Sunday, 19 February 2017

Soft Porn Sunday: Lisa Boyle & Jonathan Slater

Boobs! Read the post for more boobs!
Occasionally (in fact, more than occasionally, given my memory's seemingly large capacity) I see a film late at night and remember, if not the entire thing, then at least the basic plot, or the main star. Or, failing all that, at least one sex scene. In a lot of cases, in fact, I remember most of it. However, I've only ever seen this film once, and even since then only one of the sex scenes, so please excuse my memory for being a little sketchy.

Why am I doing this scene? Simple. I think it's really hot.

Appearance: Pray for Power (2001)
Characters: Heather Leighton & Neil Soloman

Given the nature of soft porn lighting, it's actually genuinely quite difficult to divine the name of the male lead actor here, since Christopher Roblee and Charley Broderick (aka "him out of American Hustle") are in it too. I'm going to assume, however naïvely, that the actor here is Jonathan Slater, playing character Neil Soloman.

Why? Because he's also in Leaving Scars (1997), which also stars Lisa Boyle, is made by the same production company, and is basically the same concept, if not the entire same movie: soft porn dressed as an action thriller. Lisa Boyle is a badass with a gun, some stuff happens with money and people pursuing people, there's some questionable dialogue and she sleeps with someone at at least one point. It happens in The Night That Never Happened (1997), it happens in Leaving Scars, and it happens here.

Hey, if it works...

Lots of hair, a sultry look and a bra.
Aaaaaaaaaaaanyway, this scene features Lisa Boyle as Heather and probably Jonathan Slater as Neil. Boyle, a softcore mainstay of whom Mr. Skin says "is so hot it should be illegal" - although I'm not sure exactly how that works - is experienced enough to know how to do a sex scene, whether playing a teenage girl or a running action heroine who happens to be naked a lot, so one would think she knows what she's doing. By the time four seconds have elapsed, she's in the process of taking her bra off, so I think that's a safe assumption.

This scene is fairly sequential - even episodic. One could even make a list:

Heather takes her top off;
Heather takes her bra off;
Heather takes Neil's trousers off;
Neil takes Heather's trousers off;

The scene doesn't show either of them taking off their underwear, although she's wearing sexy knickers and he's wearing boxers from GAP (overtly - maybe there's a deal going on?) and jumps straight to the sex at around the 00:38 mark. It gets in some kisses and some disrobing, but I think it knows its main focus, which is pleasing enough in itself.

At this point the drums start.

Lisa Boyle's actually very pretty when you see her up close.

I should mention the music, really. There's a recurring plinky piano motif which is repeated on a loop throughout the entire scene - nothing special, just a few notes, but just as you start to get used to it (it's quite soporific; I could sleep to this...), someone on an electric guitar plays a few chords. Right at the instant the actual simulated sex happens, the drums kick in - it's very nicely timed, even if (after a few powerful beats) there's nothing but an extra rhythm along with the motif!

I'm assuming this is meant to be, to some extent, relatively passionate sex, even romantic. There's a
Help! They've put Miley Cyrus in soft porn!
lot of closeups featuring kisses (and even tongues), and a lot of the sex happens in the missionary position. Heather's hands, laid gently on Neil's arse, are holding him in place, and after a while (and some more kisses), so are her legs, which she wraps around him while he thrusts away, running her hands up and down his back. It's nothing special, but it kind of works - there's certainly a closeness implied here, even if Lisa Boyle is doing much more to imply it than Slater is.

Oh, hai more drums and somebody pratting about with a slide guitar.

Just after a minute in and the scene changes (in fact, it actually gets a little brighter). In a wider shot of the room they're in - don't get excited, it's just a room - they switch... gradually, although there's some ficker-lickin' good stuff first... to the astride position.

Riding, with boobs.
And this is the bit I remember. We get a number of different shots her, but they all manage to feature Lisa's tits in some way. We get them from behind, we get them from a full-body shot, we get Slater kissing them, we get them from the side, we even get a nice close-up of Slater sliding his hands between them, with a couple of what seem to be erect nipples. For the final minute, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: boobs.

