Sunday, 30 November 2008

*thud*

One post goes here so I can finish NaBloPoMo, which I just remembered I'm doing.

I'm worried, tired, burned out and feel ill - none of which are to do with blogging. Honestly, this wasn't difficult at all. A lot of bloggers are all "oh my Glod guys it's tough but I'll keep going FOR MY FANZ". I was just writing because I like writing.

I have other things to do now. See you next month, sexy peoples!

Saturday, 29 November 2008

Working Hard (mutually exclusive)

I woke up this morning (er, afternoon) to discover that I'd slept until midday without even waking up once. Perhaps unsurprisingly, work has exhausted me more than I thought.

Turning off my alarm was a good idea.

My libido has decreased since I (re)started work, although only when I'm at work. There's probably a reason for this, considering the people I'm interacting with most of the time. When I get home from work, however, it's usually at around the nine-o'-clock mark. Back in the ol' single-pre-ILB days, nine used be my watershed for sex. Like, I wouldn't look at any erotica, or search for sexual playmates (and I say 'playmates' in the nicest possible way), before nine. I was always hornier at night, and that set me off, I suppose.

Perhaps it's been ingrained into my mind that after nine, I have to feel horny. It doesn't happen automatically (sprng an erection halfway through a gig may not have been a good idea, for example), but then there's something to be said for quitting a building in which you have been more-or-less on your feet since seven in the morning, and then going home, and lying on your bed listening to your feet hurt. All the other stresses of the day slip away, and I, for one, find myself lying on my back at night, trying to get my energy back.

Who can blame me for the way I feel after that, especially as I rarely even think about sex while at work?

Right, off I go for a romantic meal. Relax, it'll be fine. As long as I behave for, maybe, the first five minutes...

Friday, 28 November 2008

It's All About Me

I was tagged by Anna, because she is a heartless ruthless bitch blogger.

Yeah, covered that one up well.

Anyway, here's the meme, sarcasm not removed.

1. Where is your cell 'phone?
First of all, it's a mobile 'phone, there's no such thing as a cell 'phone; cellular 'phones are from the 80s. Second of all, I have two, and they are both next to me - my old one on my desk and my new one on the chair my girlfriend usually sits on, charging quietly. Not loudly. Horses charge loudly. If your 'phone charges loudly, it's probably a horse.


2. Where is your significant other?
Having dinner with an old friend of hers in the City of Spires. Because, you know, that's where she lives, and all.

3. Your hair colour?
I'm not even pointing out the obvious spelling error in the word "colour", which I duly corrected above. In any case, it's black.

4. Your mother?
NO, YOUR MOTHER! Buh-zing!


5. Your father?
Is an actor. And one of the best, in my humble opinion. But then again, I would say that.

6. Your favourite thing?
Another one with a stupid spelling error. Okay, there's a story attached to this one, and I like stories.
The SNES game EarthBound allows you to enter the name of your favourite food, and your favourite thing. I put "Love" as my favourite thing - the default is "Rockin", which isn't even a thing. I then forgot about EarthBound for ages and ages, until I started playing again - in which I levelled up Ness, who is its main character. He then realised the power of PSI Love
α
, which is actually PK Rockin α, but I'd forgotten I'd entered the word "Love". Therefore, for a time I actually thought that a deadly, destroying psychokinetic attack that only Ness could use was actually ironically called PSI Love.
Spells in EarthBound level up by Greek letter, so I eventually got Ness to learn PSI Love
δ
, which was totally devastating. I picked up on this idea by releasing an updated version of one of my songs, adding β to the end of the original song's title and releasing it as a separate track.

7. Your dream last night?
This involved my old girlfriend's house. She wasn't there. It didn't even look like her house. But it was in her town. Then my actual girlfriend called and I told her I'd go to Oxford to see her, but I needed to get out of Walsall first. The dream ended as I worried about how long it would take me.

8. Your dream/goal?
I don't really know. I'd like to end up writing a book, I guess.

9. The room you’re in?
It's my room, and I like it. It gets cluttered easily, but is the biggest room in the house. It's very cool. The room was actually re-designed by my parents; while I was at uni it had an odd Guantánamo Bay feel to it, and I got back at the end of the three years to find it completely transformed. I felt weirdly pleased.

11. Your fear?
My greatest fear is being alone. I freak out when I feel lonely, which extends to helplessness too. This is why I'm so keen on relationships. I don't mind being on my own, but there's a difference between that and being totally abandoned.
I guess this extends to a fear of prison, too, because if you're incarcerated then you can't see people, and a restriction of freedom of movement actually terrifies me.

12. Where do you want to be in 6 years?
Who knows? I don't.

13. Where were you last night?
At home. This was the first day off I'd had since three days beforehand. That doesn't seem that long, but the previous two nights I was working from seven-thirty until eight, so I was at work preceded by home. Last night, I was just home. That I appreciated.

14. What you’re not?
Confident. I never have been.

15. One of your wish-list items?
The entire collection of Batman RIP. Bruce Wayne died yesterday and I have no idea what happened. There's no collection of all the issues coming out until next year, but I'm following Green Arrow and therefore didn't have the cash to buy all the issues in Batman RIP.

