Tuesday, 28 March 2017

Gladly do they teach, and gladly do they learn...

Tweet this morning, as retweeted by the wonderful @luciebeexxx:


My response:


While I'll agree to my response being a little pithy (not to mention unrealistic, and uncharacteristically doomy), there's a point to be made here which I can explain a lot better in a blog post that via the limited medium of a tweet.

My first argument is to do with semantics, so excuse my impertinence, but I think - logically - it works like this.

The analogy used is slightly flawed. In answer to the (presumably rhetorical) question - yes, I would be happy with a surgeon performing first-time surgery on me, providing that they have had the proper training and gone through the rigours of medical school first. Similarly, I'd expect a doctor to prescribe me the correct medicine, even if they'd never done so before, or a teacher to give me information on their first day of teaching, or a taxi driver to take me where I want to go, despite not having done so before. Everyone has to start somewhere - otherwise there would be no jobs!

If everyone refused surgery because the surgeon is inexperienced (and I don't mean 'bad' - the terms are not interchangeable), then there wouldn't be any surgery. We'd have died out (or been severely depleted in number) due to the advancement of surgical medicine used since the Roman era and its importance in keeping humanity strong.

I used to work in healthcare, and the first time I gave an injection, the patient didn't question me. They knew I'd been trained to do so.

However, the second point I'd like to make is a more pressing one, and it's to do with the content of the tweet... basically, I don't agree with it.

The first time I had sex, I was a virgin. I'm assuming everyone else is in the same boat here. I knew, due to Year 7 biology and porn, what went into where; I also knew, due to cucumbers in Year 9 PSHE, how to put a condom on; while my first sexual experience wasn't stellar (well, it was good, but it wasn't as good as subsequent ones), it wouldn't have been any different had I had sex beforehand. Specifically, it wouldn't be my first time.

Sex is a fluid, amorphous concept that is like a many-headed beast, a Hydra that grows two new heads when you cut one off. Having had sex doesn't make you an expert any more than having been bitten by a dog makes you an experienced dog breeder. I didn't know very much about the world of sex even after I'd had sex for the first time. I don't imagine you do either.

I know a lot about sex now, but that's after years of study, fascination and experimentation - both good and bad - and ten years of sex blogging. Yes, I would feel confident in "teaching about sex" after all that. I would, however, have felt similarly confident about doing so even before I had sex. I knew the basics, and the responsibility, and how to put a condom on a cucumber. I was familiar with my own body and knew how it worked, and was reasonably clued-up on the issues surrounding sex. I would, I think, have been able to lead a reasonable discussion, even without having done it myself.

I mean, I can't shoot a gun, but I can appear on a film to be doing so (and have).

I think the real issue here is exactly what and how you teach. "Sex" is a very ambiguous word, and the teachers at my secondary school taught it in a very different way from the sex educators primary schools now get in to do so. (Being a form teacher during PSHE must be difficult, especially during SRE where it's usually apparent you know too much or too little about the subject, so big respect is due to everyone who manages that!)

And, while I've been writing this...

What if someone is a virgin by choice but has masturbated so much they are knowledgeable about their own body parts and how they function during orgasm?

What if someone's only sexual experience is rape? They've had sex.

What if you've only had sex with someone of the same gender? Do you count that as sex? I do, but does everyone?

What if you identify as genderqueer, genderfluid, or a third gender, or agendered? What do you have to do to qualify as having had sex and thus appropriate to teach it?

What if you've only ever had non-penetrative sex?

What about anal sex? Does that count?

This is why I said that, by the same token, nobody would have sex to start with, because it's so complicated, and the human race would have died out. I'd even go so far as to say that sex is much more complicated than performing surgery - theoretically, at least - because, with surgery, you can get it right or wrong! Can you do so with sex?

Ask a group of people who have never had sex that and you'd get some very different answers. Are you learning anything from that? Then you're being taught.

