlike a lot of sex scenes, this one doesn't waste time with taking off clothes and all that malarkey. It
NOSE SQUASH ATTACK!
cuts straight from Emmanuelle and William walking off to some shots of the blimp taking off to sex on a squashy sort of beanbag effort that William happens to have in his captain's cabin. (Note the Emmanuelle "E" on the bag - it makes no difference whatsoever, but it's a nice touch!) We start off with sex in the sitting position - nothing new here, but it's nice and bouncy - from various angles including the view from outside the blimp's main window.


Okay, fairly standard so far - but I do like the way it's done. Brittany "Allie Haze" Joy is throwing some lovely faces as Emmanuelle and her smiles do seem like she is genuinely enjoying this; Jason Sarcinelli gives a fair turn as William, but we don't really see too much of him. Mind you, in the second film Emmanuelle has sex with an invisible vampire, so they bothered to hire an actor for this one, showing a little forethought.

An odd shot of the blimp flying over mountains and we then suddenly jump cut to the pair having sex
Bird pendant? She must be a Ravenclaw.
in the same position (or very similar) in front of a weird greenscreen background with clouds billowing forwards like the ending screen to Yoshi's Island and the body of Gypsy from MST3K lying around for some weird reason. I get the fact that they're on a blimp, so yeah, sky. I was completely unprepared, however, for the Doctor Who time vortex that suddenly appears behind them - there's no explanation whatsoever for that. It's just there. There's a little bit more sex and a weird swooshing effect and then the vortex swallows everything. Cut to black.


End of movie. Credits!

Anyway, I like this scene because it's nothing special but it's done well. The music is fairly standard but with some nice electric guitar bits in it (although I doubt it's a real electric guitar), the sex is pleasantly bouncy and there's enough movement to give the illusion of real coitus (but not too much), it's an appropriate length so not too long to be boring... and, although it's a massive "WTF?" moment, the bit at the end with the sky in the background is a nice touch.

I do have a bit of a problem with William - he seems too old and dull for Emmanuelle to actually be
Sunrise? Sunset? Actually, I don't care.
interested in him at all, but then again, one of her crew is played by Ron Jeremy, so there isn't really a lot of choice involved. Mind you, he isn't very interesting (like Haffron) or attractive (like Jean). But he's there, so that's enough. I also noticed the soundtrack being a bit off - they've overdubbed The Moans Of Sex™, but they don't sync up with Joy opening her mouth, so it looks at various points as if Emmanuelle is a ventriloquist.


Unless they're going for that. With this series, you never know.

One point that really goes for this scene - and the series as whole, I suppose, from what I've seen of it - is that I really like Brittany Joy. She's a brilliant actress and I even think she performs better with her clothes on - which is weird, considering she's a porn star! A perfect choice for the role of a more
If you're doing that, who's flying this thing?
savvy, business-minded Emmanuelle who still has the innocent charm and adventurous spirit of the character. She's also got a really cute voice, which helps. This knowledge actually makes me want to watch the whole film through again, rather than just enjoy the ending sex scene - not something you'd get from just downloading the scene from somewhere, but good acting is always a plus, especially in softcore where there has to be a plot!


So, in summary: I like this scene for what it is - and the series, though absolutely bonkers, clearly has a lot of thought put into it. And that, my friends, is the sort of thing that makes me grin. If only for a short while.