That's about it. Heather throws her head back (lolz! orgasm?!) and we fade to black over another off guitar ululation.

I really like this - it's short, but there's a lot of skin, and a healthy amount of boobs, and Lisa Boyle is
Head back. Boobs.
an incredibly beautiful woman. It's not corny and it's quite intended to be sweet, or at least passionate. And it's a respite from the plot - which, from what I can remember - is utter nonsense. It's a good sex scene overall, and I think it works. Works for me, anyway.

However, there is one thing which is much, much better than everything else in this scene put together: it's the music... or, more specifically, the music when sped up. Original speed, it fits the scene, okay, fine. Speed everything up 100% and it sounds almost exactly like it would fit the African chants from the end of The Lion King. Another 100% and it sounds like it would fit better in a video game, maybe something water-themed from a Zelda title. Another 100% and we get some fast, repeated beats, over which you could lay down some samples and lyrics and get a pretty decent electropop song. Another 100% and... well... then it gets messy. Still, that's four speedups and it works in a different way each time, so that's something.

Soft porn! Kisses, skin, boobs, sex and UNIVERSALLY APPLICABLE MUSIC! Is there anything it can't do?

Thursday, 16 February 2017

Good night, sweet prince...

Once, I went out into the city on Valentine's. 

In a suit.


I had nothing to do. It was Valentine's, and I wasn't doing anything, so I put on my best suit, withdrew £50 in cash, put that (and nothing else, besides by Oyster card) into a small wallet which I then put in my breast pocket. And went into London.

Oh, and I was a prince.

I'd done some research. Quite a lot of research, in fact, to the point that I'd been writing stuff down in a notebook and memorising it. I chose a little-known country with a monarchy, looked up the name of the monarch and heir apparent, then traced a line down and along a bit, worked out the generations and slotted myself into a generation. I invented a fictional nephew, gave him a name and a backstory, and assumed that identity. Hooray, I'm a prince!

I'm a republican, so I have no idea why this appealed to me so much. Mind you, I once declared myself king, so maybe it's somewhere in my blood. Or I have too much time on my hands.

I think that my thought process went somewhere down the line of "it would be much easier to pull if I was someone famous". I see famous people falling out of nightclubs all the time, usually with someone equally famous and stunningly beautiful, no matter what they look like or what character traits they have. That's the draw - power and money and whatever else. I don't have any of either, so my brain short-circuited and said, "fuck it, I'll be somebody nobody's ever heard of."

So off I went, a fake royal crest appended to my suit, and a cord from a set of headphones hanging from my hip so it looked like I could call someone for backup if I got into trouble.

I went anywhere I could think of going in London, telling everyone I met - including the guide at the Natural History Museum, the street artist I wandered into (and bought a print from), the guy buying the drinks at the bar in Canary Wharf and the drunks on Wardour Street - that I was a minor royal. I even talked to a few German girls (in German), telling them that I was in London under orders from my private tutor to learn more English, "otherwise... massive deduction of marks." I went into the Hilton and enquired about room prices as if I could seriously afford any of them; I talked to the lady selling tickets to private parties, but she said I had to have a lady with me to get in; I even ended up in the cocktail bar in the City ordering mocktails and watching idiots walk into walls.

Forget pulling, I was lucky not to be arrested.

In the end, I made my way back home. I hadn't gotten lucky at all, or even made any lasting connections. I didn't know anyone who lived in central London, and I hadn't gotten any specific destination in mind, so even as a prince, I was very much ill-prepared for such a venture. But at least I'd survived the night.

So I bought a fake crown from eBay, put it on and went back out again a week later.

Yes, this really happened.

I didn't pull then either... but I randomly dropped off a CV at a shop I passed. And got the job.

Wednesday, 15 February 2017

Eroticon 2017: Meet, Greet & Auto-Complete

Bugger me sideways with a spork if it isn't that time again. Which it is, and that's good, because it's saved me a rather undignified start.