Surgery and sex are incomparable. Both can be studied, both can be taught, both can be practised. But if you want to teach, do so. If you want to learn, do so. The sharing of knowledge isn't regulated... and not always kinaesthetic.

Sunday, 26 March 2017

Secret Agent

2:30am. I'm up and watching something smutty on the TV. It's probably not anything particularly good; the regular soft stuff I tend to watch starts at 10. It's finished by midnight. Anything else is just killing time, really.

Then I hear the mechanical threat of the mindless Automatum.

Except it isn't the Automatum. It's Gran's electric wheelchair. She's noticed the light's on in her lounge while going to the bathroom, and is coming through to check. What's more, she's getting closer. What will she say if she discovers her only grandson sitting cross-legged in her lounge watching something he probably shouldn't? Will she tell my parents? What will they say? My usual excuse of watching music videos probably wouldn't cover being up at 2:30...

Action stations, ILB! You have a contingency plan for something like this, remember?

I snap off the TV, throw the remote onto Gran's armchair and scuttle as soundlessly as I can to the corner of the room, where there's another armchair. I struggle under said chair, curl myself up into the foetal position and lie there, on my side, trying to mask my breathing as best I can. The slightest movement could give me away.

The door opens and Gran whirrs in, bumping the skirting board as she does so. All the skirting boards have scuffs on by this point. I love my Gran.

She is confronted by a seemingly empty room. I'm in the corner, under the chair. She can't see me. I'm on tenterhooks, every nanosecond seeming to take aeons. Time comes to a standstill. I stuff a fist into my mouth, lest I make any sound.

At this point I realise that I've made a fatal error: I've left the light on. Perhaps fearful of the little click that turning it off would make, but nevertheless, it's still on. That's what alerted Gran. She'll know something's up if the light's on, and then she'll investigate further, and then she'll find me here, and she'll tell my parents, and I've been acting suspiciously so they'll know I've done something, and they'll put two and two together and and and...

...oh, she's turned the light off herself. And she's left the room and closed the door. And I can hear her whirring into her bedroom and retreating.

I'm safe! She thought someone had kept the light on by mistake, but didn't me - my plan worked! My secret is safe for another evening.

Of course, I am now shut into a completely dark room with no silent route of escape. But no matter. I've managed to remain undetected for so long already. I'm untouchable.

Thursday, 23 March 2017

Fantasies

For a while, I had an evening routine of lying on top of my bed.

Naked.

This needs contextualising, since I imagine many people will have done the same thing. I had, for a long time, some things on my toes which were either verrucas, warts, corns or calluses. Not nice to look at, but unlike a blister, you couldn't just slice them open. For a while, of course, I did the British thing of ignoring them. But eventually, they became distracting, so my mother bought me some Bazuka.

And thus became my routine:

I would strip off completely - and, if I wanted to shower, I'd do it then. I'd prop a pillow up on the headboard and apply the Bazuka to the inside of my big toe, my second toe, and the irritating corn on the ball of my foot, and then wait for them to dry. As it turns out, this took a while to happen. So I had to fill my time with something.

I built a tower of fantasy books on my bedside table - things I'd bought or been given, but had never actually read before: Tamora Pearse, Angie Sage, Forgotten Realms stuff. I had a lot of these, and I added "reading the books" to my routine. So, effectively, I got to lose myself in a fantasy world while my toes healed.

And it continued nightly. Turn off computer. Strip. Turn up radiator. Prop pillow up. Apply cream to feet. Lean back. Relax. Read.

Before you ask, yes, I am aware that this could have gone in another direction. Naked boy lying on his back on the bed with the radiator turned up, nothing to do for half an hour? Naked boy who's a sex blogger, no less? Naked sex blogger boy who's just taken off all his clothes and powered everything down and now he has to wait half an hour before he can get into bed?

I don't know about you, dear reader, but I'd have a completely different idea about what he could do in that time.

