Sunday, 11 October 2015

Soft Porn Sunday: Chloe Armstrong, Kate Bell, Miranda Nation & Sam Worthington

Have I not reason, beldams, as you are?
Saucy and overbold, how did you dare
To trade and traffic with Macbeth
In riddles and affairs of death?

The film I saw the other day
Had cut a lot out from the play
Including this speech, and others too
Like sisters making witches' brew

Rendering it hard to understand
So stylistically underplanned
That Shakespeare himself would have mourned
At poor Macbeth, which ILB scorned

Still, it's better than this one
With this actor Sam Worthington
And poorly executed effects
Ridiculous set pieces...

...and sex?

Appearance: Macbeth (2006)
Characters: Macbeth & Three Witches

So, as you may have gathered, I didn't like the 2015 version of Macbeth. This is for a myriad of too quiet, too confusing, too lavish and too thinky reasons I'm not going to go into, but among the reasons I don't like this bit of dross is the lack of supernatural activity in it. There are FOUR witches - FOUR!!! - who hardly turn up at all, no mention of ghosts or spirits or familiars, Banquo's ghost is just Banquo wearing makeup, and Hecate isn't mentioned at all.

And since Macbeth is my favourite of Shakespeare's plays - if not actually my favourite play of all time - I wasn't sure whether to get upset or angry over this hatchet job. I settled on both.

Four witches. I mean, really.

*Yoshi noise*
In any case, the 2006 version - set in Melbourne amid gangland wars no seriously please don't ask I genuinely don't know how they made that decision - has more witches in it, which is to say they actually appear and have sort of an effect on the plot, so you'd expect me to like it more. It's not necessarily a better production, and isn't a patch on the Roman Polanski film from 1971, but at least Macbeth has a bisexual orgy with all three witches and WHAAAAAAAAAT?

I may need to contextualise this. This is Act IV, Scene I: the famous "double double, toil and trouble" scene, where Macbeth goes to find the witches to ask them for "advice". In the 2015 version, nothing much happens. In the 1971 version, it's very similar to the play. In the 2006 version, Macbeth is wandering aimlessly down a corridor when a naked witch jumps on him and forces him into a conveniently-placed bedroom.

No, seriously, that's what happens.

What follows probably isn't what William Shakespeare originally envisioned. Three witches (Chloe
Macbeth-Riding for Dummies
Armstrong, Kate Bell - no, another one - and Miranda Nation) appear, heavily tattooed, insane and invariably naked - in a room filled with tealight candles. The first witch (Armstrong) says a mangled version of the "hear our speech, but say thou nought" line in Samuel L. Jackson's voice - either that, or she's in bad need of some Strepsils - before pulling Macbeth (Sam Worthington) onto the bed and...

...something wicked this way comes.

I don't know what's happening here, but there are the soft porn candles.

Macbeth and all three witches then embark on some sort of semi-Satanic magical orgy of magicalness, starting with a nauseous series of crossfades in which not a lot actually happens. Randy Macbeth then makes love to each witch in turn (astride, doggie, missionary, in that order according to number and hotness of witch), them giving him the three revelations (as opposed to the apparitions giving them, but I can forgive that) during sex. While this is going on, whichever two witches aren't otherwise engaged with the penis of Glamis and Cawdor are going at it with each other.

Whatever would Lady Macbeth think?
At least for the first half of the scene. The longest bit of sex - with the third witch - happens while the first two are basically lounging around, as if they've gotten bored with magical precognitious Scot-humping and are just waiting for it to finish. At which point Macbeth has an orgasm which sounds like he's been run through with a sword and falls onto the bed looking like he's wondering why he agreed to do this film.

The entire scene is overlaid with actual porn music - and I really mean that. It's the thumping repeated uhn-tiss beat with swishy overlaid synths and occasional stabs of electric guitar. Of all the decisions, this is the oddest: it's as if they're trying to underline how incongruous this whole set-up is by adding appropriate music. It fits the scene, even if the scene doesn't fit the rest of the film!

