Tuesday, 28 October 2008

Term Time

How come you never hear of promiscuous men? It's applied to girls quite a lot - a phrase that springs to mind is from David Lodge's sublime Nice Work - "in the second year she was recklessly promiscuous"; similarly, the official subtitle to Kerry Cohen's Loose Girl is "a memoir of promiscuity" - but it never really seems to apply to the less fair sex. Now I think about it, I don't think I've ever heard the term "promiscuous man".

There's no reason why the word shouldn't be used. Dictionary.com's definition of the word reads:

pro⋅mis⋅cu⋅ous

–adjective
1. characterized by or involving indiscriminate mingling or association, esp. having sexual relations with a number of partners on a casual basis.

Surely, then, a boy who sleeps around is also promiscuous?

The term I sometimes hear applied, however, is "stud". This is the male equivalent of "slut", because apparently if you have a penis and you sleep around, that's fantastic and there's nothing at all wrong with what you are doing. It's supposed to make you feel good about yourself, too. I don't know what I'd do if somebody called me "stud"; it's like being told you're the bump on the bottom of a football boot, and I don't like football.

If you're a girl, however, and you've held hands with more than one person, you're the root of all evil and that's why burning at the stake was invented
(the wizard stuff was just hocum, propaganda spread by the government spreads easily...). Another old friend I probably haven't mentioned was labelled a "slag" (I've eliminated the 73 million extra "A"s the LiveJournal commenter felt he needed to add until everyone found out that she'd slept with seven people. It's more than one, but it's hardly a shedload. Unless it's a very small shed.

So, what do I call someone who's slept around relentlessly and is a boy? What do I call the guy who had half of the first year at university? ("Cunt" was the word I decided upon; it's actually not a bad description, either.) I can hardly just go up to a boy and say, "you are promiscuous." It conjures up an image of a girl in a short skirt with very low morals. That's just somewhat unfair.

I think it should be used more often. Boys, admit your promiscuity. It's only a polysyllabic word, after all. It's not going to hurt anyone.

I think.

Monday, 27 October 2008

Safe as fuck!

I like being enveloped. It makes me feel safe.

This doesn't mean that I want to be folded up into a square paper construct and put in a postbox, then I'll come out as a chav. (I just wrote that, didn't I? Man, I'm delirious at this time in the morning.) What I'm talking about is... well, you get the idea, right?

I don't have a need to be totally enclosed. I just like the occasional feeling. It's, like, a feeling that everything's OK, just for those moments:

- When I cuddle, I'm holding someone. That's fantastic. But I feel hands on my back as well as my hands on theirs. I like making whoever I'm holding feel safe - it's one of the few things I feel I'm able to do right these days, cuddling - but, insofar as mutual benefit goes, I've got hands wrapped around me as well, and I like that too.

- When I spoon with my loverrr, that's an interesting one. I'm bigger than she is, but we fit together quite well, like a jigsaw. I like enveloping her, it's fun. But there are times when the backs of her legs curl around my knees. That makes my knees feel safer. I like that... then, of course, we're under some covers, and in this cold weather, that's what we need. I like that as well.

- And then, of course, there's sex. That's enveloping a certain part of me. But it's a great feeling - even if you ignore all the sexual attraction and release sort of stuff (hint: you can't; I'm talking figuratively here), there's something genuinely warming about actually having one's cock just inside someone, just held inside her. And there's the blissful moment of calm after sex too, when I'm still in there. I like that. Rather a lot, in fact.

It's something to reflect upon, and appreciate. Next time you get a hug from someone, take some time to appreciate it. Do your best to make them feel safe in your arms, if you feel safe in theirs. It's your space, your little bubble, and if the rest of the world don't like it, well... you'll be severely put-upon. But you can feel safe while they do it.

Saturday, 25 October 2008

...and relax.

I find it very hard to relax.