Let's regard the time. I often went to bed at about 10 or 11, depending on how lazy I was. In those days, I set myself a nine o'clock watershed before I could do anything particularly sexual, let alone touch myself. This, too, became a routine. Just after nine, I'd have my trousers in a heap around my ankles, fingers wrapped around my shaft, working my foreskin up and down, often with something shiny and smutty on my screen. I'd take myself to the edge and tip over, falling into that orgasmic mess. A blur of colour and sound. Fade to white. Hold.

Hold.

By the time I'd finished with all that, I was just about ready to go to bed (my lower half was undressed by that point, anyway - efficiency!). And so I did. Turn off computer. Strip. Turn up radiator. Prop pillow up. Apply cream to feet. Lean back. Relax. Read. Slightly post-orgasmic, maybe... but, in my state just after orgasm, I can't imagine a nicer place to be than on the top of a warm bed, head resting against the pillow with a good book.

Add hot chocolate and it's perfect.

And that's how I went from one fantasy to another... all by virtue of having to fix my feet. 

Monday, 20 March 2017

Books = Gay

You're probably wondering who I am...

From the writing style, I thought - initially, at least - that I knew who it was. I gave my answer; I was wrong.

You don't know me. My name is Nicholas. Nico.

I reflected.

How can I help you?

Nothing, really. I just wanted to say that I liked your review of the Green Day album on Amazon.

I thanked him. Although it took me a while to divine exactly which Green Day album to which he was referring - and also which variant of Amazon. I've always liked Green Day - and, at the age of 17, to drive off the boredom and downward spiral of depression and endless glut of pixelated porn which failed to give my life any meaning, I wrote a lot of Amazon reviews. I wrote my review of the first Harry Potter film immediately after I saw it at the cinema.

We had a pleasant conversation - it eventually moved onto Blink182, as you do, and Smash Mouth. He asked if I minded him keeping me on MSN as a contact. I didn't mind.

About a month later he messaged me again, asking if I'd bought anything else from Amazon. I had, in fact, bought two things with birthday money - Dude Ranch by Blink182 and The Truce at Bakura, which - at the time - was canon. I told him this.

You bought a book? Books suck.

Heck no. I'm safewording out of this conversation. I couldn't possibly disagree more. Step away from the computer, ILB.

Books don't suck! I love books!

You bastard.

I bet you're gay if you like books.

Uhm...

Everyone who likes books is gay.

Uhm...

Do you ever think about fucking other guys?

"I need to say something", I thought. "I need to defend against rampant homophobia when I can... and defend all those who love books!"

No. One of my best friends is gay, and my aunties are, but I'm not.

I was 17; I didn't really know how to carry out this conversation. Not that it matters, because immediately after that, Nico blocked me. All in all, it wasn't a very pleasant conversation. I'd had better conversations on said computer. I resolved that I'd never talk to him again - not that I really wanted to, now that it turned out he was a homophobe.

A few months later, he reappeared, all of a sudden, with a completely different screen name - something like:

POW whos on the mic rite now nikki s on da mic gonna show you how its dun

This looked neither like something written by a Green Day fan... nor the eloquent, polite young man from our first conversation. Intrigued, but not wanting to start an argument, I decided to send him a message, just to see what had happened.

Hi. Are you into rap now, as your screen name suggests?

It took a few seconds before he responded.

whos dis?

I'm the one you added because you liked my Green Day review on Amazon.

r u da gay one?

To be fair, I hadn't imagined that something like this wouldn't happen. Fortunately, by this point, I had a ready-made answer. And a truthful one, to boot.

I'm the one you thought was gay. But I got engaged recently. To a girl, so yeah, I'm not gay. But, yes, I'm that guy.

I didn't mention the fact that I'd been engaged relatively briefly, to a girl who was cheating on me to begin with, and by this point had called it off. But I didn't need to mention any of that. I just wanted to know if he'd moved on from rock to rap, and he hadn't answered my question.

so yeah im inta rap now i have bin for months

At which point he blocked me again.