I saw this in a cinema with H (who actually is Australian) and I still don't quite understand it.
"Oh fuck! I'm actually in this film!"
Attractive as the witches are (and more believably witchy than the underfed vultures they have in the new version), this is completely baffling: there's absolutely no reason why there should be a massive bisexual orgy which, effectively, has Macbeth cheating on his wife. It genuinely does come out of nowhere, isn't even particularly sexy, and there's too much going on to actually pick up on the three important bits of information Big Mac is meant to be hearing!

For all that I've said, at least the director had a vision and it looks to be realised. I'm not saying it works - because it doesn't, it's awful - but at least he had an idea to make Macbeth more "original". So I suppose the lesson to be learned here is this:

If you're going to fuck up Shakespeare, you may as well fuck it up properly.

Friday, 9 October 2015

HornyHour: Summer Rain, 2006

As the rain increased in frequency and efficacy, the soft plik-plik-plik on the canvas steadily began to work its way up towards a tattoo, punctuated by the snuffling heavy breathing of my hairy friend and the light, whispy inhalations of Bob. I turned onto my back, my sleeping bag shuffling with a zip against the ground, and listened to the rain.

Bob was definitely asleep. My hairy friend, also slumbering heavily like a gently giant, had an arm around her - they had fallen asleep while hugging. The thought made me suddenly feel rather lonely, even though I was in close proximity. He was a friend that I'd had since youth; she was somebody we'd only just met that week. It was the last night. Both groups had merged nicely into one.

The rain began to fall in earnest and I wondered about the brave souls who had chosen to bivouac underneath a large sheet propped up with sticks. Who the young raver had been kissing, if anyone (spoiler: two girls of 15); who else was up there with him. His tent (and theirs) was empty, and I fancy I heard a few footsteps heading for the relative safety under a flysheet. I was grateful that I hadn't chosen to bivouac myself, although - as I ruefully smiled to myself - how much of this choice was not wanting to leave my hairy friend alone in a tent with Bob may have contributed to the factor. Bob, herself, was fairly hot, but he was dating (quite seriously, as it turns out) my little sister's friend, Vee. I myself has no particular designs upon Bob, but I was grateful for her presence nonetheless.

I idly entertained myself by picturing the raindrops cascading down the sides of the Vango, and how the hundreds of people elsewhere on the campsite were experiencing these last vestiges of summer rain. Certainly it was warm, although night was upon us. Maybe there were those dancing, or walking through it, or making love in the rain. Perhaps there were campers enjoying a midnight beer in one of the fair-trade co-operative bars we'd set up. Or maybe the entirety of the camp, like us, was under canvas, waiting for the sandman to take us away.

Staring up at the lightless canvas, attuning my breathing to that of the water, changing brown to green and grey to blue, I allowed myself a smile to the gods.

And was content. 
click the image for this week's prompt

Wednesday, 7 October 2015

Fiction: Impassioned

I don't know how to dance.

This is what people tell me. My feet don't do what they are expected to do. I can't hold a rose in my mouth without the thorns drawing blood. I use my arms too much. Sometimes I just stand in the middle of the dancefloor slowly rotating, lost in my own world, the music and the movement helping me retreat into my glorious visions and imaginings.

I dream a lot when I dance.

And yet people say I don't know how to dance. That I just move randomly. Well, I do. I let the music take me where it wants to take me. I throw shapes that haven't been invented yet, slide when I'm not meant to slide, and jump when I'm not meant to jump. Sometimes I roar into the air, sometimes I fall on my back and spring back up. I am a marionette, dancing with broken strings.

I don't know the reason why people say I can't dance. I'm not doing what they expect me to do being. I'm certainly not doing what they're doing. I'm doing my thing, the thing I don't know how to do. Dancing grabs me and holds me. It takes me. When I dance, I feel nothing else. No burn. No malaise. No hurt. I am lost into the ether and the only thing I think is to myself. I think:

You are beautiful.