16. Where you grew up?
Where I am now. Yeah, I'm boring.

17. The last thing you did?
Spoke to my interfering grandmother, who isn't happy with my chosen career, on the 'phone while making a cup of tea and wondering how best to answer question #6. That, and breathing and typing and answering #16 and things.

18. What are you wearing?
Ooh, a phonesex question? How... distracting.
I'm wearing a black T-shirt that says "DRUMMER" on it, some tough blue jean-type trousers, and some socks which, on closer inspection, are grey. Oh, and some pants which are, after a check, blue. Does it really matter what I'm wearing, though? I could be wearing a string vest, elegant headdress and a tutu and I'd still be the same person.

19. Your TV?
I don't have a TV any more as I Freecycled it. The family has a big TV in the lounge, widescreen and everything, which is good for playing the Wii and watching DVDs, but it's nearing the end of its life at the moment.

20. Your pet?
I have a couple of kitties.

21. Your computer?
Is a laptop named Jim. I named him Jim because I couldn't think of any better names at the time, and besides, I like "Jim". He's been completely and solidly dependable for many, many years now. My previous computer was a dekstop named Preston, who is still under my bed. I can't remember the last time I used Preston, but he got ond and cranky and almost died until I installed BeOS on him, which got him running perfectly again.

22. Your mood?
I'm in a funny mood this evening.

23. Missing someone?
Are you trippin', boy? I'm always missing someone, several people in fact. I miss The Drinker, H, 47, Astro Boy and a whole host of other people. Mostly at the moment I miss Drinker, because I think we both need hugs.

24. Your car?
I don't have a car because I can't drive. Plus, I don't need a status symbol right now. When I eventually do learn to drive, I'll take a crash course (ho ho) and then maybe think about buying a car. Or maybe just a small go-kart so I can throw Koopa shells at people and turn invincible for no apparent reason.

25. Something you’re not wearing?
I'm not wearing any shoes. My socks have stains of sweat on them and my feet are aching like buggery. I need a foot massage, badly!

26. Favourite store?
A store is where you keep things. I think you must mean a shop, in which case I like Forbidden Planet, but I tend to buy the entire shop when I'm there which isn't very kind to me. I also liked WHSmith before they started to sell out a little and pretend to be Waterstone's, which is also incidentally one of my favourites.

27. Your summer?
Anna's answer to this confuses me, because "Hah" doesn't really describe a summer. Everyone must have a summer! My summer was spent hovering between holidays and not-holidays. It was an odd summer, with some very good bits and some very bad bits. But then again, I've never been too keen on summer anyway.

28. Love someone?
Innocent Loverboy, it's in the job description, sweetheart.

29. Your favourite colour?
Well, I have a few actually, but I'll go for blue as my first choice. I'm not exactly sure which shade of blue; maybe blue jive, which is a dark blue I used to have on my old room's wall.

30. When is the last time you laughed?
Today. I cracked at work and started making jokes and odd faces and made people laugh. End of the week and I was tired. So sue me.

31. Last time you cried?
Today. I don't know why. I was on the train on the way back and suddenly had to choke back a few tears. I think that I suddenly saw myself as an utter failure. I've no idea why; I just have the feeling of being a failure a lot of the time. It just leapt out at me. How bizarre that was.

Right, that's the end of the meme. If you've read down this far, you're amazing. I don't tag anyone, because I'm too lazy to look at my blogroll. Ooh, I know, I'll tag Anna. I think she's lovely and she'll definitely tackle this meme with all her might. Oh, and look, she already has!

Thursday, 27 November 2008

Z is for... Zs, catching some

The calm feeling that follows love-making works on many different levels, and the age-old (and very unfair) cliché is that men will fall asleep immedately after orgasm, even if their lady isn't satisfied. Of course, the two work together well, but I still don't like the accusation levelled at THE ENTIRE MALE POPULATION in part 2. I mean, where does that leave gay people, then? Do they ALL fall asleep before orgasm? That's some sort of paradox.

I rarely sleep, anyway. I've had insomnia since the age of about 8 and, to be honest, it's a fucking bitch and I hate it, hate it, hate it. On the occasions when I do drop off to sleep, I either have the strangest dreams or get woken up by my body which says something like, "ooh he's getting some sleep - let's hurt him so he'll have to wake up," and follows by making my stomach explode or my head buzz.

The only time I've ever got any decent sleep is when I'm with somebody else. I don't usually have to have had sex, although I love sex and would prefer it, natch. But having somebody there is both calming and relaxing, because:

(i) You're not alone. Any fears or anxieties you have are placated, because there is somebody else and strength in numbers. If, like me, you have an irrational fear of the dark, another person - whether or not they're asleep - is there for you. Nothing's going to happen either way, but there's always the feeling of safety you get.

(ii) You don't need to feel sad. If you do - because everyone does - then there's always somebody there to hold you. And being held, even while crying, is - as we all know - often the best sort of cure. Plus, you're in bed with somebody, so it's much more difficult to feel sad.

(iii) Heat. There's more heat, and if you are naked, there's even more of this than usual. In the winter months, you can feel much hotter when you're entangled with someone else's limbs. Honest. And in the summer months, you're more likely to be hot together, so you've got someone to complain to. Win/win, dudes!

(iv) Sex.

(v) More sex.