But it was nice to clear that up.

Friday, 17 March 2017

Drivin' out the snakes

To the Irish, people on this day say, "lá fhéile Pádraig sona dhuit." To the British, people don't say much; they've all taken the excuse to drink black beer and pass out quietly on the streets of London. To Beano readers, it's Dennis the Menace's birthday.

To me, it's my birthday. People say "happy birthday" to me.

I spend the morning with my girlfriend, and then go for lunch with my family, which is both delicious and cost-effective. The afternoon consists of a trip to IKEA (?) and playing a game with my sister. The game involves naming Harry Potter characters until we can't think of any more. We'd likely still be doing it had I not decided to go home.

My initial thought was that, at some point today, I'd have a birthday wank. A present to myself in the form of an orgasm. Self-induced, like. I have my computer, I have my porn, and I have one of those scary-looking pneumatic drill emulators in the form on an Autoblow 2 that I kind of want to try out. I also have my imagination, and my hand, both essential tools in the act.

I assume the position in front of my computer...

Two and a half hours later. I have spent the entire time singing at maximum volume to whatever tunes come up when I open Windows Media Player.

You see, sometimes I realise that it's not always constant orgasms that I need for satisfaction. Singing makes me happy too. It's the other thing I did for years when I genuinely had nothing else to do (and even when I did).

I am a sexual person, but not generally a happy one. It's nice to be reminded that, every now and again, I don't need to be acting sexually to be happy.

Happy birthday, songboy.

Monday, 13 March 2017

The Blair Witch Cock-Block

My patience, unlike my pretentiousness, has its limits - although sometimes I fancy I have a little more patience (or, shall we say, tolerance?) than I used to have. I don't often get cross, or shout - mainly because it's not very effective. I don't do 'angry' quite as well as I do 'upset'. I suppose I get that from my dad - that is, of course, the angelic side of the family.

What I don't like - the sort of thing I can't deal with well - is when I've planned something out in my head and, when it comes to it, it doesn't happen exactly as I've imagined it. Whether or not it involves everyone singing Red Solo Cup at the end. This leaves me confused, upset, and remorseful, especially when my mother is involved.

My sister is a different matter.

When I masturbate, the most sensitive part of my body is, as you'd expect, my ears - to listen for footsteps. In my teenage years, when I watched soft porn, it was on my Gran's TV (which had cable); she lived downstairs, and I always had a fair amount of warning when someone was coming, be it my parents' feet padding on the creaky stairway or the soft mechanical whirr of Gran's electric wheelchair. More often than not, if they came calling I could just hit the "last" button on the remote and pretend I was watching music videos (which I did, occasionally, Viva Forever fucking destroyed me).

Once I'd taken to masturbating at 18ish, if I did so in Gran's lounge and was caught, I had no excuse - so I was fortunate, really, to have not been.

Friday night, 11pm. I'd been patient - the usual glossy smut playing at this time hadn't been particularly good. I wasn't in my "masturbator" phase back then - I'd have been about 16 or 17 - and I'd been waiting for something to titillate me enough to achieve a strong erection - the desired end result at the time. Eventually, however, something piqued my interest (and my penis) enough to achieve said effect.

A sex scene from Virtual Encounters 2 featuring Nikki Fritz as a biker babe (in various states of undress). It wasn't perfect, but it would do. It was a good scene, and I figured that - after watching this - I would have a gleeful sleep that night. Nothing could stop me now...

...and then someone knocked on the door. I froze, hit "last", and wrote an excuse for why I was up so late to feed to whichever parent was standing at the door.

It was my sister.

My sister, unlike me, is a creature of steely resolve. Usually utterly remorseless and ambitious beyond comprehension, it was unlike her to seek my attention for any reason beyond any extraneous circumstances (the days where we used to save the magical kingdom accessed through a portal in the back garden together were long gone). Nevertheless, here she was, visibly shaken by something. I was there, slightly dishevelled, still hard - as I noticed with some discomfort - and had used up all my patience waiting for the sex scene that her presence had stopped me from watching.