That's passion. That's love. That's art. And if that isn't dancing, what is?

I get some odd looks when I'm thrashing around on the dancefloor - some of amusement, mostly of disapproval... and it's only when I stop to get some water that I notice her.

Standing at the side, following my every move with an eyebrow cocked. Her eyes sparkle mischievously at me as I glance over. There's no mistaking her small grin and her little nod at me as a signal of approval. I may not know how to dance... but she likes it.

I respond by losing myself in the movements one more time. I dance like nobody's watching, even if I know deep down inside that at least one person is. I whirl like a dervish, pop like corn, and leap like a frog. And it's only when the lights come back on and the club starts to filter out that I bring myself out of the frenzy.

And she's gone.


As an entry for Charlie Powell's lipstick competition. I know nothing about lipstick, but this was fun!.

Monday, 5 October 2015

Addiction XX: Hope

[This post has been removed due to Reasons.

If you would like a copy, please ask me via e-mail or Twitter and I can send you one.

Comments also removed For Great Justice.]

Sunday, 4 October 2015

How To Masturbate Like a Horse on Steroids
A Guide for Lads


❤️ The Ultimate Male Sex Blog, Honest ❤️

Coming soon:
 - YouTube video of me reading this post out verbatim
- List of reasons why I know more about sex than everyone else in the world
- How to win a lock of my hair
- "Dear Glod please vote for me on Kinkly!" button

 Okay, so here's how I masturbate. Obviously, this is the only way to do so, so read this word for word and do exactly what I do, because this is the ultimate masturbation manual. I've had sex a few times, so clearly I'm the one who knows. Aren't you lucky that I'm sharing my worldly knowledge with you?

So what you need to do is this:
1. Masturbate
2. Er...
3. ...that's it.

I don't actually care how you masturbate. It doesn't matter to me what your gender, sexual orientation or preferred pronoun is. I don't know the methods you use to masturbate and, were I not as curious as I am, I probably wouldn't want to know (because, really, it's none of my business). It makes no difference to me whether or not you use an implement or just your fingers; I'm not keeping a tape measure at the ready in order to measure how far your cum flies or a super-absorbent paper towel to see how wet you are.

I'm fairly certain that you may have masturbated more than once. It's not likely that you've done it the same time on every single occasion. You may have done so hunched in a darkened corner of your bedroom [my amazing guide is here]; or possibly lying on your back [my incredible guide is here]; in a public place because you are a daring rebel [my guide is here, it kicks arse]; before looking at yourself in the mirror [do you want to know how? here's a guide!] or with Olympian results [ZOMG! GU1DE!!!!].

But if it works, then that's how to masturbate.

I have friends who talk about masturbation as something quick - an illicit fumble once or twice a day (certain young ravers set times for it, so I hear). Some people take a lot of time over it, spending entire afternoons making love to themselves, getting to know their body intimately and very au fait with what works. There are those who hold off for a while and then have explosive orgasms until their entire existense dissolves into a gentle hum of low-level pleasure. Some people don't do it at all.


Because it's entirely, uniquely, totally, completely, and ultimately your call.

I just wish I had more time to do it myself!

Wednesday, 30 September 2015


"Item three on the agenda - er... no item three?"
"Who wrote that?"

Everyone looked at me. As the secretary, I had - of course - written that. Incredibly pleased with myself, I smirked and attempted a whistle. I've always found it difficult to whistle, so all I ended up with was a "shh" sound. Not as convincing.

"Item four. Fresher's Week next year. Who's still here?"