(vi) It's easier to sleep after sex. I don't know why - it may be a physical, mental or spiritual thing. Frankly, I don't care what it is. All I know is that I can fall asleep soon (but not immediately - 'cause I care) after sex, and so can she, and I don't tend to sleep much otherwise.

And with the rejuvenation of energy, the relaxation that sleep brings, and the fact that you're getting closer to another day, which will start with you waking up next to someone, this certainly gets a gold star from me, for sure...

Domestic bliss. ILB style.

Wednesday, 26 November 2008

Y is for... Young

I was sitting with some esteemed colleagues of mine during one of our rare breaks. In our new job, we don't get enough breaks, and if you have an hour for lunch you don't get any breaks in the afternoon. You have to forefeit 15 minutes of luncheoning time if you want any hope of afternoon coffee. There also isn't any coffee, but that's beside the point.

Anyway, we started discussing HIV - as you do. We were talking about the relative merits of not having AIDS even if you do have HIV, and how you can get it. I didn't mention that I'd found most of the stuff out from Green Arrow, but we did eventually get around to the subject of sex education and our embarrassed year 9 teachers. (Or in my case, our super-smooth, slightly suspicious year 9 teacher who finished a lesson with, "sex is wonderful.")

I had sex education three times - once in year 5 (but I was sick that day so I missed the video), once in year 7 and once in year 9 - which was all about HIV and very little to do with sex at all. As I was saying to my friends, year 5 is probably too late to start sex education. It's a taboo thing that's dirty until you hit 11 and is then automatically something you're not getting and that's unfair. My suggestion was year 3, in which you're eight years old, precocious and unshockable. You see, I've known about sex since the age of two; ergo, the concept was nothing new to me. I was still a little weirded out by why anyone would want to do it, until the age of about 11, but at least I knew.

Kids who didn't know were totally confused and sickened and used sex as an insult. And the one kid who found out about sex in year 7 was so fucked up by it that his approach to the girls in my class was totally unacceptable.
And that's why you're too old. Letting year 3 kids know about sex - not exactly throwing it in your face, but developing some learning about love and relationships to begin with, and building upon that - would be a much better idea, because by the time they got around to having sex themselves, they'd know what to do, and be ready.
We have the highest teenage pregnancy rate in Europe, and continental Europe has better and earlier sex education. So there's a lesson to be learned from that.

My colleagues didn't agree with me, exactly. But I'm sticking to my guns about this, because - let's be fair - I know about sex and education. And I think it's a good idea, personally...

Tuesday, 25 November 2008

X is for... XXX

Few things are XXX these days. Movies, in fact, are never XXX. There isn't a rating called XXX. Soft porn is always 18, and if you wander into a sex shop and buy a hardcore video, the highest it will be is R18, which is basically the same certificate, except blue and in a square shape. Books aren't XXX, they're just shelved under 'erotic fiction' in a dark corner of Waterstone's with little symbols on the side to denote their contents. And pictures, no matter how far the fist goes into the vagina, can never be XXX.

Probably because it isn't defined. People use XXX as an all-encompassing term for something which is so sexually explicit it borders on offensive, but then again it's also used to describe something which is so sexually explicit that it's titillating. And then, what is sexually explicit? If you're a naïve 12-year-old, then probably anything with sex in it would be XXX. See some softcore erotica and then you'll think that lesbian softcore is XXX, because you don't see any penises when there are men involved, but you see at least a beaver... and then you look at hardcore... and on and on the mazy dance goes. If you're so dipped into depravity that you've got nothing left to see, then what is XXX for you? Three kisses?

There are sex blogs out there that chronicle their authors' escapades in, say, cybersex, which use the title "Warning: XXX Post". OK, so uttering a warning's all very well and good, but it's only cybersex, people. However explicit it gets doesn't make it XXX... or does it?

You see the problem? What I suppose I'm trying to say is... don't use the term. There are inherent weaknesses in something which is essentially an abstract concept. There are differences between simulated sex and actual sex realised, but then again the early softcore movies were made with the actors actually having sex, just shot in such a way that you didn't see anything vital, so even the borderlines there are blurred.

So, I wouldn't use the term 'XXX', because it means nothing. If it turns you on, it works for you. Don't bother your pretty little head wondering how to term it. Shut up and enjoy it, and if you still can't enjoy it, shut up anyway.

Monday, 24 November 2008

W is for... Watching

I'm not a voyeur, but I like watching other people have sex.

Er... okay, I'll need to explain that one... right, when I have sex, I have sex. It's the best. It's wonderful, amazing, fantastic and all other superlatives. But when I masturbate, it's not the best. It's good, but it's not the best and, frankly, it's just me and my hand. My imagination, good as it is, doesn't really help much, because - although I could paint a vivid picture of myself engaged in sex for England - it only serves to remind me that I am not, in fact, in the act of sexual intercourse; rather I am sitting in front of my computer, getting sexual thrills out of something that's actually supposed to be used for playing a guitar or writing a sonnet.

So, my masturbatory fantasies tend to revolve around other people - not me with other people, that's just wrong; nor people I know, even - just people in situations. They don't have to have names.
I guess that's what soft porn is, in many examples, and that's why I like it - I don't get off on the graphical depiction of sex itself (watching a cock go into a pussy... boring! The real thing's what I want...), rather on the situation that's being depicted. A servant with the new Sheriff of Nottingham (because she's had a long ride and needs 'satisfaction') is a lot more exciting for me than, say, Rocco and Jenna Jameson (because they are both pornstars and were paid to have sex beside a pool). I mean, where's the fun in that?

