Sunday, 24 July 2016


Much as I enjoy it - all the sexual contact (don't we all enjoy it? it's why we're here...) - much as I do enjoy it, my most recent exploits have been, for want of a better explanation, more about fascination than anything else.

I will attempt to explain. I haven't had full penetrative sex for a while. Having sex at the moment is focused mostly on trying to re-familiarise ourselves with my girlfriend's body (both of us, for our own reasons, are trying to reconnect with it). I've been spending a lot of time squatting between her legs, gently bringing her to orgasm with my fingers. Sometimes it's quick, sometime it isn't; sometimes it's easy, sometimes it isn't. Sometimes she flutters her eyes closed and screams like a banshee and comes all over my hand; sometimes we have to stop for a while, get some water, apply some more lube, take some space to breathe.

And then sometimes it's more natural. Last night I dripped lube onto her clit and slowly worked a finger in a circle around her vulva - over the labia majora, down to the perineum (with an occasional flick of that), back up the other side to quickly rub her clitoral hood a few times. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. A calming experience for her - a low throb of pleasure, without being too much - and for me, a continuous action which I can perfect with every circle.

The vagina is fascinating. It really is. If I hold it open with two fingers, I can see it throb and pulse. When it's aroused, the lips engorge and it flushes red. The clit grows in size as it becomes erect and I can feel it hardening up underneath the pads of my fingers. The sticky, messy, wetness I can lift and drip off my fingers mixes with the lube I spread and the coating of my tongue as I lick and suck and kiss. The way it dilates and contracts as she orgasms, and how quickly it vanishes from sight as she claps her thighs together when she shudders to a climax.

I can still taste its tang on my fingers later, once we've finished and watching stuff on YouTube or I'm reading Robert Galbraith's latest book or discussing the relative merits of Natasja Vermeer as Emmanuelle. If I'm eating Hula Hoops and then licking the salt off my fingers, her taste is still there. Sometimes there's a residue on the back on my hand or my palm: a stain, a mark of honour, a reminder of the wonders of orgasm and how fascinated I am, once again, by the vagina.

She says it turns her on when I talk about it. So here I am... talking about it.

Thursday, 21 July 2016


Sometimes it's all a little too much.

I stay as strong as possible because I have to. It's not really in my nature - my instinct tells me that I need to be held, protected, guided. In lots of ways, the best place for me was in education: I didn't fit into the system, but at least I had an academic advisor to point the way. While my usual daily routine is established and fairly static, sometimes it just seems too much.

Something went wrong at work last night. I didn't have a solution and worked through it anyway, worried that what I did as a solution wouldn't count. It doesn't, really. I called in this morning, sick with chest pain, stomach pain and worry, my heart in my mouth, beating a violent tattoo; said that I wasn't going in today, I would be in tomorrow to finish the week and could you please have a look at the note I left because I am so worried about what happened, please tell me it's going to be okay, please?

And so I cut myself adrift in lieu of the three hours' pay I'd get for going in. Aware as I am that I need that money - it's not much but I need money - I feel the guilt and the shame on my shoulders, pressing me down, adding to the chest pain, back pain, worry and sweat. I flail wildly, unable to concentrate. Kept awake last night by housemates arguing and the sweltering inability to sleep.

This time last year I was at my annual worky retreaty thing in Somerset, in (or near) my final week there. Working in a more modern environment in a polo shirt and shorts. Yes, it was hard work; yes, I barely got any time off. But it was a change. I got space to rest, space to breathe. Free bed and board for four weeks, a change of scenery, and a big stack of books next to my bed. The silence was freeing. Here, now, it's oppressive.

It's all too much. The pain and the heat and the silence. Too weak to scream, too tired to sleep. Battered, bruised, breaking. And possibly some other things beginning with B.

It's a moment, I tell myself, it's just a moment, it will pass.

But after it passes, and I fall back into my aforementioned routine... what happens then? Where's the end point? When am I trying to get to? How, without money or resources, do I get there?

So many questions that don't exist, without any answers which can't.

