Saturday, 25 April 2015

Finding Out

"ILB!"
"Yes, mother dear?"
"You know everything!"
"Go on..."
"Okay, so I was reading Of Mice and Men last night, and there's this phrase that Lenny says, and I think there's something based on it, and I don't know what the thing is that's based on it, if it's a reference, or..."

I've never read Of Mice and Men. But I don't think that's any indication that I don't know much about pop culture. Or references. I had no idea that "help me, Earthworm Jim, you're my only hope" was a reference to Star Wars for about three years.

"Go on..."
"It's something like... He is my something and I shall call him something or something..."
"Finding Nemo! I shall call him Squishy and he shall be mine and he shall be my Squishy!"
"FANTASTIC! I've been wondering about that all night!"


I could still hear her rhapsodising about it to my dad as I wandered through to the kitchen in search of coffee.

And was very pleased to have resisted the urge to add that my second girlfriend used to say that about my penis.

Because, you know, references.

Wednesday, 22 April 2015

Removable Disk

It happens, every now and again, that I am struck by a wave of self-doubt beyond the usual amount of self-doubt that I carry around with me as a sort of demonstration effort. I think, sometimes, that I've lost it: like I've forgotten how to kiss, how to cuddle, how to fuck. I've forgotten how to be sexy, how to be affectionate and how to enjoy porn. Like I'm masturbating out of necessity because if I don't I lose my sex blogger card.

And yet I know that's not always been the case. I know that I am naturally affectionate. I hug practically everyone, and I'll even cuddle if you want one. I love to kiss. I love to have sex. I like porn, I like masturbating and I have, in the past, felt sexy. I'm just not feeling it now.

The last few weeks have been difficult. I've had troubles relating to money, work, politics and health, and I simply don't need a poor self-image to go with it, but I get my mother constantly mentioning Slimming World when I'm in earshot and the waves of extreme tiredness crashing against me (despite the iron tablets) at times when I'd usually try to be seductive and irresistible (try... it rarely succeeded too much...). And I think I've forgotten. It's just not there any more. It's a memory and that's all it will ever be.

I recently re-activated my BlackBerry after a couple of weeks without any services on it, not even calls or texts. I went over my overdraft limit, which cancelled my monthly recurring payment, and with it went not only texts and calls, but BBM, browsing and - crucially - Twitter. With a job that affords irregular shifts and the amount of Stuff I Appear To Be Doing, I found myself getting less and less social and more like I was disconnected from the sex blogging / social networking clique to which I so desperately cling. It's not like I need to constantly check Twitter, or read all the blogs on my blogroll, but it helps: it genuinely, really helps, as the people there and the words they write are those I know and love and trust and I'm including you in that if you've read this far.

The amount of relief I felt when my boss was late this morning and I could send a bitchy tweet about it was almost tangible.

Last night I had a dream which involved a porn star, a girlfriend and an old blogger comrade, and it was funny, sexy and totally nonsensical. In it there were hugs and cuddles and there was a large amount of kissing and watching and there was possibly even sex an it ended on a big long kiss wherein I felt that, yes, I knew how to kiss and how to cuddle and how to be affectionate and even how to fuck, even if I didn't have sex with anyone in the dream. But I was so comfortable in it, so secure in my sexual world, that I was severely disappointed by my alarm when it woke me up.

Because I may not be feeling it, but my brain knows who I am and who I was and who I can be, and it's trying to reassure me, and if that's all the comfort I'm going to get, in whatever way I'm going to get it, then that's what I'll take.

And that's all right. That's OK.

It'll pass.

Saturday, 18 April 2015

Taming the Beast

Three years ago I sat in a large undergound room beneath a restaurant. A few people were drunk and instruments were being played. My glockenspiel was lying on a seat beside me (yes, I play the glockenspiel, what of it?) and I was waiting for my turn. As is the way, I was idly browsing Twitter during a break in the music.

And one of my Twitter friends was livetweeting the sex she was having.