So, unless you've been living in cave for the past five years, you've probably heard of the wretched hive of scum and villainy that we all inhabit on a semi-regular basis. But enough about Croydon - Eroticon's happening next month. Here's my meet and greet to add to the roster of miscreants lovely folk.



Innocent Loverboy - although you can abbreviate that to "ILB", pronounced "I'll be". Although after a few drinks it's usually "uhlbuhhhh". Or, y'know, call me whatever you want. I'll probably be so pleased anyone wants to talk to me that I'll respond.

Oh, and I'm on Twitter too - @innocentlb.

What are you hoping to get out of Eroticon 2017?

This is an odd one, as it's the first 'con Under New Management, and it's the first 'con which I can attend fully (this includes whatever people do afterwards - I hear everyone went for drinks last year, which I was very annoyed to miss), as it's in my home city. And I live near a tube stop which the Night Tube runs to.

What hasn't changed is that I'm really in it for the social aspect. Tight though our community may be, this is really the only time we all manage to get together - and I do love it when that happens!

This year's schedule at Eroticon is pretty full-on, but which 4 sessions do you already have marked down as ones you want to attend?

I'm assuming you're not including my own session in that question...

I don't think I'll earmark 4 this year. I tend to do that and then just freak out on the day and go to the ones my friends are running or attending. To save time this year, skip the first part and go straight to the freaking out. Or just apply for a Time-Turner so that I can go to every session.

Tell us one thing about yourself that not many people know?

I used to be in a local youth symphony orchestra. I'm not a very good musician, but I was good enough to sit in the back row of second violins and play a few notes, some of which were correct.

And since then, I've also played in a brass band, a light orchestra, two rock bands, a swing/jazz ensemble, and a semi-professional wind orchestra for which my playing was "acclaimed" (apparently). My singing and guitar playing has also been heard on Radio 4.

If you made the papers, what would the headline be?

"I'm jsut a yob who lieks wtiring aoubt sex", says bolggre (from The Guardian)

If you could have one skill for free (ie. without practice/time/effort) what would it be?

I'd love to be able to play the piano. I sing better with accompaniment, but my piano skills are limited to a few chords (and programming beats for when I try to rap). I did, in fact, take lessons in my youth, but my teacher was mean and the only reason I kept going was the fact that he gave me Tiny Toon Adventures stickers.

Complete the sentence: I love it when...

...I probably shouldn't.

Sunday, 12 February 2017

Soft Porn Sunday: Kaylani Lei & Kevin Patrick

Picture, if you will, the Cinemax offices after having decided to make one final series of Co-Ed Confidential. Kevin Patrick is back as annoying main character James, and they've even managed to hold onto Michelle Maylene as hot Asian-American party girl Karen. Things look good.

"But it's the fourth series," says one executive. "With only two characters returning from the first, and three years of almost continuous cast changes, what are we going to do?"
"Oh, it's okay," says another executive. "We'll just throw in far too many one-dimensional characters called amusing things."

"How about 'Mr. Wright', which sounds like 'Mr. Right'?"
"Perfect! Write that down, someone!"
"Uhm," says a third, slightly younger executive. "What do we do with James? Shouldn't he have graduated by now?"
"That's a point. Let's make him a member of the faculty. That's totally believable."
"Can he still have sex with students?"

"Sure, why not? I can't see anything wrong with that..."

Appearance: Co-Ed Confidential, Series 4: "How Minx Got Her Groove Back" (2010)
Characters: Minx & James

And so James Tyler, the wastrel who has spent three years on pointless get-rich-quick schemes and total excess of the university lifestyle, plus sleeping with a variety of women, has graduated. In order to fit him into the series somehow - and seemingly as a result of the writers realising that this is a show meant to be set at a university, and they've never actually seen too many classes happening - Mrs MacGuffin (probably not the character's name, but it may as well be) pulls a few strings and gets him hired as a university lecturer, teaching a business studies class.