I can be strong, yes yes, sometimes I am; sometimes I put on a front. I am in control, I have all the answers, I am reassuring and calm and a constant presence. I'm there when you need me. I'm reliable and knowledgeable and intelligent and caring. I can do all I'm asked to and more - I often do more. I take it all on. I handle it well. I am not vulnerable, or worried, or guilty, or sick.

But I am now. I am, and the knowledge that I have these moments scares me. Sometimes, as I said, it's all a little too much.

I will not shatter. I will not break. I will not fail.

But I will today.

Monday, 18 July 2016


A few summers ago, as I'd  been having sex for almost a year, I was noticing a phenomenon that hadn't been particularly evident before - however hot the sex itself may have been.

"Have you been having sex?" I asked of a particularly busty friend. She'd not had an easy year, having broken up with (and gotten back together with) her (ex-)boyfriend several times. I found myself mediating at several points, and eventually, she had gained a new boyfriend at university (in fact, to my knowledge, they're still together - I have no way of corroborating that right now, though...). All our successive conversations seemed to involve her boyfriend in some way; me being me, I assumed that they'd been having sex.

I wasn't wrong.

As she told me, rather enthusiastically, they'd been having rather a lot of sex. Everywhere. Several times a day. A number of theories presented themselves to me: her new boyfriend was very good at sex; she was good at sex herself (and I suspect she was); they were both good at sex; he was actually an alien sent to Earth to research human sexuality; she was just trying to fuck out the bad memories from her tempestuous previous relationship. Whatever the reason, my particularly busty friend had spent most of her time underneath her particulartly beardy new(ish) boyfriend. I genuinely couldn't blame them.

"Have you found it difficult recently?" was my next question. "Like, a lot wetter than usual?"
"You're talking about sweat, right? Because you sweat a lot during sex and in this weather you're already sweating a lot?"
"I wouldn't call that difficult."

Maybe it wasn't the right adjective. I'd noticed it too; having sex in a (relatively) small room with no real ventilation - in the height of summer (when I'm usually hornier anyway) - I'd managed to generate a lot of sweat. And this, in turn, led to a little more lubrication on the skin. I'd noticed the soft hiss of skin against skin turning into more of a wet slap, a slight loss in the amount of friction during a vigorous shag, beads of moisture running down bodies and faces turning red - without the usual exertion required for them to do so.

The reason I asked my particularly busty friend if she'd found sweaty summer sex difficult was that I'd been finding it quite hard to stop. I'd never had summer sex before, and was fascinated by exactly how wet you could get (and how far you could go) before inevitably giving in to the heat and exhaustion and collapsing finishing. On one particularly hot day, I could actually notice small amounts of steam in the room. But, as I said, no ventilation.

Not being able to stop having sex doesn't really present itself as a problem, I'll grant you - and that is probably why my particularly busty friend got confused and left to make dinner (or possibly get taken from behind up against the kitchen counter - either seemed to be an option). The problem to which I was referring had happened the previous weekend, when I'd been determined to have as much sex as possible in a very short period of time (with credit to my girlfriend, who must have had a very resilient vagina), and had ended up with a severe case of dehydration and a UTI to boot - drinking an entire bottle of Sprite in an attempt to regain all the fluid I'd lost.

Jesus H. Corbett, I'm a fucking idiot sometimes.

Last night consisted mostly of naked cuddling and sex which wasn't actually sex - both of us were far too hot for any shenanigans and, in any case, I had work this morning (although that's usually not a valid reason for not having sex, but still...!) - and occasional trips to the bathroom which were mainly an excuse to walk past the open window. It wasn't, by any stretch of the imagination, a bad night (hooray naked cuddling!); but it was certainly a warm one.

Tonight I'm sleeping in the fridge.

Thursday, 14 July 2016


ILB: "Are you okay?"
LLB: "Tired..."
ILB: "Do you want me to wake you up?"
LLB: "Why? It's so soft..."
ILB: "You've got a meeting to go to this evening..."
LLB: "Mreh. Don't wanna."
ILB: "I know, but it'll do you good. Get you out of the house, get some air. I'll find something for myself to do while you're out."
LLB: "..."
ILB: "..."
LLB: "What are you going to do while I'm out?"
ILB: "Wanking, probably."
LLB: "..."