I didn't raise my hand. A few people did - those of us who were staying on for MAs or who hadn't finished their degree courses yet. I made a quick Zsasz-like tally on my notes and joined in the general banter that followed, which quickly degenerated into mocking the habit my university had of putting strange nicknames onto the back of fresher representatives' T-shirts - ranging from WOT-WOT! (for a posh girl) to GIANT (for a sexual boy) to PLAYMATE (for the least original girl in the world) to CAT (not a cat). Being a fresher rep never appealed to me, and we assumed that - although our society appeared to be providing most of the entertainment - none of us would take up that mantle.

"Oh... I may be a fresher rep next year," chirped the small blonde girl who played the piano. "So I'm not sure if I'm going to... why are you all looking at me like that?"

I held my pen at the ready.

"What's your name going to be?"
"Er... MOUTH?" she suggested.
"It's what my friends call me..."

"None of us call you MOUTH," I pointed out.
"To be fair, you didn't ask."
"Good point," I said, adding that to the minutes and then sketching a bass clef.


I got home after the meeting and the post-meeting drinks, threw my bag of percussion (with a sonorous crash) into the corner and logged onto my computer in order to write up the minutes. However, just before I did so, I decided to check out MySpace (yes, really, that's how long ago this was) and, among the assorted friends and people-I'd-added-just-because, I noticed "Mouth" popping up. I'd never actually been to her page. I clicked.

There was a link to one of those quizzes. Click.

Do your parents know about the people you sleep with?
umm... the important ones i guess lol

I laughed.

How many one-night stands did you have last year?
2... and there were 2 that were 2 night stands lol

This one both amused and troubled me. I'd been at university for three years and not had sex myself once. I knew it was happening - of course; I even have my own stories of sex destroying things in the first year - but I'd never really seen any particular evidence that my university was one of those hotbeds of promiscuity that the right-wing press and two years of horny sixth form would have one believe. Still, these were one- (or two-) night stands; no biggie, really.

Do you have a crush on anyone and do they know about it?
umm... yeah a few people... and i am sleeping with some of them lol

Some of them.

Some of them.

More than one person.

Not a poly relationship. Not someone sleeping around. Not even somebody cheating. But somebody single who was having sex with some of the people she had a crush on. On a regular basis.

My imagination, before I could slam on the brakes, spiralled out of control faster than Billy Whizz on steroids. This girl, this small blonde girl who played the piano and whose friends may or may not have referred to her as "Mouth", was openly sexual. She had one- (and two-) night stands that happened more than once in the same academic year. She was having sexual intercourse with more than one person regularly.

My brain filled in the blanks. She had sex every night. She had a little book (or possibly a Rolodex), in which she juggled the people with whom she slept. She had sex for every single reason possible, whether it was for affection or for lust, or just because she was angry or needed to blow off steam. She was probably having sex right now, as I was reading her MySpace, as a way to decompress after a committee meeting of the society she was part of.

And she was freely admitting to it on MySpace. In three simple Q&As, this blonde mouth-related piano player transitioned from somebody who I always found unassuming to be a cheerful, playful paragon of everything that the reckless promiscuous lifestyle of university students stood for. Here she sat, gleeful in the knowledge that she was freely delivering and receiving pleasure most divine at her own liberty, and there I was at the other end, watching all of this via the little window in my brain that wouldn't. shut. up.

As you can imagine, I didn't get around to typing up the minutes that night.


Almost ten years on and that idea still excites me. I can hardly remember what "Mouth" looked like, or even what she was studying, but that's not important. What tittilates me, intrigues and beguiles me, and even brings me to orgasm at some points (more than I'd like to admit, actually, but I've just done so, so more fool me), is the idea that somebody could be so comfortable, so self-assured and so at one with her sexuality... that she could not only have casual sex, but also a number of short-term sexual partners at the same time, possibly even on rotation, simply because she liked to have sex.

Having seen what I've seen since then, this should no longer be surprising.

And it isn't.

But I still think it's hot.

Sunday, 27 September 2015


Tonight we fly
Over the chimneytops, skylights and slates
Looking into all your lives and wondering why
Happiness is so hard to find

Sometimes I just want to let go.