Which he does. Around him like a nebula swirl an odd collection of characters - other staff, old students, new students, some returning, some not - all with plenty of racially insensitive jokes, hokey but amusing plotlines, an attempt at a story arc or two, and a healthy dose of skin - lest we forget, it's a softcore sitcom. Fun though this may be, there really isn't much for James to do for the first half, what with his first girlfriend being completely absent for the final series and his second more interested in her film studies teacher (errrrrr...).

Enter Minx.

James took my "Enter Minx" line literally.
Minx is a rock chick played by porn actress Kaylani Lei, and she is unquestionably the best character in the entire history of Co-Ed Confidential. She's not a main character - she's neither student nor faculty, and is thrown into the mix as a recurring character. She makes her first appearance in the second series, but after that often absent because she's on the road being a Beyoncé-lite pop sensation,occasionally returning to have sex with James, because why not have sex with James?

Don't answer that question.

So James, working the student bar (because that's totally appropriate for a teacher), announced his business plan to his class of three(!): they get a big-name star to perform in said bar, and that brings in the crowd, making money. (Genius - he should be speaking at Eroticon.) Gosh, I wonder who's about to walk in?


Commence high-octane flirting ("Oh, it's always a pleasure to reach out and touch my fans... and touch my friends, too..." - English translation: "Great to see you! We're going to have sex!"), a gig to promote, and random moments from another storyline, before we jump cut to the moments backstage just before said gig. Minx's manager has been fired for stealing from her, and she even asks James to take on his position. He certainly takes on a few positions after a few seconds.

"I think I do have a thing for hot school teachers," she confesses.
"Well, you know I've always had a thing for sexy-ass little rock stars in their underwear," he replies. Scintillating dialogue, as usual.

These boots were made for fucking.
So, yes, this sort of dialogue kind of continues throughout the sex. There's plenty of playful banter as Minx jumps aboard the sofa and throws out incongruous Beatles references while kissing James:

"What do you say we come together right now? Or maybe get back to where we once belonged? Or even twist and shout?"
"I am the walrus!" (Seriously, I didn't make that up. He actually says this.)

One of the main reasons I like Co-Ed Confidential is how insane the sex scenes are. They certainly waste no time in getting hot and heavy, and from the instant James starts doing indecent things to the seductive Minx, you know this is going to be absolutely crazy. And it is. Within the first ten seconds, accompanied by some ragged breaths and plenty of flirtatious giggles, Minx is naked (save her boots, which she keeps on for the whole thing) and James has his top off. A few more seconds, and a few more kisses, and Minx is on her back getting head from James.

Oh, and did I mention the whole thing is on a sofa?

Kaylani Lei is a porn star, and she's probably used to letting out the traditional "aaaah, yeah" noises on
I want a hot pop star to give oral sex to.
camera. Here she's really going for it - rocking back and forth, writhing, moaning, crying out. While it may be out of place in something else, such as Emmanuelle, here it fits in perfectly. The successive spoken lines ("oh, yeah, keep doing that") even seem to fit - as does the music, which is inoffensive pop rock with a female vocalist. I think the intention here is that this is one of Minx's songs - or, if it isn't, it should be! I'd buy her album!

James and Minx then have sex in the missionary position - which
actually looks a little uncomfortable; it's not a huge sofa - with plenty of vocalisations from Kaylani Lei and inexplicable yodelling faces from Kevin Patrick. This, too, is cool and crazy - nothing held back whatsoever; both actors are genuinely giving it their all. The same is true for the astride sex we then mix to, Minx bouncing merrily up and down as her hair flies everywhere, sexual babbling from both characters in the mix and even an "I'm gonna come!" before the characters actually do.

I really don't want to think they're acting. Were this actual sex, it'd be some of the best sex ever.

So - apart from the attractive actors, fun characters, corny dialogue, really hot sex, appropriate soundtrack and the fact that both characters keep their shoes on throughout (this makes it all look more urgent, or something), what do I like about this scene? Probably the fact that it is immediately followed by a full-on musical performance, complete with dancing.