[4 hours later]

ILB: "Hnnnnngh..."

Sunday, 10 July 2016

Soft Porn Sunday: Tina Jordan & Graham Purdy

I've never been that interested in Baywatch (despite having actually met David Hasselhoff), so this is a bit of a strange one.

Recently I've been watching (have watched, all of, in fact) Obscurus Lupa's Baywatching YouTube series, recapping every episode - mostly for the benefit of someone who's never seen it. I saw adverts for Baywatch all the time while spooling through the soft porn available on Bravo in my teens, but was never really interested. Having seen Baywatching, I'm still not interested.

I'm not really going anywhere with this, and I wouldn't go anywhere with this, were it not for the fact that there's a softcore version, and it's called

I know. Hold me.

Appearance: Beach Heat: Miami, Series 1: "Virgin Meat on the Beach" (oh, dear sweet Lord!)
Characters: Lana & Jace

Despite the fact that Beach Heat: Miami clearly had a lot of money put into its production, there's not much thought put into its execution. It's a Baywatch-lampooning comedy drama set on a beach with lifeguards, but relatively little action happens on the beach, and almost none of the sex takes place there - opting instead to have conveniently placed apartments and the like for sexual escapades. It's lazily paced, the characters are completely uninteresting, the acting is laughable, and it lacks the self-aware humour of Co-Ed Confidential or the individual storylines of Passion Cove.

Basically, I think it's a concept based upon a single idea, and they weren't sure what they were doing with it. I've just sat through two episodes of this schlock, and I'm amazed that it got a second series.

I suppose one positive point is that the first series only has seven recurring characters, so they're easy
I couldn't fail to put this shot somewhere...
to keep tabs on. Cale (Josh Randall) and Jace (Graham Purdy) are young male lifeguards whose only goal in life seems to involve vaginas. Their co-workers include their boss, head lifeguard Melanie (Christina Galioto), young sassy Chloƫ (Tristian Lier) and slightly older Amber (Megan Houserman) - I'd know more about what she does if I could hear any of the dialogue but, hey, why waste money on sound balance? Into this mix of boobs and more boobs enters another set of boobs, Brooke (Kristen Hinton), a young 18-year-old rookie lifeguard who's assigned to Cale and Jace's tower.

You can probably see where this is going, only Brooke is a virgin and determined to stay that way. Condering that she's still a virgin after two episodes, I think that's pretty good going, although the fact that both Cale and Jace are objectionable knobheads with no redeeming characteristics (and all the other male lifeguards are extras) may well contribute to this.

Brooke's mum is a slut.

This is the word that's used to describe her most. The sweet, smart, sexy young virginal main character has a mother who seems to exist basically to have sex. She barely looks old enough to achieve motherhood - I'd peg Brooke and Lana (Tina Jordan) as sisters - but, in the first two episodes, Lana waves Brooke off to her new lifeguarding job and then wanks off an old guy with a beard, sucks off her landlord in lieu of paying rent, takes a lot of showers with plenty of soap, and when she has time, she has sex with Jace, for no other reason than he's young and impressionable and he isn't going to be doing it with Brooke.

Attempted seduction, with requisite face.
This scene is from the very first episode. Lana calls her daughter and claims to be having an allergic reaction to something; Brooke sends Jace for whatever goddamned reason, and he comes out with the classic line, "what can I do for you, Lana?". Brooke keeps calling her mother to see if she's okay, but clearly she is, because she's busily having sex with her daughter's dickhead colleague.

I didn't say the storylines were any good, either...

We start with Lana riding Jace while both of them are still semi-clothed. Lana isn't wearing much, because she never does; Jace is still clad in his red lifeguard swimming trunks. There's movement, but it serves very little purpose, with the exception of a few kisses, and it quickly cuts to a soft porn blowjob with the requisite amount of hair and the worst O-face since The Room. Another quick cut to some actual sex between the pair, beginning in the missionary position (but mostly under the covers so there isn't really much to see).