I wasn't best pleased.

I was even less pleased to hear that she had spent the evening watching a bootlegged copy of The Blair Witch Project on her computer - she wasn't 15 yet, so shouldn't have been watching it, but did anyway - and that she wasn't going to go to sleep unguarded. Her demand request was that, not unreasonably, she could sleep on the sofa bed I had in my room, and that I'd be there to protect her.

I listened to her request with a nervous twitch, aware that I was missing my sex scene with Nikki Fritz, but that my sister needed some help and I was supposed to be in bed at this point anyway (my mum always wanted me in bed at 11pm, in case staying up any later would give me dangerous ideas). My initial reaction was to tell her that I couldn't help.

"I can't help," I said, beginning to hate myself. I could, of course; there just might be some more scenes with Nikki Fritz, I told the voice in my head, and I've been waiting patiently.
"But I'm scared."
"But I want to stay here and..." And what?!
"But I'm scared!"
"But I don't think it's appropriate for you to sleep in my room when I'm..." When you're what? "...four years older than you and..."
"But I'm going to get KILLED!"

As patient as I may be, I am also incredibly pliant. And, even in her weakened state, my sister's steely resolve was unshakeable. It wasn't really ever a question, after all - so I found a blanket, put her on my sofa, went to bed myself and tried not to pay too much heed to the mix of despair at missing my sex scene, anger at myself for considering putting soft porn over the needs of my little sister, and apology to Nikki Fritz for not showing the correct amount of appreciation for her work.

She continued to sleep in my room on the next day, and the next, and the next. Perhaps predictably, I didn't get to watch anything remotely sexy until a whole school week later, which I did - once again, in Gran's sitting room, and this time happily undisturbed. It took me another week before I summoned up the courage to engage my sister in conversation again, and ask her if she would, despite her initial reaction, recommend watching The Blair Witch Project.

Recall as I can the sex scene with Nikki Fritz, I can't do so accurately to my sister's response. But, to this day - perhaps out of spite, but probably because I genuinely don't have the interest - I have never seen The Blair Witch Project.

I have, however, seen The Bare Wench Project from 2000 - starring, of course... Nikki Fritz.

Wednesday, 8 March 2017

My God, This Porn is Freakin' Sweet

"Jon's got some Simpsons porn on his computer. Bart's really perverted."
"Simpsons porn? Is that official?"
"Of course it isn't official. There isn't any official Simpsons porn."


I slit the Bible back into place on the shelf and peeked around the rack to the small, circular table in the corner of the school library. I wasn't overly keen on getting into a discussion on Simpsons porn, official or otherwise - I felt sick enough as it is - but, noticing that all my friends were having a discussion, I felt compelled to join. I sat at an empty chair and tried to be quiet.

"I need to get the internet myself," said my token black friend. "The amount of porn I've seen people download from KaZaA is amazing. All I have is videos, and some of them are soft."
"Nothing wrong with soft porn," I said inconsequentially.

"The best one's the boat sex video," said Man o' War. "Where she's holding onto the thing on the ceiling and bouncing up and down."
"Who's 'she'?" I said, incensed. "'She' has a name. Jenna Jameson, in fact."

So much for trying to be quiet.

"How do you know it's Jenna Jameson in that video?" said Man o' War.
"Because he's got the internet in his room," several people said at once.

That probably wasn't his question. Once again, the slightly odd reputation that I had of someone who wasn't really interested in sex reared its head. You'd think the impassioned speech I gave in favour of sex before marriage in year 7 would have been a clue. Mind you, by this time I was in year 13. The fact that I remember it may not have impacted so much on other people.