Yes, I just said that.

No, I will certainly not apologise. I know that, immediately after I've had sex, the first thing I want to do is go right on stage and sing for an hour and a half.

Hey, I said it was fun. I didn't say it was meant to make sense!

Saturday, 11 February 2017

Hundreds and Thousands

"Ow! Ffffff... aaaaah!"

I'd been sitting cross-legged on the bed for at least half an hour, completely absorbed in Where Am I Now? by Mara Wilson. This comes after my girlfriend, also lacking the ability to sleep at an appropriate time, had suggested "ten minutes of reading" to aid relaxation (and alleviate boredom). As I eventually made to lie down (for the fourth time that night, hoping this would be The One That Makes Me Sleep), I let out the above noise.

"What's wrong?"
"My leg has gone to sleep," I grunted through gritted teeth. As the millions of nerve endings crackled back into life, I hauled myself into a lying position, facing away from her. It was incredibly painful.

"Mrrrrrrah!" I added.
"What's wrong?"
"My other leg has also gone to sleep."

I used my hands to haul the second dead leg over the first, in order to be more comfortable. This was a futile effort, in any case, since I ended up looking less like a human being with pins and needles, and more like an unconscious spider.

"I need an orgasm," she decided, rolling out of bed to grab a sex toy from the various places we have them stashed around the room.
"What's up?"
"I've just turned away from you," I breathed, "and now I have to turn back over to watch you having an orgasm..."
"Well, you don't need to watch me having an orgasm..."
"But I want to watch you come! I think it's hot!"

As I tried to use my mind to will my limbs back into life, she slid into place with a buzzing Womanizer in hand. I struggled and wriggles, but even a millimetre of movement was uncomfortable. Her free hand was lazily stroking my shoulder, which felt nice, but hardly helped.

"C'mere," she said, seductively. "I want to play with you."

I rolled my whole body over in an explosion of sparks, some of pain, some of lust. It was difficult to tell which was which.

"Rrrrrrrrrrrr. Okay, what do I do?" I panted.
"Put your finger there," she simply said, taking my hand with hers and guiding it to the spot just below her clit, the Womanizer already rumbling away.

So I did, the tingling in my thighs becoming softer and softer as I pressed my finger down, forgetting anything but the warmth of her slit, the pulse between my own thighs, and the increasing pace of her breath... as my halo began to glow softly in the gathering darkness.

Monday, 6 February 2017

Surv... eh?

Sensible programming choice, there.
It's midday on a Monday morning and I'm filling in a medical survey run by UCL. Something to do with my mother. I don't know what the results are going to be and, probably because I closed the wrong tab on my browser, I still don't. It involves pictures of salamanders and is asking me questions about me. The best sort of questions, basically.

Do you ever drink coffee? it asks, to which I answer "yes" while taking a sip of coffee.
Do you ever smoke? it asks, to which I tick "no" while regretting that it doesn't have an extra box for me to explain in hundreds of words exactly what I have against smoking.
Do you ever drink alcohol? it asks, to which I tick "no" while wondering why there isn't a "yes yes, oh dear God yes" for my sister to tick. She's taking the survey too.

Do you ever remember your dreams vividly? it asks.

Why, yes, survey, yes I do.

In fact, some more vividly than others. Just last night I dreamed about spending the night in a supermarket and ending up making my way out of it when the morning shift came in, which would be unremarkable were it not for the fact that everyone had the most attractive arses I've ever seen. Everyone. I'm not even an arse man myself, so why I was even looking I'm not sure. I even woke up to find my girlfriend watching Supermarket Sweep.

The night before that I had a dream about going to Eroticon and everyone starting the event by being naked (as an ILB, I wasn't, of course; I was wearing a dressing gown. Nothing underneath it, though.). The sessions were about to start, necessitating my shout:

"Okay, anyone who's still naked, please put some clothes on - we're starting the sessions!"