At this point the sex noises come in. This appears to be a theme with the series - start with just
music, then overlay the sex noises half way through. They come in so suddenly that they feel slightly incongruous (and they're all coming from Lana, which is weird, because Jace doesn't shut up during any of his other scenes...), and continue on until the end of the scene... which is a few minutes away and involves two changes of position.

It's only after starting to do her from behind that Jace says, "whoo!".


Dude! Professionalism!
There's also a bit where he's doing her doggy style, while kneeling up on the bed himself, blowing on his lifeguard's whistle because he's an idiot, and an increase in the number of mix shots, presumably to indicate that the sex is getting more intense or something, I don't know... before it just suddenly ends. Jace returns to the beach to tell Brooke that her mother is "fine" and I'm trying very hard not to golf clap this one.

This, I fear, is going to be typical of the scenes from the rest of the series. For such a long scene, with a lot of sex which starts pretty quickly, I found this one pretty boring. It's a pairing which I don't particularly like (the fact that I like neither Jace nor Lana as characters doesn't help) and the sex
I usually like this sort of stuff...
goes on for so long with so little variety or passion that there's not really much that helps to arouse. Tina Jordan, while conventionally attractive, isn't really old enough to pull off the "sexy older lady" trope (despite the fact that her character is a mother), and Graham Purdy isn't much to look at either. Frankly, it's a bit of a mess, and the fact that the whole scene is overlaid by a song with lyrics (as opposed to soft porn music as it's usually heard) is particularly awful.

Of course I'm going to watch the rest of the series, so I'd better get used to it while I can. Maybe I can make it worth my while somehow.

I'm just wondering, as you do, how strongly YouTube might object to a webseries based on this version of Baywatch...?

Saturday, 9 July 2016

The Girl on the Train

For over two years, I commuted into Central London at the same time every morning. I may not have been in the same job, exactly, but since my working pattern was pretty steady, I commuted. Up at half past seven, walk to the station and get the train at eleven minutes past eight.

Was the plan. The reality seemed more like "up at seven-forty-five, run like you're being chased by zombies, jump through the doors as they start to close at 08:10:59 and collapse onto the floor clutching your chest as your lungs threaten to burst". By the time I exited that job, I had defaulted back to "fuck it" and got the train at twenty minutes past eight instead. The likelihood was that everyone would be waiting outside for the admin staff to turn up with the key anyway, so what was the point?

Whichever train I got, she would be on it too. She stood on the platform at the same point every morning (I tended to move around) - the carriage that stopped there was the best one to get on to necessitate the speediest transfer to the Underground - and boarded in her own way. She had a gentle, unassuming gait, wore smart casual clothes, and from what I can remember, she was very short, and very thin.

And she had bright red hair.

That was the most striking thing about her appearance. Her hair was the kind of red that stands out against any backdrop. When raining, it was damp. When warm, it hung loose. When cold, it was tied back into a neat ponytail. But, whatever it was, it was red. Even when she wore a hood, you could tell.

It was a couple of months before I started to notice her - well, you couldn't miss her, but I mean really notice her. Attractive though she was, that wasn't what fascinated me about her. She was just totally inscrutable - and that, not her red hair or well-shaped body or pretty eyes, but that - was why I started getting on the same carriage as her every morning.

As I say, she was inscrutable: sitting on the train with a completely neutral expression, one that suggested so much yet delivered so little. There were tired, alert, worried and miserable people on the train every morning - being a mainline station in the commuter belt, there were those expressions that carried a weary sense of having acquiesced to this life of frustration and repetition due to necessity, rather than want - but hers was a blank canvas. No change, no acknowledgement of anything going on around her. No betrayal of whatever thoughts were beating behind the creaseless skin of her forehead.

It fascinated and frustrated me in equal measure. Who was she? Why was I so intrigued? For the first few weeks, I thought that I had a crush - not unusual for me, she's hot, it's the early morning; it'll pass. But, no, the feelings never faded. Every morning I wondered about her; ever morning, she gave nothing away, Glod forbid I ever actually tried to talk to her, but then I often had the odd feeling that I was the only person who could actually see her.