I felt an uncomfortable lurch in my stomach the instant I realised what was happening, and then a heady flow as it cascaded through my nerves to my cock, which I felt steadily growing harder as I scrolled frantically backwards through her tweets to find her earlier ones. Who was she with? Where did she find him? Was she cheating on her boyfriend? She was! Why?

Very few of these questions answered, I read through what had been happening, feverishly, temporaily having zoned out of all that was happening around me. I felt naughty, dirty, devilish even - being partisan to this girl's illicit liaison via my 'phone, from her indivisible glee at the penis filling her up to her subtle hints at what had already happened - and what may be due to happen - leaving me to fill in the blanks in my own head.

Flushed, flustered, fractious, I put my 'phone away, in a bit of a state. Stomach pulsing a vicious tattoo along with my straining erection, I scuttered to the toilet... not to masturbate, but to re-adjust (my turn was coming up, and if there's one thing I love more than filth on Twitter, it's being in the spotlight). It was difficult - I was wearing tight pants - but I managed to juggle my private parts into a slightly more manageable position, albeit having the slight feeling of ecstatic discomfort for the rest of the day to deal with.

It was glorious and torrid at the same time and, oh my, what effect a few simple words can have - turning me from an innocent little glockenspieler into a raging ball of horn, aflame and ready to be unleashed.

This year will be different, I promise.

Because my BlackBerry's Twitter app doesn't appear to be working.

Wednesday, 15 April 2015

Iron Man

My GP (who, it turns out, was also the keyboardist in a band I used to play in and now is a dab hand at the ukulele) called me the other day to ask if I had been feeling tired recently, as she'd noticed a dip in the iron content of my blood and didn't want me to be anaemic.

To be fair, I don't really want to be anaemic either.

I told her that I have been feeling tired, because that's true - I have.

I didn't tell her that I'm so far overdrawn that I can't pay the £5 monthly 'phone bill and therefore don't have a working 'phone. I didn't tell her that I occasionally have so much back pain that I have to lie down in a massive contrast to the job I'm supposed to be doing in which I stand up for long periods of time. I didn't tell her that I've had moments of frustrated despair over the past week where I've curled up into the foetal position and rocked backwards and forwards because there isn't anything else to do, or that I've started praying at random moments as opposed to just on Sundays, or that I feel like I'm falling into darkness, like Dynamo but without the cards.

I didn't tell her any of that stuff and I'm certainly not going to tell her about what happened to me at work this morning because I fear she may explode at exactly how incompetent people can be.

And I especially, specifically did not tell her that my sex drive has come in fits and starts and sometimes it's not there and sometimes it's all there and that I would really like a shag.

But I told her that I was, indeed, feeling tired. And I let her prescribe me ferrous fumarate to raise the iron in my blood.

Because why not?

Sunday, 12 April 2015

Soft Porn Sunday: Cadence Calibre & Kevin Patrick

WELCOME TO COLLEGE!

Introducing...

JAMES, the PLAYER!
OPHELIA, the HOTTIE!
FREDDIE, the JOKER!
KAREN, the PARTY GIRL!
LISA, the VIRGIN!
JOSÉ, the NICE GUY!

in...

CO-ED CONFIDENTIAL!

Or, to put it more accurately, the idiot, the hot intelligent one, the black guy, the Latino one, the Latino Catholic one, and the other guy, who may also be Latino but he's only there to be nice.

Take the picture, Snapper.
It's taken me a while to come around to Co-Ed Confidential. As well as the title, which makes it sound more like a crime series than anything else, this is totally unlike what my own mixed-gender university education was - insofar as they're not living on campus, they have seemingly infinite supplies of food and drink, nobody seems to be studying anything at all, and a lot of sex happens, mostly centering around these six students.

They aren't even all meant to be living together. The first episode, "Exposition" "The First Time", has four "freshmen" (freshers?) turning up to the college which has the incompetency to not offer them a room, instead tasking Ophelia (the hot, blonde, sexually active one who wants to succeed) and James (her ex-boyfriend with whom she still has a suspiciously large amount of sex) to renovate what used to be a fraternity house (now there's an American thing) for them all to live in...