It seemed to make sense at the time.

And the night before that, I dreamed about going back to Center Parcs. I've had pool-related shenanigans before, of course - plenty of them - not least of all the ones in Center Parcs. At this one, however, was the facility to take Turkish baths, and not only that, but Jet from Gladiators was offering fifty-minute massages, free to anyone staying in the centre - something I was keen to experience, although my favourite Gladiator was always Lightning. I was leaving the following day, but the rest of the dream involved me trying to book one of said massages before ten o'clock in the morning.

Why that time, I'm not sure. I don't think it needs to make any sense.

Of course, there isn't a space to enter any of this in on the survey itself. I'm not even sure that they want to know about my supermarket-derrière-conference-nudity-gladiator-massage dreams in that much detail. They also probably don't want to know about the hour and a half this morning I spent lying in bed with a huge, throbbing erection and trying to conceal it by not getting out of bed.

So I tick "yes" and continue on with the survey, coffee in hand, a few ideas forming in my mind.

One - I need to go to the supermarket.
Two - I should stop worrying about the size of my own arse.
Three - I'm sure Eroticon won't involve that much nudity.
Four - Dear God, I need a holiday.
Five - I would really like a massage.

In the last three months, have you been able to sustain a male erection strong enough for comfortable intercourse or masturbation for a reasonable period of time?

I tick "yes" so hard that I think I may have broken my mouse.

Friday, 3 February 2017

Mail call!

About once a week during my first year, I walked down to the main office of the halls of residence to rifle through the post. I tended to order a fair few things (soft porn, CDs, more soft porn and far too many books) with what I thought, at the time, to be a fairly sizeable student loan. I also occasionally got letters, not just from my parents, but from odd members of my family, including my little cousin who'd only just started learning to write, but was very keen to let me know that she was the one who missed me the most.

I believed her. I still do.

The halls of residence were huge. It was a big university and these were purpose-built to house over a thousand, so there were mountains of post. It was all organised by surname, but no more alphabetically than that. I picked out the pile of letters which corresponded with the first letter of mine and shuffled them like a deck of cards.

About two or three times a week, there appeared a new letter in the pile addressed to someone named "Tom Sexy Surname", or at least a variant thereof. There was "The Sexy Tom Surname", there was "Tom (Sexy) Surname", there was "Tom Surname of Sex", and some variants thereof. If Tom had a title that wasn't "Sexy" (like "Mr.", for example), then it certainly wasn't being used.

Unlike pink. Pink was being used. In abundance. Pink letters with little pink heart stickers, pink glitter stuck on with pink glue. On the back of most of the envelopes were pink kiss marks made with pink lipstick. Most of them had the abbreviation "SWALK" written over, under, across or interlaced with the kiss marks. Usually in purple. If it were pink you wouldn't have been able to see it.

I'm a romantic person, evidently. I wouldn't be "Innocent Loverboy" if I wasn't. But everyone has their limit. This should have been mine.

But it wasn't.

I was fascinated. Every time I looked for my own post, I had a look for Tom Surname's too. Whoever was sending them (and I had a fairly good idea who...) was quite keen that he got a lot of post from her (could've been a him, or a them, but from the handwriting I'm guessing it was a her), and was also obviously fairly keen on Tom, to the point of telling potentially everyone in a university of over 25,000 students that he was sexy. Good for him, I suppose.

Or it would have been. Among the things I noticed, however, was that the letters for him were growing more and more numerous as time went on. By the time Christmas rolled around, at the end of term, half the letters were for him. The same letters, in fact, that had been there since the beginning of term (believe me, I know; I'd been keeping tabs). Tom genuinely hadn't been picking up his post... or, if he had, he at least hadn't been picking up these. They just hung there, in perpetuity, waiting to be opened. And he wasn't opening them. I certainly wasn't going to open them.

Although I so desperately wanted to.