A few months pass before I got the strange feeling that she had started to notice me. Occasional quick glances over the top of my copy of the Metro (she never read it) often showed her looking directly in my direction, with the same featureless expression. Disembarking to change onto the Underground, the grace with which she carried herself would falter if I walked past her. And then, in an odd reversal of what happened at first, she would board the Underground train after me, seemingly making a point to get on the same carriage. Seized though I was, at points, to make some sort of salutation - even a catch of the eye and a nod - I never did.

But I sat. And I looked. And I wondered.

Eventually I took a sabbatical from London and went to work in Somerset for a while. I came back, having been told in my absence that my job was uncertain. And, on my first morning journey to the station, I suddenly thought of her. I hadn't seen her for over a month. She'd be in the same place at the same time, and I could go back to trying to puzzle her out every morning. That, and admire her hair.

Only she wasn't there.

Or there the next day.

In fact, now that I think about it, I never saw her again. I looked - every morning - for her, but she was nowhere to be seen. Everything else - from the staff to the people to the earnest woman working in the coffee shop - was completely unchanged. But there was a space where she used to stand. A space unfilled.

Leaving yet another mystery to be solved.

Wednesday, 6 July 2016

Om nom nom

I don't like food play. It's really not my thing, despite once licking whipped cream off a girl's breasts (and once smearing melted chocolate over another's, watching someone else licking it off her... long story, maybe I'll tell it some time). I like food and I usually want to eat it, but I'm very fussy about the way it's used. I want to throw up every time I hear my mother eating fruit, and (as much as I like to experiment), I've never been interested in food play.

It just doesn't appeal.

And yet I've just been reminded of one time where I called someone a peach.

It kind of suited her. Soft, succulent and light, irresistible but wet. I could practically feel her: the size and weight of her breasts in my hand, the feel of her cheek against my lips, and how wet she would be as my mouth caressed her, her juices dripping down my shirt and making a mess in exchange for pleasure.

You know, like a peach.

And then there was the time someone described herself to me as a "horny little cookie".

That suited her too, even discounting the "horny" part (she was). She was even little (as in - short), and she had the irresistible sugary sweet nature of a cookie. Chocolate chips of slightly dark humour mixed into a respectable biscuit base. Soft on the outside, viscous on the inside, and hard to resist once you'd had your first bite.

And there's the way I compare a horny thought to rolling a toffee around in your mouth, toying with the idea, waiting for it to pop. How the fizz and tang of a sherbet lemon resemble the sexual anticipation that builds in my stomach as I get closer and closer to climax. And the discussions I've had as to whether or not male ejaculate tastes like salty milk, or whether the vagina is more like a lemon than a lime. How the skin tastes as I drag my tongue down her back or lick behind her ear. How tongues, in a kiss, melt together like ice cream, or how the first hug with a loved one is like the first bite into a hot toastie... you know there will be more, but the first is always the best.

There's all of that and yet I still don't like food play.

But it's no wonder I'm overweight. I mean, some people look at their sex life and it's exciting, dynamic and racy. I look at mine and see a menu.

Sunday, 3 July 2016


After a busy day, during which I had been to work, visited the hospital, taken a long(ish) walk in the sun and had set to compiling my thoughts at home (not to mention, of course, lunch), I got a missive from my friend-who-is-a-nurse. My hairy friend, who is her brother and hasn't been seen for a while since he left for America, was back in the country, and could I go to the pub and see him? Short on cash as I was (and short on time), I still managed to get the bus into town and found myself, eventually, walking down exactly the same path that leads to the hospital. For the third time that day.

Practically everyone turned up (with some exceptions, including my friend-who-is-a-nurse herself!), and amid the jocularity and discourse, the topic of dicksplashing naturally came up.

No, I don't know either.

"That's got to be cum," said my hairy friend's wife in her odd Mid-Atlantic accent. "I mean, that's what a dick splashes, right?" she explained, without so much as a blush.
There were several uneasy noises of assent around the table from the British people making up the rest of the company. Some other definitions were proposed, notably one from my hairy friend himself, who assumed that "dicksplash" was a verb describing the action of tapping one's dick atop a bath full of warm water (thus creating a splash). Exactly why one would wish to do this, I'm not sure either, but it seemed rational at the time. The fact that it had been used initially to describe Donald Trump seemed to have faded by this point.