...no, wait! Come back! It doesn't all hurt that much, I promise!

Appearance: Co-Ed Confidential, Series 1: "The First Time" (2007)
Characters: Kimberly & James

The main thing about this series, which sets it apart from other glossy smut like Passion Cove,
Whoah! Cover your modesty, Kim!
Compromising Situations or Love Street, is that it's most assuredly a sitcom. The characters are funny, the situations are funny, the script is (genuinely) funny, and although there's a continuous plot running through, it's very loose and each episode is kind of stand-alone. In fact, it's genuinely witty in places - yes, really - and with tongue placed firmly in cheek, it throws six archetypes into a house together and managed to shoehorn in a lot of sex (for that is the purpose), completely unapologetically and in a totally bombastic fashion, simply for the purpose of putting some sex in there.


And this is how you make softcore - don't start with "serious". Go to the other end of the scale and start from there.

Of course, this makes it difficult for me to review a scene, as I'm invariably going to end up watching a load of episodes in a row, and since all the scenes are hot, it's going to make this choice a difficult one. Okay, pass the Kleenex let's go.

The scene I've chosen for this is the first one in the whole thing, because I'm lazy. Uh, I mean, because it sets the tone for the rest of the series - yeah, that'll do. In fact, it's a bit of an anomaly, because one of the characters is James, and he's having sex with someone who is not Ophelia. Despite the character being described as a "player", he doesn't actually sleep around that much - once every few episodes, perhaps, or when there's a spare few minutes - making those few moments a little unique. However, going into this series blind, I had no idea where this scene would go.

It's at a party. Of course it is.

So say hello to our main character, the moderately-attractive-but-with-terrible-tattoos James, and the
Mah thongue hath qhuite thuh repuhtathion.
sweet, sexy, naïve Kimberly, lacking an E in her name but with much better tattoos. She also clearly didn't read the opening credits, believing James to be a virgin simply by virtue of the fact that he says so - "please be gentle; this is my first time, you know." After some simple, slightly muffled dialogue involving removing clothes, he says, "now what do we do?"


"We fuck," Kimblerly replies.

At which point she pushes him back onto the bed and the Blink182-ish punk song in the background (which I hadn't noticed until this point) gets its volume pushed up by the sound guy, and provides the background music for this scene. (It also appears over the closing credits, because why not?)

One of the things I like about Co-Ed Confidential is the fact that they don't miss anything out or shy
Is that a Black Canary tattoo?
away from nudity (à la Black Emanuelle, which seems to think that a train going into a tunnel is sufficient). James and Kimberly engage almost immediately in hot and/or heavy action, be it a kiss which looks genuine, the removal of underwear, or oral foreplay - all of which happens in the first thirty seconds, before we jump cut to sexual intercourse in the sitting position.


Thank you, Glod!

ARM
I've now watched enough of Co-Ed Confidential to know that when actual sex happens it has a pattern, as follows: plenty of movement; sex in one position; sudden increase in speed resulting in some sort of pneumatic drill-style sex; something which both looks and sounds like an orgasm but actually isn't; cut to sex in another position; back to step one, repeat. In this scene, there are two of these cycles, accompanied by a few moans and the like, but (more realistically) giggles from Kimberly - what, don't you laugh during sex? - the sitting-together position followed by something approaching the spoons position. Both of which end in speed approaching the maximum...

...slow down, James! This isn't a race!

...before it's kind of, sort of, brought to an end with some more dialogue.

"Not bad for your first time," she says, clearly ignoring the fact that he's just proved incredibly clearly that this is not his first time. He replies with some weird suggestion that they do it again - maybe he's taken one of those pills from the toilet vending machines - but then Ophelia walks in. Banter ensues and they break up - "about five seconds ago," as James puts it, before running out into the hallway naked and finding the Dean standing there.

And so the series goes on, with the next sex scene happening less than five minutes on.