And then they disappeared. All of them. They just vanished. And they stopped coming completely. I was convinced for a while that I'd been proxy to the end of a relationship. It made me feel sad for a while, even though I'd no idea who Tom Surname was and what had been going on there. In fact, for a couple of weeks, nothing seemed to have arrived for Tom.


So, of course, I wrote Tom a letter. At least, I put his name and room number on an envelope, sealed it, and put it in the cubbyhole we shared. I stopped short of putting SWALK on it, but I did kiss it... for good luck, y'know. And, lo and behold, one day later... this vanished too.

Tom had started to pick up his post. And, to this day, I wonder why it took him so long.

Tuesday, 31 January 2017

Moar cowbell!

I've lost my cowbell.

This is a serious problem. I bought my cowbell when I was in my first year at university (well, two actually, but I gave one to Rebecca) and, for the rest of my three years, when I needed it, my cowbell was always there for me.

While I was perfectly aware that there's less you can do with a cowbell than you can with, say, a guitar or a violin or any other chromatic instruments, there's still a lot you can do with it. With a drumstick in hand and my computer playing whatever music I happened to have on, I could tap out the beats on my cowbell. Softer sounds came from hitting the key at the top. Harder sounds came from the metal at the top, and then on the sides, on the main body or inside the bell.

I loved my cowbell.

See, I've never thought of myself as particularly attractive. I'd been dumped by Rebecca (shortly before I have her her cowbell), and I was in a creative slump. At an all-time low. There's a certain attraction to musicians - I mean, it's a talent, who doesn't like talent? - and, without a music society, my university didn't really cater. I could scratch out a tune on my violin, or strum out a few basic chords on my guitar. But I wasn't any good at either of them (I'm still not; the idea that I'm still making music is outrageous). I was good with a cowbell. It was something unusual, but which required talent and skill and something that was uniquely me.

With cowbell in hand, I felt attractive. I was untouchable, insanely talented, and even if anything went wrong, I was the one holding the big wooden stick.

One evening I left the flat in student hall to find a congregation of people outside the flat opposite. They were knocking fruitlessly at the door, aiming at attract the attention of the people inside, but not getting anywhere. I think we were all going out clubbing that night, and really needed to gat ourselves together and go.

"I know what to do," I said suddenly (causing a few people to jump; they'd forgotten I was there). I quickly returned to my room, and returned with my instrument.
"I play the cowbell," I explained. "This is very loud. It'll get the attention of whoever's in the flat."
I put the vessel of the bell against the door and played a short percussion solo with my drumsticks, hammering against the door and making the bell reverberate. It may not have sounded great, but the door opened... so I guess I was doing something right.

People started getting into their glad rags while I twirled my drumstick like a majorette's baton. Somehow, I found myself in a room with all the other boys.

"Why did you interrupt us, dude?" I was asked. "I was... you know... busy."
"You can have a wank any time," I pointed out. "We're meant to be going out."
"I wasn't having a wank, I was getting a blowjob!"

"I'll be back once I've put my cowbell away," I whispered, and scuttled away, suddenly much too aware that I was chewing the end of my drumstick and it looked far too similar to fellatio. Or maybe it didn't, but it was on my mind now, and besides, I really wanted a blowjob myself.

A few months later, I joined a band. Then that summer, I started one. By the end of university, I was at points on the verge of starting some vestige of musical career. And, through all of it, I had my cowbell with me. Whatever else I was doing. Always ready for me to give it a rhythmic tap. I even bought a new set of drumsticks when I realised how badly I'd ruined the old ones.

And so today, in preparation for a new spate of music-making, I looked for my cowbell.

And it's gone.


This is a serious problem.

I loved my cowbell.

Friday, 27 January 2017


"Please tell me I'm awake this time," I said. I think it was, in fact, the first thing I said today.
Jillian pinched me very hard on the arm.
"Oh, so I am awake this time," I said, after a few other things.

One can't really blame me for being so confused. I'd woken up, if I had, from a dream within a dream within a dream. I may not even be awake now - although, if I am, it's very vivid. I can feel the burn I got from cooking dinner this evening and I'm still suffering from listening to this year's Eurovision nominees.