In today's society (and I'm going to keep this brief, because this is a sex blog and not Comment Is Free), one is not encouraged to relax. In my life, for example, I'm required to be in college about three or four days a week, and use the rest of my time to work on stuff I'm supposed to be working on (only I'm not, because I haven't got any stuff to work on, because despite wanting us to work on it, the college haven't given us any stuff). But I digress.
I find it difficult to sleep; last night was particularly bad, tossing and turning all night until I finally looked at my clock and saw a big digital 3 on its display. That shouldn't have been there. As the clocks go back an hour this weekend, I don't want to have to see that twice in the same night.
So, during the day I find myself wanting to find stuff to do (other than messing about on the Internet, relentlessly tapping the screen on my DS and reading improving books); at night, when I'm not meant to be doing anything, I can't get into the state of doing nothing...

...and this is where the sex comes into it.

The calm that follows love-making works on many different levels, and (although there's nothing to support this) I suppose that how intense the sex is works in a directly proportional way to how rested you feel afterwards.

Case in point...

I had sex nary on two days ago which was wonderful, frantic, and very very intense to the point of being quite scary. We hadn't had sex for a bit, and once we were in the mood, with curtains drawn and the appropriate clothes off (but not all, natch), it was difficult to stop! Indulgence in the oral pleasure that really gets me going (so what it does to her, I couldn't possibly guess), followed by energetic and almost ecstatic sex with plenty of movement and more than a little noise (ahem), a simultaneous orgasm from both of us and a short moment of calm afterwards...

...but I needed more.

So I said I was going to clean up, and slid back downwards, for more oral sex, only this time the taste was more tangy than usual, because of the extra salt content I'd managed to discharge through my bad behaviour. This was good. I was up for more, and I was giving more. No rules or regulations, no personal targets. No time for us to be anywhere - just time for sex. I was back between her legs, where I wanted to be.
We then had sex again, this time covered in sweat, which isn't too common for love-making on a crisp Autumnal day. Not that I was paying much attention to what the weather was doing, mind you... I was focusing all my energy on my pulsating cock, which was getting what it most truly needed at the time - a wet hole to penetrate.
We came again, with a shout of lusty pleasure, and only then did I collapse. Not with exhaustion, though; this was more of a release, less of a tired slump.

"How do you feel?" I asked in a dark brown voice.
"Rested," came her reply.

And she'd hit the nail on the head. I lay there, satiated, feeling (for the first time in a long time) truly at peace with everything. I held her hand, gently, feeling myself drift off for a second, not wanting to move, or even do anything other than breathe and feel my heart beat. That's the clincher; that's now I want to be able to feel.

Rested. No troubles, no worries, no time. Just at rest.

Isn't love amazing?

Monday, 20 October 2008

Elongated Man

I had a sexually charged weekend, starting with a catch-up/shopping-trip/bitch-fest with my old friend Mini, one of the few real people who know I'm also ILB (although I'd forgotten she does!), which included a quick trip to CCK, followed by a dayandabit-long visit from the gorgeous Drinker, which was practically soaked with love, pre-prepared food, and passionate, hot, energetic sex which I'm sure must have caused us to shed a few pounds. Needless to say, when she left this morning there was the inevitable feeling that if neither of us had had to go to work we'd still be in bed. (Well, we would, probably sleeping, but you know what I mean.)

It's no surprise (knowing me and the person that was on my mind), is it, if I say that I was feeling the slightest bit turned on
as I arrived into my training session this morning? Given the memories drifting through the ether, coupled with the fact that I was the first one there and spent a lot of that extra time in a very tired mood, wondering vaguely if I could just go back in time and reclaim the weekend, I found myself in a semi-state of arousal, but due to the lack of nearby girlfriend and a minuscule, yet lingering, sense of public decency (despite the recent news), I couldn't do anything about it.

Nor could I curl up in the foetal position and wait for it to go away, like I did when I was 11. It may have drawn a little too much attention. Due to the fact I was in a hospital at the time, that's a very bad idea.