While to those whom I presented a squeaky-clean, relatively wholesome image (don't I always?) this may have been a revelation, I - like so many others my age - also downloaded porn from KaZaA. That's basically what KaZaA was for - individual tracks from various albums, parody songs labelled as "Weird Al Yankovic" but not actually being by him, Cows with Guns by Dana Lyons, and the Jenna Jameson boat sex video. Practically everyone in the entire world has seen the Jenna Jameson boat sex video. I still have it on this very computer.

"Of course, there are other videos," said Lightsinthesky, to my great relief. "There's that one with Jenteal in the dressing room..."

I had that one.

"...and that one with Annabel Chong on the picnic blanket..."

I had that one too.

"...and the one with Tara Patrick..."
"Tera," I corrected him.
"...Tera Patrick, where she gives a double blowjob at the end, and she swallows..."

I had that one too.

"...and the one with Laura Angel in the rain..."

Had they been going through my hard drive?

"...and that one with Peter Griffin where..."

At which point I safeworded out of the conversation by suggesting to Einstein that we go and play chess. We did. He beat me, narrowly, but at least there was much less discussion of sex videos on the Internet when your mind is fixed on where to put your bishop and the distribution of your pawn and how your queen moves and GOD DAMN IT, BRAIN, LEAVE ME ALONE!

Tuesday, 7 March 2017

#Eroticon: Yes, There's More!

"Did you enjoy it?"
"Yeah," I said, a little louder than normal due to the din made by everyone else in the room. "Best one ever." And I stood up, hugged Molly, shook Michael's hand and swept from the pub out into the cool night air.

As I made my solitary way towards the nearest tube station, I realised that I meant it. Not because it was in London, so I didn't have to pay for a hotel. Not because I got to run a session this year, despite pitching one every year since 2012. Not because GOTN bought me a drink in the pub while I was trying to relax. Not even because I was talking to Molly and she's been one of the triumvirate running the show this year.

I said it because, truthfully, 2017 was indeed the best Eroticon ever.

It must be said that such a large social event will never be without its flaws. I've always attended 'con for the social aspect, first and foremost, and while I was missing those whose absence was felt - Charlie, Blacksilk, Lady P - I found myself in excellent company with the return of both Rose and, in her Ambassador guise, Cheryl: both of whom were missed last year (by me, at least). Emmeline Peaches, who I met earlier this year, was better and geekier than ever. I also got to meet some amazing new people, with a huge and noticeable influx of Americans making their presence felt. I'm blaming GOTN squarely for this one, but considering that that includes two Sarahs, that's probably the good kind of blame.

I also have a fuckton of new people to add to my blogroll, which is a Good Thing.

I went to ten sessions this year, and almost ruined my pen with the amount of notes I took. Sex and the Media was fascinating and informative; Sex Blogging as Feminism & Social Justice was empowering - as was the closing panel, How to Use Your Blog to Educate. Pitching 101 was hilarious; Obscenity and the Printed Word was entertainingly dismissive of the Digital Economy Bill; Plotting the Erotic Story allowed me to get my writer hat back on. Both of Kate Lister's sessions made me feel like a real academic; Conflict Resolution in the Call-Out Era was almost combative in nature. I took away something from every session.

It's probably kindest to brush breezily past the session I ran, but for what it's worth, I don't think it went particularly terribly - even if I did overrun by five minutes. I don't know whether it was due to the fact that all the chairs in the room were full, or that all the technology worked, or even that I got to talk about myself for an hour and nobody stopped me. But I'm very pleased that it happened, and I do hope it was at least a little inspiring. If there's any new content generated as a result of my ramblings, please do let me know, at least.

There's so much more to say, isn't there? About the entertainment - finally getting to see Ros Ballinger, reconnecting with Rubyyy Jones after years and discovering Chris Coltrane for the first time! And the sponsors - meeting the fun guys from Godemiche, the T-shirt distributors from Hot Octopuss and the god-like people with the power to somehow requisition the URL of fuck.com without bankrupting themselves! And the readings - a huge array of talent springing from the seats (Hannah being a particular favourite of mine), Zak with a particularly powerful blog post and not everyone leaving their seats when I attempted by own brand of stand-up!