Of everything.

Just let go and float away. Away from all the pain and the hurt.

Of myself and other people. I want to cope - I really do. I want to be there, I want to be the caring, supportive one. The rock that one can cling to. That's me. That's what I do.

But it's not just that. There are so many other things. Little things. Domestic duties, which seem so monumental but are really just less than a speck of dust in the vast ocean of all the people and all the things in al the worlds of all the galaxies in the universe. The strain I feel in my back as I sit up for a long perios of time or the list of food I need to buy.

It all seems so inconsequential.

Some friends are having babies, some are hurting badly. I want to scream - whether in joy or sorrow, I don't know. It doesn't seem to matter any more. My throat hurts too much to scream.

I want to let go.

So why do I cling?

Monday, 21 September 2015

Jungle Hijinxs

As it turns out, in less than an hour I can get through the majority of Donkey Kong Country in one sitting - and probably would have completed it by now, in the same sitting, had I not been roused from my videogaming haze by the need to go to the library - and, come to that, the girl who was rousing me from said haze in order to convey the need to go to the library.

I was playing Donkey Kong Country simply because I had very little else to do. Despite occasional forays into other "offline" pursuits such as reading at Dirty Sexy Words last night (hi, all!) and the accompanied attempts at writing erotica - some of which, I've noticed, is actually quite explicit when you consider I've just been basing most of it on the principles of cybersex - there's a surprising lack of motivation to do much when the internet - your main distraction - isn't actually there to distract you. The stuff I'm meant to be doing (looking for jobs, begging the council for benefit, etc.) isn't even available with a lack of internet, and (of course) I can't really write blog posts (well, I can; I just can't post 'em), which has thrown the entire crux of my existence out of kilter.


Okay, that's a slight exaggeration. There are things in my life that don't centre around writing my blog and aren't Donkey Kong Country. But, until we get the internet back  in our room (and with such a low bank balance I've no idea how we're going to manage that), there's actually precious little I can do - and before you say the obvious thing, yes, I've read most of them already and I have a pile on the nightstand; don't rush me!

So what do you do without internet access when most of the things you like to do are dependent upon it and you can't go outside for fear of being rained upon?

Answers on a postcard...?

Friday, 18 September 2015

Shake It Off

My thick white jumper hung from my frame, slightly overlong for me, each side drooping over opposite ends of the chair. Trousers, as is the custom, lay in a heap around my ankles, pants (not the fertility-protecting kind) resting in the same space. I'd left my socks on... for I like my feet warm.

My right thumb and forefinger were curled around my cock as it pulsed and twitched in my hand. Masturbating with the curtains open in the middle of the day may seem a little inappropriate to the casual observer, but there's no way of anyone seeing me, considering the position of our flat and what or window looks on. There weren't going to be any casual observers.

I'd been going for a while, coaxing my penis up into the slightly curved, thick shaft that I'm so familiar with, every contour brushing against my palm - warm, inviting; comforting, almost. Hours of intense frustration and repetition, even without a working internet as an effective distraction. I needed this. This was my relief. I leaned back as far as I could in my chair, ready for the orgasm.

It was building up in my stomach. I could feel the rush, feel my balls tighten up and pulse, everything coming to a head. I steadied myself, ready to lose control.

My sleeve started to snake its way down towards my hand...

...instinctively, I removed my hand to shake the sleeve back, lest it get marked by errant cum...

...and them the orgasm hit.

My body didn't know what to do with such a sudden loss of stimulus at the point of climax. With more of a whimper than a bang, I came, but with much less jizz than there usually is. One or two pulsations, but less than satisfying ones, and by the time I got my hand back around my shaft, it was over. I'd lost my stimulus and had an orgasm nothing more than functional.

I was still in the room. I hadn't even managed to let go of my surroundings, as I so often do. My penis lay, useless, limp, in my lap, my body beating with anxiety and my head screaming in frustrated despair. And all because of one second where I let go, for the sake of my jumper.