The thing I actually wanted to do was stretch. I was so tired, my muscles were screaming at me to wake them up by throwing my hands to the sky (YMCA-style) and then stretching my legs or standing on one at a time (me-style). But as I was, by this point, rather in fact actually quite extremely hard oh it almost hurts, that would probably be the worst idea since Hitler's dad met Hitler's mum. Position yourself in the star position and stretch while you're erect, and you have a very large and obvious extra point to make. I don't feel like being labelled a pervert within the first two months of training - especially if it's undeserved!
With nothing else to do, I sat through the first half of the lecture, finding it hard to concentrate, despite it actually being quite interesting. If you're into human biology. Which I am, kind of. Marginally. On a good day.

At half-time, a break was called, and I leapt up (using up all my energy) and, before heading off to get a coffee so strong it could rival Obélix, finally had the whole-body stretch I'd been craving for so long. As the blood started pumping through my cardiovascular system, my muscles shouted for joy and I stretched so far and wide that I felt my skin could rip open and I'd burst out of my own body, growing another two feet.

I didn't, but at least I wasn't hard any more.

For the following two minutes, anyway.

Wednesday, 15 October 2008

Muse

I leave her in my bed; her soft skin only just having been against mine, our bodies entwined, touching each other gently, softly; a morning snuggle - we both know I have to leave, but in the morning, a bed is the best place to be.

Sometimes, she gets angry. I fluster and I blush; I am indecisive; I say things wrongly. I upset her. I upset myself, too. Last night, we kept changing moods. I was afraid to touch her, at points. But as she fell deeper into sleep, I glanced at her. Her face, lying there on my pillow, her hair sprawled out behind her head; eyes closed, steady breathing. Peaceful, untroubled. I look at this beautiful girl. She is beautiful. I love her.

I was indecisive about going to sleep. Eventually, I went. She was in my dreams

This morning, I left her to go to training in London. I travelled in, my thoughts full of her; how I miss her, how I missed her before, and will miss her again. How I love to take care of her, to hold her, talk to her, just to be with her. Once again, I will be. An evening full of music and comedy beckons... after we are reunited, when lunchtime heralds the end of the training session.

Three hours to go.


Monday, 13 October 2008

Ventricleese!

The first lecture I had this morning was on the workings of the human heart.

The teacher seemed keen to stress, over and over and over again, how it's not heart-shaped, and it has nothing to do with love; it's just a pump to send blood around your body. He then went on a biological spiel for two hours, which was all rather interesting... if you're into that sort of stuff...

...and then ended by saying it's got nothing to do with love again.

Oh, but it has, my dear lecturer, it has.

I'm sure you've felt your own heart beating...

...but my heart sings.

Friday, 10 October 2008

Presence in Sleep

I woke up this morning in bed with her, although we didn't have sex. It was, to be honest, some point after our proposed 6 o'clock waking time, and there was something of a mixture between a dash and a rush (a dush, to use a neologism - although Firefox doesn't put a red line under that, oddly...) to get ready and go to our respective places of work/training (although for her, it was a longer commute).
There was a brief panic moment at Paddington that turned into UTTER HEROICS as bagels were procured the minute the train was leaving, and running like superstars turned into a handover of bagel, a rushed kiss and declaration of love. Then she was gone, gone on the commuter train from London. Travelling with no effort on the part of her poor, tired legs.

I resigned myself to this knowledge, procured another bagel (this time for myself) and used the tubular system to go to training, which resulted in a morning of Maths which was so badly-run you'd think Boris Johnson's ideas have penetrated London further than one would think - either that or they are deliberately torturing us. Or both. A Battle Royale comes next, and I'd better get either the GPS device or the pump-action shotgun. In any case, there was an almost mass walkout.

A quiet lunch on the South Bank, my mind still buzzing with thoughts, my heart both angry at the training and singing the songs of love that seem to make up my life force at the moment, followed by going to the chaplaincy for a drink and a bitch, and then to the afternoon session.
I sat next to a friend who I've forgotten the name of (forgive me, friend!), and the session started. It was snoozeworthy to the max, mostly because all the relevant information was over after 30 minutes, and the hour after that was the same stuff over and over again. Like a badly tuned radio (or maybe very energetic sex), I was slipping in and out at a rather rapid rate (ho-ho). Sometimes I was sitting in college, sometimes I was...