He's totally a virgin.
So why have I become a slight aficionado of this series, when I've just made it sound predictable? Well, maybe the fact that it is predictable helps. The two leads are okay - nothing special (apart from Ophelia's glorious British accent), but you know all along that James and Ophelia will end up together, so why not show them having sex a lot? As for the other four characters, well, they all have their charm; Karen is seriously hot, Freddy has his merits although I haven't seen any yet, and the budding romance between Lisa and José is genuinely very sweet. And, of course, it's an American show set in college so everyone in the whole thing is unbelievably attractive.

But they're clearly not going for realism here - they're having fun, and so am I; I can watch an episode of this with a cup of tea and have a laugh and an orgasm in under half an hour.

Speaking of which...

Friday, 10 April 2015

/ctcp finger

I slipped out of the shower yesterday evening and rustled my way into my bedroom to find my girlfriend sitting on the bed, entirely naked and watching porn.

This may not sound unusual, considering the fact that she has the phrase "laid bare" in her usual nom de plume and it is very easy to access Thumbzilla (or RedTube or YouPorn or xHamster - not that it matters; they're all now part of Pornhub anyway) from a netbook... but, I assure you, it is. Acquainted as I am with the countours of her body, I rarely get to see all of it in its usual splendour; while I am certain that we both watch porn, our tastes vary so diversely that we have a tendency to watch it apart; we both review the stuff too, hooray sex blogger lyfe!! 

In any case, and I can't tell you how it happened but I'm sure it involved lots of porn, I ended up with most of my right hand inside her, accompanied by spasmodic movements and sounds resembling a religious admonition in a language that hasn't been invented yet... both with her lying on her front and on her back (once she'd managed to turn off her netbook with me rubbing her clit, which may not be as easy as it seems) - eventually, speedily, and predictably climactically, to orgasm.

Quickly. Almost too quickly. It had seemed to take a while (realistically, it had), but it was a speedy orgasm: a short, sharp burst of pleasure, like a shot in the dark, before it was gone.

I had exhausted her.

I had worn her out with my hand and it wasn't going anywhere else.

Mind you... sometimes, that's really all you need.

Wednesday, 8 April 2015

Doorstepping

I spent most of yesterday ringing doorbells and running away... after talking to the people who answered their doors. To be fair, it doesn't really matter what I was doing as most homeowners in my local area didn't bother to listen to me... but I did have some interesting conversations, including with one older gentleman who didn't stop talking for about twenty minutes and one woman who said "eugh" on the sight of me and slammed the door.

I used to travel to places to ring unfamiliar doorbells - sometimes to meet women I didn't know and have sex with them. In many cases, this didn't actually happen (I didn't just turn up - I was always invited first!); I wasn't expecting this to happen yesterday, either, not even with the hot girl who was mostly breasts and hair or the one who looked approvingly at me through her square glasses (but then, I was in a suit, I got a few glances).

But then there was this one lady...

She opened her door wearing nothing except a dressing gown, wrapped around her like a sari, with clearly nothing else on. She radiated confidence and relaxation and I attempted to act professionally.

"Have I come at a bad time?" I asked.
"Come? No, not yet!" she said, only she didn't say that; that's Kira Reed in Fast Lane to Malibu. What she actually said was something like, "no, not at all," and then proceeded to listen to my entire spiel intently, responding with articulate questions and smiling the whole time. Eventually, I bade her farewell and carried on with my walk, pleased but slightly confused.

I wonder who she was expecting?

Wednesday, 1 April 2015

Presumed Guilty

My dog used to sleep on the top step, just outside my bedroom door. I used to go to the toilet, naked, every evening just before I went to bed (I sleep naked; it's not just a 'taking a risk' thing); I would invariably lock eyes with her at that point and, every evening, I would wonder how much she knew. I won't be so presumptuous as to assume that she could identify the signs of someone who, nine times out of ten, had just been wanking in a corner of their room, and was just going to the bathroom to clean themselves up before attempting to go to sleep (or get back to wanking or downloading something else to wank to)... and yet, she always had that accusing look in her eye - not the pleading look a dog has when you are eating anything at all, but a cold, hard, pitiless stare.