It's not that I can't make up these situations in my head. I can, and I will. But sometimes I want to enjoy myself when I'm tired, or cranky, or emotionally bereft... and I need a visual stimulus. And that's where the watching element comes in. So there we have it. Watching other people. So sue me!

[Nota Bené: I had another dream involving RS. In this one, Drinker was with me to begin with, and no sex occurred. RS just invited us to a party at her flat. We didn't even get to go. Huzzah for us!]

Sunday, 23 November 2008

V is for... Vaginal Sex, Family Guy on

Lois: Vaginal intercourse is...it..its just tops! It's the bee's knees Meg. Oh, when your rattle it around just right, oh my god! I mean, you remember when we had that old car with the bad shocks, and I used to take the old dirt road on purpose! Meg! Meg?

[Lois looks up to find Meg had left and Brian is standing outside the door]

Brian: I love you!

Saturday, 22 November 2008

U is for... Underneath

Although I am innocent, I am mostly dominant. I'm not ashamed to admit it; I like it on top. I like the missionary position, looking down at her underneath me and watching her body move as I move inside her. I like the feeling of lying there, on top of her. Feeling her under the weight of my chest, her soft skin, her breasts pushed down, and my face buried in her hair. I like that.

But there are occasions where I appreciate the occasional change of pace. I like to be underneath.

And you don't need to be submissive to be underneath. To be honest, you don't need to be either anyway, but if you want to be dominant, you can. You can either command or beg to be ridden. And that's what she's doing when she's on top of me... she's riding me.
That's the only accurate description for what may be daintily termed the astride position. She's on top. She's bouncing up and down, perhaps increasing in speed, and that's riding. No need for spurs and a hat - unless you're really kinky - but she's riding, and that's what feels good. Everything is reversed; I'm still looking at her, but upwards. There's better visibility, too; I can see her breasts, she can see my chest. I can see her skin, hold her sides, finger her clit. I can even kiss her if I sit up briefly. I can rub her nipples... and all the while, she's riding me, and my cock is deeper inside her than ever because, frankly, where else does it have to go? There's no out-and-in, there's just deep-and-very-deep.

So occasionally I say, baby, please ride me? And then I say, yeah, ride me like a cowgirl and don't stop! (Except I rarely say either of those things. I'm paraphrasing.) And sometimes I'm underneath, and I feel her collapse on top of me as she orgasms, and I come deep into her.

Or we flip over and I finish her off that way. You know, whatever works best.

Friday, 21 November 2008

T is for...Tunes

Just got back from a gig.

Yes, I do gigs. I'm in a band.

No, you can't know which one.

No, I don't use the name "Innocent Loverboy".

Yes, I did manage to sing, "I am in love with The Drinker."

Yes, this is a short post.

No, you're not getting any more.

Thursday, 20 November 2008

S is for... S. E. X.

So ran the final part of the plan for the end of chapter 3 of my dissertation. My dissertation's brief ran something along the lines of, "write the first half of a novel and then write about your writing." Since I've got the whole thing in a big black book next to me, it's easy to skim through the text and find my initial plan:

Sex; sleep. R crying. [R, by the way, is the main character in the novel.]

My more detailed plan reads:


S. E. X.

My first attempt at writing a sex scene was back at the tender age of 13, when I decided to write an erotic novel. I stole the ideas from softcore erotica I'd seen on L!VE TV, and wrote very innocent stuff describing nothing graphic:

...she was sitting on me, naked, and having an orgasm.

I remember writing it now, thinking I was so naughty. I probably was, now I consider it. Nevertheless, I never got any further than the first page, because I didn't know where it was going, and I also ran out of ideas after a few paragraphs. Within them, my main character had slept with two different girls, and seemed to have no depth whatsoever. But then again, I was 13, and with the opening line "I lay on the bed, making love to one of my more adventurous girlfriends, Rebecca," what can you expect?

Due to the fact that my dissertation was aimed at young adults, I thought that actually writing about sexual intercourse may be a bit over-the-line - I am all for depiction of sexual intercourse and the lack of a stigma associated with it, but this was a comedy detective novel and very little to do with making the lurve - ergo, I tried to find a way of implying that R had sex with C [his girlfriend], without writing it. And I ended up with:

She will fall silent, eventually, and look into my eyes. I'll feel them start to fill with tears, and my love will lean forwards to kiss me.
Tomorrow night will consist mostly of lying awake and fighting off tears while I watch my love sleep, but for that moment, I will be glad of a slight distraction from my problems, as her hands slowly begin to undo the buttons on her shirt…

Does that turn you on? 'Cause, you know, it shouldn't, really.

But still, all that from three letters? Shocking!

Wednesday, 19 November 2008

R is for... Reading

My lover is ill. That sucks, because it sucks being ill and (if you haven't worked this out already) my new job, which I start TOMORROW, involves making people better, and because I have to be here and she has to be there, I can't actually be there to try and make her better. And that really sucks.