My dreams overnight were full of grasping at the air trying to reach something that I couldn't quite catch and locked doors that wouldn't quite open for me to get through...

...but at least my jumper's still clean.

Sunday, 13 September 2015

Review: Wireless Armour

Richard Branson describing a product as "underpants for superheroes" really does give you a lot of insight into things: one, that superheroes wear pants too (often on the outside, as I'm sure you know); two, that Richard Branson uses Americanisms in his quotes, when (as a British inventor) he should have actually said "pants". I'll forgive him for that, as he probably doesn't know what this product actually is. I'm wearing it right now, so I can tell you.

Wireless Armour is marketed as underwear for men, integrating a fabric called "Radiatex" (which, in
layman's terms, is a mixture of cotton, polyester and silver - yes, actual silver, 35%), which is designed to block "more than 99.9%" of the electromagnetic radiation emanating from things we use a lot, like Wi-Fi enabled computers, mobile 'phone signals, Bluetooth, microwaves, and that leaky nuclear reactor core I've got lying about in my back garden. The idea, as the multitude of buff male torsos on the website will show you, is for the pants themselves to be stylish and comfortable while protecting your testicles from dangerous electromagnetic radiation, which can kill sperm and thus reduce your fertility.


With added garden table.
My pants came in a little plactic packet inside another little plastic packet, complete with bumph about its ball-protecting capabilities and washing instructions (Wireless Armour pants are machine washable, but only if your machine is gentle, as they're "high tech kit"). Upon further inspection, I found the pants to be a vaguely triangular garment, made with three holes in the fabric - two smaller holes for each leg, and one larger one which fits around your hips or waist, or trouser belt, if you happen to be John Major.

The first thing I noticed about these pants is that, although they look quite good, they don't actually feel that nice. I was a little worried, upon inspection, about how these - big as they were - would be able to accommodate my bulky frame, wide hips and UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS. Most of my pants are elasticated around the waist, and so stretch to whatever size is needed. Wireless Armour works on the same design, only the elastic doesn't actually appear to be that stretchy, so the pants felt unusually tight, even on my otherwise-naked body. Even now, with the rest of my clothes on, I am still very "aware" that I'm wearing pants - which isn't really something I want to be concentrating on.

I initially found it difficult to decipher where to put these things on.

Every now and again, the pants appear to be riding slightly down my bum, meaning that a pleasant breeze blows down my arse crack. I don't know if this is a feature or not. I doubt it has anything to do with fertility.

In any case, these do go on, and they stay on, so in terms of pants, they do the job well enough. You can't actually feel the silver in the Radiatex material, but it is there, to provide protection from pathogenic bacteria, ambush by wild Pokémon for 200 steps, and werewolves, in addition to spermicidal radiation. Silver particles in fabrics do tend to get washed off after a while, but these pants are designed to keep the precious metal in place.

However, the main feature of the pants - and effectively what they are marketed for - is the increase in fertility as a result of the silver mesh blocking out harmful electromagnetic waves. I've been wearing these pants for about ten hours now and still haven't made anyone pregnant. Without any indications to the contrary, I wouldn't call that a success!

For all that Wireless Armour has to offer, I'm totally at a loss as to whether or not to recommend these things or not. You can get a multipack of pants from Marks & Spencer for the same price as one of these bad boys, and although they don't have fancy argentous material with a nebulous name for promotional purposes, they're probably a lot more comfortable and elasticated, and fit more snugly around your hips. I've got briefs from when I was 14 which give my penis more space to move around in. And there's absolutely no way to actually test the "fertility" thing without applying SCIENCE, to which I have no access as a home reviewer.


[TL;DR? They're pants.]

Wireless Armour pants are available directly from the manufacturers for prices ranging from £24 to £35. 
I was provided with a Medium-sized black pair for my honest review.