I know what you have been doing, human, and I am NOT BEST PLEASED.

My cat, on the other hand, doesn't really care. In my old house, Willow would be sleeping on my bed ninety-nine per cent of the time, whether or not it was an appropriate time for a cat to be anywhere else. Due to the large window and airy nature of the room, she got plenty of light when it was sunny, and plenty of insulation when it was cold; she also had a willing human-angel hybrid sitting in his computer chair for the major part of the day, upon whom she could call for food, attention, or just to acknowledge her presence before returning to what he was doing. In the twilight hours when I would de-stress after the vigours of a day doing nothing, I would often masturbate while Willow was on the bed, without even knowing she was there - and, to her credit, she either didn't know or didn't mind what I was doing, as long as she had somewhere warm and soft to sleep.

I'm a cat, says Willow.

She has continued this practice ever since, even after our moving to SH, even if there are days when no wanking takes place, she sleeps there - on my bed - because she can. And if I do care to touch myself at any point, she won't move, or stir, or even blink... because it doesn't concern her; she's a cat, and she can do as she pleases.

I'm currently sitting in a room with a guinea pig named Biscuit.

Biscuit doesn't belong to me, nor does he trust me. He belongs to my 18-year-old girl cousin, and he adores her. He doesn't really want to come near me; he gives my finger an affectionate nibble every now and again, but Heaven forfend if he's going to let me actually pick him up. Every time I walk into this small office - the one my uncle usually dwells in which I have temporarily requisitioned for the week - he perks up, gives me a look which clearly says why aren't you her? you're supposed to be her!, and then looks hurt when I give him any food or water. He also makes noises when I haven't paid him any attention for a while, making me feel rather skittish, as if I'm doing someone awful to my little cousin's rodent companion by not paying attention to him twenty-four hours a day.

He also appears to be eating the newspaper which lines his cage.

I don't mind sharing a room with Biscuit - or, at least, I wouldn't, were it not for the fact that he watches me intently when I'm masturbating, or even when I'm erect at all. I have my theories - either he knows what I'm doing, he doesn't like the motion or the scent, he thinks I'm holding an UNUSUALLY LARGE CARROT and by rights he should be eating it instead, or maybe it's just dumb luck. To be fair, it doesn't matter why he does so. If I'm wanking, there's a rodent watching me.

It probably shouldn't be as disconcerting as it actually is...

...but then again, maybe I'm conditioned. Maybe there needs to be a sleeping cat near me in order for me to fully enjoy masturbation in private.

Or maybe my girlfriend. You know, that's fine too.

Monday, 30 March 2015

Whoops!

"Do you think Lovely is pregnant?"
"No! Of course not! I mean, they've been married for less than a year, wouldn't you think...?"
"But why would Robinson want to see everyone?"
"Just because! He hasn't seen all his friends for ages, he said so!"


It's my birthday party in a week, but I brushed that one aside.

We sat in the pub and I fended off calls from both my parents about exactly the same topic. I am housesitting at the moment, not that it stops business from proceeding as usual, and this includes my dad checking to see that I'm still alive. I helped him felt a shed roof this morning, which gives you an accurate idea of the dynamic sort of life my family leads. With a grunt, I sat down next to Robinson.

I always sit next to Robinson. I have done ever since we were three.

"So, yes," said Mane Jr., handing around his 'phone. "This is what my new place looks like."
It was a caravan. Quite a nice one, though. My friend-who-is-a-teacher always said she imagined it being surrounded by uniform grey concrete, rather than the grassy fields displayed thereon. Looked good, anyway. The way I'm going, I'll be lucky to get as much as a cardboard box.


"Which reminds me," said Robinson, with something close to relish, although he'll never do that because he's never excited about anything, ever. "On Thursday, we saw this."

And he pulled out his 'phone and displayed something which looked like an ultrasound scan...

...oh.

Oh!

"Well," I said, raising a glass, "here's to Zayn Malik."

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.