In fact, there is so much to say that it is completely impossible to do so. To pack everything into a weekend (and a bit) is superhuman - to fully comprehend it afterwards takes months. And, for that reason, I don't think I ever will. That's why these posts are always so rambly.

I want to say "I love the community" in more than those four words. But, essentially, I can't.

I won't be at all of Eroticon next year. I'll be there, for sure; the Saturday is scheduled on my birthday, though, and I've already booked to see Hamilton that afternoon. But, as I think Jillian proved this weekend, it is perfectly possible to miss a few hours of 'con, and still have as full and entertaining experience as you can. That is one of the joys of 'con: however long you are there for, it always has something new to offer.

And whoever you are - past, present or future - whether you are an organiser, a speaker, a sponsor, a delegate, someone who turns up for the drinks, and/or someone named Sarah - you make Eroticon what it is, every single one of you. And for that, from the very middle of my sex blogging soul, thank you. I love you all.

Monday, 6 March 2017

#Eroticon: Story Fragments, of Sorts

Of course I'm planning to do a write-up of Eroticon. Of course I am. Just not right now. I need to break into my blog and paste something pithy and teasing before I even think about doing a lengthy and serious post. Maybe some moderately erotic froth will do.

Which is, of course, an incredibly thin excuse to repost some of the shit I wrote during Ashley Lister's session.

A six-word story:

Tomorrow morning. My garden. Bring water.

*

Surprise:

I tried. I really did try. But, no matter how hard I tried, how much I studied, how badly I wanted this... it wouldn't work. It just wouldn't.

And then she told me that it wasn't switched on...


*

Critical Decision:

Brought to my knees, I sobbed into my bloodied hands.

Choking back an agonised scream, I managed - with a huge amount of effort - to whisper my eventual, fateful answer.

"New Order," I croaked. "I've never been too keen on Joy Division."

And I waited for the deathblows to rain down upon me.



Prompted by, and written at, Ashley Lister's session at Eroticon 2017. But, then again, I already said that in the introduction to this post. Full write-up coming, honest.

Thursday, 2 March 2017

There's Something About ILB

I left for work with very little time to spare this afternoon, having waited for an extra hour in case someone came to collect something (they didn't; I left it with my next-door neighbour: I shall have to check). As a result, I feared being late, and hurried to the bus stop. In my haste, I noticed when I sat down at the back of the bus, I'd forgotten to change into my work trousers - some pretty good ones which I'll be wearing at 'con tomorrow (after I've asked my dad to iron them, of course...).

I was still wearing my scrappy tracksuit trousers. This isn't the first time it's happened - I was also fairly sure that my boss wasn't going to be there, and nobody else mentions anything about my appearance.

It was only halfway through my shift, of course, that I noticed there was a large, obvious stain on the front of my joggers. A cum stain, in fact - it was still a little white. A big, white stain right across the knee.

And I know when it got there as well. I masturbated before leaving for work. A nice, functional wank culminating in a nice, functional orgasm. Three or four pulsations with some thick ropes of cum, accompanied by a few deep, breathy sighs. I didn't look to see where it had all gone once I'd wiped down my hands and stomach - I assumed, as you do, that I'd gotten it all.

Rookie mistake, ILB.

I fully intended to sponge it off once I got to the break, but completely forgot, opting instead for making myself a cup of sweet tea. Again I returned to a client-facing rôle, the offending article still in place, obvious to the onlooker and on display as I walked around. A giveaway for my transgression - the mark of shame, or pride, or lust. Whichever sin, really.

Only nobody said anything, because this is Britain.

And I'm counting myself fortunate that a washing machine hides any and all evidence of wrongdoing. Nobody need ever know... were it not, of course, for the fact that I've just put it on my blog.

Nine years, ILB. You've been doing this for nine years. You'd think that... by now...!