I've been doing the best I can, and my most recent idea was to continue what I've been doing recently, and that's to read her chapters of a book, like a parent reading to a child at bedtime, except she isn't a child and I'm not a parent. (Yet. Maybe at some point in the future, who knows?) I started this venture over the weekend, when she was feeling sick and I recommended The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge; opinion is divided as to its merits, but you can't argue with the fact that its descriptive powers are exemplary, and the setting and characters are as sweet at Lush Snow Fairy. Plus, I read it over a year ago and I loved it, and regretted not reading it at 8, its target age. I may get a copy for my young cousins, actually...

So I started reading it to her. It's actually a very loving thing to do. There I was, sitting in a double bed with a naked girl next to me, and I was reading her a children's novel. And she was listening to my voice, and grinning at the gentle humour, and I, being an actor and all, was doing all the voices and reading in my 'soft, descriptive' slightly middle-class voice.

And she called me today.

I didn't know what to do, because I can hardly send healing powers through the mobile lines. But my heart gave me a squeeze and the idea of reading her another chapter came to me. And so I vaulted over to the bed, and proceeded to continue with The Little White Horse - and we were both back in Moonacre for the next 15 minutes.

And if that isn't love, what is?

Tuesday, 18 November 2008

Q is for... Quixotic

Just off the tail-end of a planned weekend with my girl, which turned into an evening, weekend, and oneandahalf days. It's difficult to let go of someone when...

a) they're not feeling well
b) they don't want you to let go of them
c) both of the above

...so I didn't push the matter too hard. Nevertheless, everything comes to an end at some point, except love into eternity and seemingly the Iraq War, and so I dropped her off at the station today and proceeded to get on with the mundane life that is, without her, mundane.

I thought of...

i) the new job that I start at the end of the week, and what that may bring
ii) the creative/expressive venture that I am planning for Friday evening
iii) the pub tonight to catch up with friends
iv) the play I'm in

...and then, of...

v) the girlfriend, and how I'm going to see her again on Friday
vi) the opportunities that may be around for Christmas and New Year
vii) the proposed holiday together for romancing and schmoozing
viii) the fun we had seeing The 39 Steps last night

...and, flighty thoughts though they may be, they all brought me hope; they all made me feel a little better. And through it all, it's experiencing love that allows me to have these thoughts... and that numbs the pain. Slightly.

So I say to myself, sincerely for once: "Dream on."

Monday, 17 November 2008

P is for... Penis

It's an odd thing, the phallus. An elongated clitoris attached to a mass of erectile tissue reminiscent of a bundle of His. It ejects urine and semen (as well as Cowper's gland fluid - precum, to use the common parlance) and fills up with blood when it's happy. It sounds absolutely disgusting, and yet it's a wonderful thing, in so many ways.

The feeling you get when sexually aroused is rather strange, but it's also one of the best feelings in the world. There's a tingling sensation starting in the testes (and you must not forget the testes, my Best Beloved), which is like an aura heralding the build-up of an erection. This then comes with alarming force, because you don't actually feel the blood rushing into your penis. It's just hard all of a sudden.

There's the common myth that a guy can't control his penis, or stop its, ahem, 'growth'. It's sometimes difficult to; even exposing it to the outer air may cause its stimulation. But there is a way. It involves thinking about dead kittens, really old nuns and Amy Winehouse.

And then there's ejaculation. According to Wikipedia:

As a man nears orgasm during stimulation of the penis, he feels an intense and highly pleasurable pulsating sensation of neuromuscular euphoria. These pulses begin with a throb of the anal sphincter and travel to the tip of the penis. They eventually increase in speed and intensity as the orgasm approaches, until a final "plateau" of pleasure sustained for several seconds, the orgasm.

Both true and false. The throb of the anal sphincter happens, but because of the mental (and/or spiritual, depending on what you want to believe) state you're in during orgasm, you tend not to notice it travelling from there. You do, however, experience the throb when it gets to the head, which is essentially the male clitoris, and as you reach orgasm, you get semen... except if it's a dry orgasm. I've always found both to be pleasurable - in fact, a dry orgasm can often be more pleasurable, whereas a wet orgasm produces the liquid, which is always fun to clear up. Although I've never seen it shoot. It shoots out too quickly, so there's the odd moment of confusion wherein it's not there... and then it is.

A wet orgasm's better during sex, though. Nothing like filling your partner up. Oh, indeed.

And it's all centred around the penis, as well. I mean, yes, there are all the other feelings I've discussed before, but during orgasm, you may end up flying on silver wings, but it's the penis that actually has the orgasm. The rest of you just... helps.

So, yes, sometimes it's annoying, often it's embarrassing, and it even gets in the way at points, but I'm beginning, after years, to be thankful that I'm a boy. I may even, one day, get around to agreeing with the Monty Python guys. Isn't it awfully nice to have a penis?

Answers on a postcard!

Sunday, 16 November 2008

O is for... Oops!

A Western businessman was on a business trip with his colleague, who had a beautiful Japanese girlfriend. He was an unscrupulous man, and decided to seduce the Japanese lady. Sure enough, he managed to work his oily charms, and soon after, love-making began.

"Wakusima," cried the Japanese lady. "Wakusima!"

The businessman, thinking he was being congratulated for his prowess, kept going to the cries of wakusima, until it was all over. Proud, he returned to his conference with a swagger.