By the time the laughter (and confusing thong-related segues, which you may understand if you were at Eroticon) had faded, the ever-resourceful young(ish) raver had gotten out his iPhone and opened Urban Dictionary.

"Dicksplash," he read aloud to the assembled throng. "When you make your Nan a cup of tea, and when you're about to give it to her, you take your penis out, and splash your dick in it, so it splashes all over her..."

There was a slightly stunned silence. Mane's face was split in a wide grin, the young raver's girlfriend's mouth was hanging open, and my friend-who-is-a-teacher looked like she'd just been slapped around a bit with a large trout.

"Oh, for God's sake, Brian," read out Mane Jr. from the iPhone. "I'm covered in your dicksplash."

More silence.

"Psssssh," ejaculated my hairy friend, slicing the air with his hand in a karate-chop motion. "Hey, that sounds okay!"

There was more nervous laughter, and eventually conversation broke over us again, every now and again punctuated by an approximation of what sound a semi-erect cock being thrust into a cup of hot tea might make.

"Does anyone want another drink? Psssssh!"
"So exactly how terrible was Brexit? Psssssh!"

"What time does the beer garden close? Psssssh!"
"Where's your sister? This was all her idea! Psssssh!"

"Hey, ILB! Isn't that your token black friend from school working the bar? Dicksplash!"
"You're supposed to say, 'psssssh'..."
"Oh, yeah..."

My friend-who-is-a-teacher excused herself to go to the bar and get a coffee. Chatting nonsensically to my token black friend who was, as it turns out, working the bar, I decided to follow her lead and allow myself a hot drink, and maybe a dessert from the menu. The beer garden was starting to pack up and, as is the tradition, my lot were the last to leave.

"Does anyone want a final drink?" I considered it my duty to ask. I'm just going to go and get myself a cup of tea..."

It's best to skip what happened next, but it's fair to say that it's put me off tea for a while.

Wednesday, 29 June 2016

Pay for your porn? Work for your orgasm.

The recent news that someone posted Boris Johnson's victory speech on Pornhub has got me thinking - although not, I'm pleased to confirm, about Boris Johnson. But about porn.

I have, once, ordered hotel porn. I was staying on my own in a hotel room (probably one of a very few times I've stayed in a hotel!) in Nottingham - why I was there, I don't quite remember. Maid Marian Way (one of the main thoroughfares in Nottingham) had - it may still have, I don't quite remember - a Holiday Inn Express on the corner, which is where I stayed. I showed up, got a room, checked in... and only after getting to my room did I realise that I'd just paid far too much for one night. I made the decision, there and then, to make the best of it.

So I wrote out all the words to Shpadoinkle! from Cannibal! The Musical and left them around the room for the housekeeping staff to find. I went down to the bar to get a drink and nominated the girl behind the counter for a guest service award (and, eventually, wrote a song about her). I played on the trivia machine and ended up on the high-score table. I filled out all the guest satisfaction surveys before actually getting into my bed. I took a shower using all the free things in the bathroom.

And I ordered porn.

I'd never watched a porn channel, so I didn't know what to expect (or how long the porn would be on for). What I got was a series of five-minute vignettes which depicted sex happening (sans plot or character development; it's five minutes, you don't have much). Many of the scenes were lesbian, at which I was genuinely surprised (I ordered "porn", I assumed that the scenes would all be straight unless you specified otherwise). None of them were particularly good.

But the fact that I was watching porn in a hotel room was exciting enough. I perched on the very edge of my bed, naked, with the window open and the curtains not drawn, and masturbated frantically, pushing myself as hard as I could. I knew this wasn't the sort of thing I usually watched, but I was certainly hard enough, and the throbbing was becoming unbearable; what else was I supposed to do? I masturbated hard, and fast, growling through my teeth, from my vantage point at the end of my bed.