She was sitting on me. Not in a sexual way, but in a joking, loving way. The TV was on, but there wasn't much sound. She was singing a song - not that I can remember what it was. I was laughing at her pretty, cheeky voice. We galloped up and down, on the sofa, almost breathless with laughter at our silly little game...

The tutor was saying something about databases. I wrote down her words (which didn't mean much) on my pad and turned briefly to my friend, who admitted she was as tired as I was. I stopped trying to pay attention, and slipped away...

..and so we spend our carefree days.

Monday, 6 October 2008

Suggesting something?

At training today, we were learning about anatomy. I asked where a woman's urethra was; despite my constant exploration of the special area, I've never actually found one, despite reading logs of lesbian cybersex a couple of years ago where the "pee-hole" was mentioned rather exuberantly. The teacher didn't actually show me (on a model, of course), despite telling me she would. Bah! I guess it's back to exploration for me.

While queuing up to buy an extremely unhealthy breakfast (hot chocolate and a pain au chocolat - what? it chases the blues away!), I noticed something familiar on the floor. I bent down and scooped up the small packet.
For a moment, I considered shouting to the whole canteen, "Hey! Has anyone dropped a condom?". I then decided against it and pocketed it, instead. The last time I pocketed a stray condom, I ended up with coitus rejectus, but that was years ago. Now, I'm attached.
Later on, I went to the toilet, and noticed something else a little less familiar on the windowsill. I picked it up, and expected it: yes, K-Y Jelly. Taking my inspiration from point-and-click puzzle games, I decided to pocket that too, as you're meant to pick up everything that isn't nailed down.

It was only when I got back to the classroom that I realised someone may have been trying to suggest something to me; I had, after all, picked up both protection and lube. They've evidently not been doing their homework, though; we are using a different kind of protection, for one thing, and with the amount of oral sex I give, we don't need lube, either.

But, you know, it's a nice thought, anyway.

Friday, 3 October 2008

IRL

Secret Diary yesterday had a very odd scene which made it probably the best part of the series so far. Something like:

Blake: "You feel like a real girl now?"
Belle: "I am a real girl. My name's Hannah."
Blake: "Hello, Hannah..."

I almost wept.

Following on from that and a conversation I had over the phone with The Drinker last night, I spent most of today ruminating on the whole issue of secret identities. I wrote a post very recently about how people have different sides, but is it fair to lump all the love onto one side? ILB and the 'public' lover all-in-one?
I'd say it is, really. Because however closely-guarded my 'secret' identity might be, I'm writing this blog from my heart - and that's one heart contained in one body, whatever name you apply to it.

And yet some people know I am both ILB and The Real Me. My girlfriend knows, evidently. My best friend, 47, knows about it (although I didn't tell him; he found out, but I knew he would anyway, so it's not that much of a shock). And Syren, a good friend's lover and therefore a friend, knows about it.
And that's odd, but for some reason - it's probably a very good reason although I couldn't exactly explain what it is - I trust Syren to know all my most intimate sexual secrets. I've only ever met her once, and that makes it even weirder. Never mind.

I'm more blasé about my identity as ILB when I'm in a setting nobody knows me in. The CCK party was a good opportunty to unashamedly say, "they call me Innocent Loverboy." At least, until K and H turned up, and I had to keep schtum. Kind of. Similarly, I had no second thoughts about referring to myself as ILB on Secret Piece III. When it's love or sex that's the topic, ILB springs into action. He just happens to be the same person as me. Just with a different name. And I like that.