In any case, I dreamed about being invited to a gaming event (by swallow - who reads my blog, was the visual inspiration for my fictional character Louise, and is also called Louise...) hosted in Woolwich by the regular attenders of a specific chat room. A chat room I don't actually go to. I've been to a few, but this was one I didn't recognise. It's a dream, so it probably doesn't exist. I'm too lazy to check. I went to Woolwich, found the event, found myself surrounded by people I know from various sources... and they wouldn't let me in.

Referring to me as "babydaddy" - because, of course, why wouldn't they? I'm called that all the time - they refused me entry because of something I'd allegedly done. They didn't tell me, of course, what I was supposed to have done. They just assumed I knew. This all seems very familiar.

I wrote a letter on the door of the event that I wasn't allowed into, with a hammer and chisel, saying that I was still going to try and be involved in the activities of the chat room (whatever it was), and that I'd try and promote it to other people, so they could be involved too, and possibly even come to gaming events that I've been invited to but am actually persona non grata at. I decided to go and find swallow, who wasn't there, and found people I know following me, telling me that my letter had made it even worse, and that I wasn't doing myself any favours. I was stunned, confused and upset.

"I know," I thought to myself, "I'll write about it on my blog."

At which point I woke up.

I realised I'd had a dream about being invited by swallow to an event in Woolwich that I couldn't get into, hosted by people I know who used a chat room that doesn't exist, then got turned away and verbally abused by people and decided to write a blog post about it. But that was all a dream. Very confusing.

"I know," I thought to myself, "I'll write about it on my blog."

At which point I woke up.

I realised I'd had a dream about having a dream about swallow, Woolwich, an event, by people I know, a chat room that doesn't exist, verbal abuse and decided to write a blog post about it. But that was all a dream about having a dream. Very, very confusing.

"I know," I thought to myself, "I'll write about it on my blog."

At which point I woke up.

Dream dream dream swallow Woolwich event people chat room verbal abuse blog post.

I may have even enjoyed the gaming event; I've no idea. I wasn't let in because of whatever it is I was supposed to have done under the guise of "babydaddy" which, of course, suits me so well as a moniker. Once I was sure I was awake, I decided to try and forget all about it and get on with my day. And so I did, with occasional moments of confusion and the intention to ask swallow if she's been practising voodoo or something. And then, half an hour ago, I start browsing sex blogs and realise I should update. And I'd had a very interesting dream last night.

"I know," I thought to myself, "I'll write about it on my blog."

I'm expecting to wake up any moment now.

Tuesday, 24 January 2017

Touching myself

So I'm alone, in the quiet, in the stillness, in my room. My computer's on and I'm lazily browsing sex blogs and even the occasional snatch of porn. Nothing's quite catching my attention. I've even got some music on - some relaxing stuff by my friend who thinks he's Sonic the Hedgehog (if you've read my book, you'll know him). I'm distracted, but I don't know what from, or what by.

Craving some heat, I close the windows, draw the curtains and turn the radiator on full. I've long since kicked my trousers off - I'm wearing nothing on my lower half at all. An ill-fitting T-shirt covers my top half. But that's all. I'm alone. I'm protected. And I'm warm.

Eventually it dawns on me, like a sliver of light through the dark, that this is what I need. I don't need to come right now. I don't need the stimulation. I don't even need to be hard (although I am). I just need warmth. And softness. And quiet. And calm.

I run my hands lazily over my bare thighs. It's a good sensation - a soft caress, tracing the lines over my curves with the tips of my fingers. I don't even realise I'm doing it for the first minute or so. Maybe it's a nervous thing, or maybe it's just because I like touching, or that I like being touched. Perhaps I just can't sit still. Whatever it is, it's working.

True, I don't particularly like my body. I'm not very fond of the way that it looks or even the way that it works. But, at this time, with the heat and the quiet and the stillness... and the fact that I have all this time to myself... I'm ready to admit it. I do like the way it feels.