The following day, he was playing golf with his colleague. His colleague hit the ball a little too hard, and it sailed across the course, and after bouncing off a rock, it landed in the wrong hole.


The businessmen were surprised. "Damn, wrong hole," said the colleague. His girlfriend agreed; she nodded vigrously, "wakusima!"

As amusing as this little story is, it does raise some questions for the curious. Is there such a thing as a 'wrong' hole? It may not be exactly the hole you were aiming for, but is it wrong? Most reliable sources have told me that to have the aforementioned 'wrong hole' invaded is perfectly pleasurable (if a little unusual). But if she likes it, is it a mistake?

After all, mistakes necessitate innovation. There's a lot of kink in the world, and that leads me to wonder how certain practices got started... I seriously doubt that hitting somebody with a riding crop actually came about as a sexually provocative act to begin with - and tying somebody up almost certainly wasn't - but both are widely done now, and 99% guaranteed to be in any video Kaori Shimizu has appeared in.

Also, if a mistake is something wrong, does that mean that kink is wrong? That such sexual practises which deviate from the 'normal' (hence the 'oops, wrong hole' excuse) are wrong? Maybe a different definition should be applied - not 'right', per se, but perhaps 'right-in-a-different-way', or 'right-but-I-thought-it-was-wrong-to-begin-with-turns-out-I-was-wrong-oh-what-fun' (abbreviated, of course, to LULZ).

So, in the interest of public interaction, I'm going to open this one up to THE AUDIENCE! Have any of you lovely readers had a mishap that's turned out not to be a mishap after all? I'm pretty sure we'd love to hear about it... but if there aren't any mishaps to report, here's a definite example of someone who needs to pay more attention...

Shocking, isn't it?

Saturday, 15 November 2008

N is for... Night

Correct me if I'm wrong, but there appears to be an unwritten law that proposes the night as the official time to be having sex. There's nobody that's ever actually said this to me, but let's be honest here: even if you have the filthiest of one-track minds, it seems to be the natural thing that you think more about sex during the night. It just happens. Maybe it's the pent-up, unreleased sexual energy of the day coming to their head, or maybe it's just the association with going to bed.

(Then again, who's to say that you have to have sex in bed? But that's a whole different debate...)

There is always the sex that you can have any time of the day. That frantic, sleepy morning sex. The lunchtime quickie. The afternoon in bed your preferred location of relations. Even the fantasist's fantastic post-dinner coitus on the table, providing the candles you've knocked over haven't set fire to the house. And I'm not saying I prefer night-time sex... it's just the almost-traditional factor that gives it its charm. (That, and the fact that everyone else is asleep, so you're being somewhat naughty by not conforming to that, naturally!)

I always sleep naked, but even if you don't, there's the fact that - unless you are Sid from Toy Story - you take your clothes off before getting into pyjamas/bed. And last night, despite her tantalising hint, I wasn't fully expecting The Drinker to be wearing anything more than slightly sexy underwear. I wasn't expecting, however, a lacy, red and black, tight supporting and very sexy corset to be wrapped around her torso. But there it was, and after close and purely observational exploration, I concluded it to be real.

It stayed on.

And if it weren't night time, we may well have been having sex, but it wouldn't have had the lack of light - which, as I'm sure you can imagine, added to the charmplusplus - nor would clothes have had to come off.

And to support that statement, let's imagine for a moment that they just may have stayed on, had it not been night time...

...no? Me neither.

Friday, 14 November 2008

M is for... Mysbehaviour, Mysery, and Myself

I feel sick.

I've been having some very vivid dreams recently. It's most likely the stress of my training/job/college (whatever you want to call it) that's getting to me. It's getting to everyone. The dreams that I've been having at nights have all been odd, whether they depict daring heroism, frustration ana dnager, or ethereal jaunts through odd places. Last night's dream, however, didn't actually have any of these elements. It only served to make me feel guilty.

I don't know why I dreamt it. It was very vivid, and I'm also very glad it was only a dream. However, in the dream, I willingly had sex with a specific person who was not only not my girlfriend, the lovely Drinker, but also a real person - I'll call her RS - who is one of my fellow students, and also a representative to the student council.

I'm not attracted to RS. She is attractive, but then again so are most of the girls on my course, and I'm infatuated with Drinker. I don't lust willingly after all and sundry, because frankly I don't need to. I can talk quite openly with them about relationships - as is my modus operandi, being ILB and all (in fact, a few days ago another girl, FL, felt quite safe enough to talk about her boy troubles with me, as girls tend to do) - but there's no attraction. There's, despite what When Harry Met Sally might suggest, just friendship here, and why not?

RS, interestingly, is married. I don't know why it was her - maybe my brain just picked out her because I respect her for being on the student council and I recently found out she was married? Or maybe ebcause she organises all the trips and outings for our group? I don't know. Whatever the reason, I had sex with her, and I immediately felt very guilty about it.

Then Drinker turned up, and RS immediately told her that we had had sex. Wracked with guilt and terrified of what might happen, I went and sat on the stairs (that appeared to be in this house we were in) and cried, loudly and heavily, for ages until I realised I wasn't going to do much good, so I went back into the room and told Drinker I wanted to talk to her. She then told me that RS had told her (even shown her the used condom), and I was expecting to be dumped (I was still crying). RS hugged me, but Drinker seemed to be quite happy about it. I was distressed, and I was left hanging as to what would happen to me because of this.