I came spectacularly, all over my hand, my thighs and the towel I'd placed on the floor (forward planning plus plus...) and lay back on my bed in a heap, riding out the waves of my orgasm, awash in the sounds of sex filling the room as the porn played on in the background.

I left the TV on as I (eventually) made my way to the bathroom to clean up. As I saw it, I'd paid for the porn, so I was going to leave it on. I did. It was still on as I showered, cleaned my teeth, towelled off and slipped into the (mercifully cool) bed. It was still on as I read the book I'd brought with me, and muted as I called my parents. And I left it on... on until the porn I'd paid for ran out and the TV turned it off. My porn stayed on for as long as it could.

Just how long that is I'll never know. I was asleep before it ended.

Saturday, 25 June 2016

INnocent LovEUboy

On Friday morning I called work and told them that I had a sticky throat and that it hurt to talk. They gave me the day off and sent me something to do from home, which I duly did, after about an hour and a half of crying. Loud, racking sobs, squeezing a pillow to my chest, soaking the bedsheets below and occasionally swearing under my breath. It may have hurt to talk, but that's nothing, compared to how much it hurt emotionally.

I have always thought of the European Union as a positive thing, ever since I was a very young child. I was (and still am) fascinated by the concept of countries working together in a centralised system, even when in primary school, and was pretty much the only one in my A-Level Politics class who said joining the Euro was a good idea. My mother, who was around the first time the UK had an in/out referendum, admitted she was worried, but was confident that Remain would clinch this one. I, too, was confident of this - it would be narrow, but I credited the British public with the necessary intelligence to realise that freedom of movement, right of appeal, human rights protection, trade laws and millions of jobs were all pretty good ideas.

It's not the first time I've trusted people too much.

The say before the referendum, I posted some tweets about how the EU has affected the sex blogger community as a whole. While I am aware that there are many American sex bloggers, the European contingency is tight. Rose, Rebel, Abbi and Jillian are all bloggers who were able to travel here, no questions asked, to attend Eroticon and other gatherings. Jillian, of course, moved here from Belgium to seek work (which she found) and love (which she found) and a home (...buh?). She didn't get a visa, unlike DomSigns or Bunny (who would both probably tell you that it's a very difficult, and time-consuming, task. My hairy friend did the reverse, migrating to the USA to get married, and it took years.), but because of her EU citizenship, she didn't need one.

An EU passport. There are Syrian refugees drowning in the Mediterranean who would kill for one of those. To throw ours away because of some misguided, racist, patrioric, neoliberal jingoisms and falsified promises to protect our NHS and benefit services (which are both part-funded by the EU) is an insult to those people on the boats.

From a purely selfish perspective (to say nothing of the fact that I have a girlfriend from the European mainland!), the day job I do (and have been doing since 2011, on and off) is almost entirely dependent upon the EU for clients. Without the EU, I may not have had a job to call in sick to on Friday. I'm happy to say that my job is confirmed for at least one more year (phew!), but that doesn't mean that my entire future career would be in jeopardy. It's not just proles like me, either: my uncle, who works for a big auditing accounting company in London and is on a six-figure salary, is fearing for his job. In his words, we're "fucked".

The EU flag hangs in my office because we are partially funded by them as a small business. Basically, the EU pays my salary.

After months of campaigning, convincing all my family and friends to vote Remain, spending my lunch hour on Thursday walking up and down the high street handing out flyers and hanging a Remain poster in my room at work even though my boss told me not to, it's quite understandable, I think, that I spent most of Friday morning crying. I even tried to masturbate, but the sweet release of orgasm was difficult to achieve, and I had to resort to watching hardcore lesbian strap-on fucking to get me off.

Which reminds me - how does this affect the porn industry?

It's very difficult to think of a bright side to this (David Cameron resigning doesn't count). For what it's worth, though, I've heard in several places that it will take us two years to properly "Brexit". Much as I'd prefer us not to at all, at least we have that intervening time to regroup, campaign for social justice, and continue to enjoy the benefits the EU affords us. If we love the EU as much as we can, while we still can, then we will have shown Europe how special it is by the time "Brexit" is completed.

Certainly not in my name. I'm a European. I always have been and I always will be.