On my way back from training today, I decided to pop back to CCK to see if it was still open; it was, despite their claims that they'd last until the end of September. Honestly, the tenacity of those people is second only to the quality of their cake. In fact, coffee, cake, soft sofas and David Lodge make for a very good combination after what was, despite being onehourand45minutes, quite a tiring training session earlier on.
Alana mentioned artists and, not thinking properly (as is my wont), I replied that I was an artist, not realising that she meant visual art; we did, however, chat for a while about different types of art, and whether anything I did was relevant to CCK. Initially, I didn't think it was, as the occasional drawing of Green Lantern doesn't have much to do with... oh, hang on... Rule 34.
"I do write a sex blog," I said. "That's quite relevant."
Everyone in the CCK lounge was looking at me, and I didn't care.
"As long as you don't take a snap of me, write 'THIS IS INNOCENT LOVERBOY' on it and put it in the window..." I added. But there we are: I'd said who I was with people I don't know in the vicinity. A secret identity, yes, but for the faceless masses (and Alana) it's okay. I even told her my real name later on (she thought, for some reason, it was John. It isn't.), and I felt comfortable doing that.

I'm not going to out myself, or anything. For such a small-time sex blogger it wouldn't achieve anything. Plus, I hardly want to. But it's interesting, isn't it, that in real life, I'm okay with saying to some people that I am ILB? Odd, but quite cool, in a vanity-related sort of way.

I do wonder what my friends think I'm doing, though, now I've stopped talking about love and sex in my public blog for some time...

Thursday, 2 October 2008

Art from the Heart

I like sex, and I like the arts, ergo: I like it when the two are blended together. I've been enjoying the new series of Secret Diary (ooh, it's on tonight!), although I'm not entirely sure if that counts as 'the arts', it's certainly part of the media. It all depends on your definition of art, really.

I've been reading Loose Girl by Kerry Cohen, which is another sex memoir (to be found in Waterstone's next to the sections headed "If You Read This Book, You Will Get Rich", "I Had A Bad Childhood And So I'm Ruining Your Life By Writing About It" and, of course, "Some Things Are Not Very Good, So I'm Writing That And It Counts As Humour") á la Girl With A One-Track Mind, except not in he same vein, mostly because it's not based on a blog. Oh, and she's American, too.
I like the way Kerry writes; she's open and frank and very blasé. There's no explicit detail of how the sex happens with the overuse of slight profanities. She says, unblushingly, words to the effect of "we had sex". It's more of a log of her many brief relationships throughout her life, as opposed to one year or so in an attempt to get as much sex as you can and ease a good story out of it. Quite a brief read too (although I do read very quickly, so maybe that's something to do with it), so I finished it in a few days. It all ends rather abruptly, but otherwise it's a good book.
Literature... now that's an art. I'm not sure about the art in non-fiction, but then again I was brought up on Point Fantasy, so maybe I'm biased against it.

Last night, we also watched 9 Songs. I've always been intrigued by this film, because some of the views of it say, "the sex is all real so it's a gimmick to carry an otherwise-lame film," whereas some will say, "it's a film about a relationship which cleverly juxtaposes songs and sex; the fact that the sex is real is irrelevant," but I'm not sure about either view.
I do like all the songs in the film, and it's very artfully shot. It cuts between clips of the bands playing the songs in venues and clips of actual sex, shot in a way that doesn't look much like hardcore porn (thank Glod!). There isn't actually much of a plot (beyond boy-meets-girl), but it's quite a short film and the emphasis is on the way it's done, so that's probably more forgivable than otherwise. Narration is often very short and over shots of Antarctica for some reason, and dialogue is often brisk and humorous, succeeded by more music and sex.
I liked it - I was expecting worse, seeing as how one of my friends described it as being a little voyeuristic, lke looking through someone's window - but it's more curious than enjoyable, if that makes sense. Was worth a watch, and since I was with my love at the time, getting a little turned on was excusable.
Film. That's an art. Sometimes. This was definitely an art film.

And music. That's most definitely an art. Love too. Sex? Well, the way we do it, yes.

But since I'm A Busy Person now, I've started to appreciate the arts a lot more than I used to (I didn't actually think that was possible; I live for the arts). I want to escape into anything that could be appreciated as aesthetically pleasing. With what I'm supposed to be doing, I suppose I have to, to get some sort of a balance.

Light a candle. Look at it. What does it mean? Answers on a postcard!