Then I woke up.

I felt awful, guilty, uncertain, and very sorry. It was all a dream, of course, a scandalous dream - but yet, it had all seemed so real. Here I was, lying in my bed, needing to go to college and with the promise that Drinker is actually going to be here soon - we're spending the weekend together - and I've just woken up for a dream in which I've betrayed her by sleeping with RS who, in reality, is a friend who is married.

I don't know why I'm so affected by this. I'd never cheat, especially as I've been cheated on and know how bad it feels. Plus, it was only a dream. But it was so vivid, and so realistic, and I was acting completely out-of-character in that I willingly had sex with somebody else. I felt as if I had really done it.

I still felt sick with myself, and physically so, as I walked down the road to catch a train to college. I was sitting almost directly behind RS all the way through class, and felt so bad about myself that I couldn't concentrate as much as I'd have liked. (Next to her was FL, which made me wonder about her boy troubles, and if they were better for her yet, which probably didn't help). I gave my closer friends a Bowlderised version of the story - I didn't mention sex, or RS - at the break, and they didn't understand why I was so upset, so guilty, so worked up about it... because it was only a dream.

But in the dream, I cheated.

On the girl I love.

And it felt real.

That's not me.

I feel sick.

Thursday, 13 November 2008

L is for... Laughter

Haha, you'd think I was going to write about love! I could (in fact, I do, a lot of the time) but I haven't mentioned sex for a bit, and something came up in the Metro this morning that made me laugh:

The adverts say 'try something new today' - but perhaps showing children 12 sex positions in a bath was not what Sainsbury's had in mind. Dozens of wide-eyed youngsters were given a book featuring the saucy tips for saving water by 'bathing with a friend' during a trip to a local store.
The book also encouraged readers to shave in intimate places, go streaking, chat up strangers and hand out your phone number to five people on the street.

I read that twice to check I wasn't hallucinating (I had only got up half an hour earlier). I did actually read that.

Angry father Andrew Dodd, 37, heard daughter Laura, eight, giggling with friends. "I did not find the book to be offensive, but I thought it was extremely inappropriate to give it to children. On the having fun in the bath pages there were drawings of about 12 sexual positions. The teachers were as horrified as we were then they saw it."

Maybe, but I'd find it amusing back when I was a teacher...

Fay Trussler, headteacher at Burton End School in Haverhill, Suffolk, which took the 42 pupils out of the visit, said: "We informed Sainsbury's and it was understood the book was not age appropriate." Sainsbury's apologied, saying the book - How To Change The World For £5 - was intended for an adult market...

That'll be right.

...and has sent Laura a £30 voucher.

Good on them, I suppose, although this is a good point to suggest that perhaps if we, as the British, were less abashed at this sort of thing, and more open about sex (like our neighbours in continental Europe), then we may have a lot less teenage pregnancy and STD distribution. But you all know that anyway.
I'm secretly hoping Laura buys six of those books with her voucher, though. And sends one to me. I'd like to see what the positions are... because that's how my mind works!

Wednesday, 12 November 2008

K is for... Kisses

Kissing is amazing. We all know it's amazing - the physical act of skin against skin, lips against lips - it's all fantastic. When my lovely girl departs my company, the last ghost of her kisses slowly dies on my lips... and eventually, fades completely, the last vestiges of her visit remaining in my mind. It's all very sad, and there are tales, as yet untold, of tears appearing unheralded in my eyes under the effects of a ghosted kiss and whatever may be on my iPod. But at least there has been a kiss...

...and then we have the humble x.

It's a fantastic letter, x. The kissing sound at the end of rex, tex-mex and sex, the great unknown in the dreaded world of mathematics, and the humble kiss at the end of a piece of text. Oh, and it looks good. (In fact, the only time I don't like x is when it's after an e. "Ex" bothers me. Thanfully, my ex doesn't bother me any more.)

I've gotten into the habit of putting an x to signify a kiss at the end of every text to my girlfriend. I don't generally do it to anyone else... most girls, I've noticed, seem to do this to everyone, but I save my kisses for special people. My best female friend, H, is special and I don't even send her kisses. (But it'd be a bit weird if I did, let's face it...) I sometimes have to backtrack and undo a kiss I did automatically. I'm also having to re-learn, on account of the fact that I've changed phones recently, and my thumb was already used to the configuration of keys you need to press to get a lower-case x after a full stop.

But I digress. Sometimes I've worked around the idea that it's a habit - because kisses are special - by adding extra kisses, or odd combinations like "x times 10 to the power of 3". I even got a card once reading "one hundred and fifty-sex kisses", which is still looking at me from my wardrobe. And you add kisses to the end of e-mails, written letters (which are fantastic because you can hold the things bearing kisses), and even Facebook messages. Except that's a little weird, but still sweet.

The problem with this x-positioning is that they're all virtual kisses, even if they're not via a virtual message. They are sad, lonely pretend kisses. I've noticed, as you probably all have yourselves, that if you miss someone more than usual, you send them more pretend kisses at the end of the message. So I've come up with a solution to stop myself from being sad at an x that isn't a real kiss.

I see it as a promise.

Not a keepsake, or a wish, or a memory. I like to see the kisses I get as a promise - a sign of a real kiss that is yet to come. A simple letter that symbolises so much more, and something I know I will be getting in the future.

Wistful? Probably. But can you blame me? I'm a lover both inside and out, and if I can convey promises of kisses in what I write, then why shouldn't I?

Why not, indeed?

Lots of love,
ILB. x

Tuesday, 11 November 2008

J is for... Jogging, Memory-

I exited one campus after this morning's session and started to decide between walking to the next and having lunch. My eyes latched onto the nearest Subway, and therein came my decision to have lunch and then maybe possibly think about starting to perhaps meander towards the beginning of an effort to get to the next campus, if the inclination came my way.

I bade a quick farewell to my mate, who was going to Westminster to catch a tubular transportation device, and stepped out into the plaza. And that's when it happened... for a brief moment, a London wind blew across Westminster Bridge and caught me in the face. It whipped my hair back gently and brough with it a peculiar scent, like a cross between a city and a university campus.

And in that moment, with that scent and that feeling, and the conversations I've been having recently... it all just came back. It rushed back into me, and filled me with a buoyancy I haven't felt for weeks.

That faint interest, the intrigue, the security... that time of confusion, the frantic late-night first trip to Oxford, the sights, sounds and scents it brought to me. The now-familiar, but complicated streets I can drift through on my own now, and the room I ended up in - the bed I ended up in - and the valuable connection I now have... it all came flowing back to me, and my mind was a whirl of colour and sound for but a few seconds.

I breathed in, sighed blissfully, looked across at London, and then walked on into the plaza, feeling ten times more elated than I probably looked.

Monday, 10 November 2008

I is for... Inside

I've talked about words before. I have also talked about exploration. The fact that the phrase "inside me" turns me on more than many other things both links the two and also casts doubt on my mental state. Awesome!

I think the reason that the very idea of being 'inside' someone gets me going is that it seems so unlikely. It doesn't even seem natural (even though it's a natural fact of life and all); it's somewhat taboo to put something inside somebody else - a knife, for example, usually leads to prison. Unless you're in the army... because then it's apparently okay. But I digress; putting something into somebody is weird enough, but when you put yourself into somebody else, that's some sort of freaky paradox.

I'll admit that during sex (and I'll assume you are a boy and they are a girl; if you, like most ILB readers, are a girl, kindly reverse this assumption) you're not actually putting yourself into somebody else; you are, in fact, putting a bit of yourself into somebody else - be it your tongue, your finger, or your cock (anything else you can think of, let me know...) - ergo, the sentence "I want you inside me", while enticing to say the least, is a bit of a falsehood, because what she actually wants is your cock inside her. But, for some reason, I don't find "I want your penis inside me" quite as enticing.

There's that chat-up line, isn't there - "You have 206 bones inside you... would you like one more?" - which, while it makes me laugh, is a little worse. You may as will rip your penis off and hand it to her, or buy her a dildo. The reason I like "you inside me" is that the sentence admits that your cock is, in fact, a part of you. You are having sex with her, because you are inside her.

And then there's the other thing - inside her. Well, you're not, really. You're inside her vagina, and to that effect, her inside womb, with those wet muscular walls contracting around you and...

....sorry, fazed out for a moment there...

...you're not actually inside her whole body. It's a part of her body, and a pre-defined part of it at that. But that's sort of what I like about the phrase. You are well aware that during sex, a part of you is inside a part of her, and yet the phrase states that you are inside her. It's amazing. There's more of a connection there - maybe even a spiritual connection. If you're that way inclined, then you could suggest that, even though you're linked in the 'special area', your souls join too. It's slushy and maybe a little too Disney, but there's a possibility! Why else would it feel so right?

So, I may use the phrase more often. "I want to have sex with you" is a bit too direct for an ILB to say outright; "I want to make love to you" is more my style. But howsabout "I want to be inside you - deep inside you"? Does that turn you on?

Works for me, anyway.

Sunday, 9 November 2008

H is for... Happy

Happiness is an emotion which, for a long time, only existed in my memory. I suppose I must have had a happy childhood, but I'm not sure. I can't remember a lot of it. I may still have my innocence, but my childhood... I don't know when that disappeared. I remember being one and a half, lying on the floor of my old house reading a book. I remember most of my secondary school, most of my primary school and my sixth form, by which time I was no longer a child, and no longer happy.

Being in love makes me happy. I was brought back from the brink of a pointless existence by my ability to love, and to feel it back. I now realise that my declaration of celibacy at the age of 11 was probably a little premature, as I started thinking about sex a couple of months later, and got a crush on a girl. I didn't have wet dreams, I didn't masturbate. My ideas about sex all seemed to involve being sealed into a special machine in order to have sex for years on end (if that's not a fetish, I don't know what is). But above all that, I felt my heart squeeze.

And then I stopped being happy.

I dragged my way through school following heartache after heartache. I never asked anyone out, because rejection destroys me. I tried once; it took me a year to get the courage to do it, and I got a rejection, prompting a brief suicide attempt. Where was the love? I was in love (or thought I was), but it was only making me sad. I had counselling for years. I was even put on drugs at university, but they had no effect. I think I can get by without putting stuff into my body.

The happiest times of my life have been when I experience reciprocated love. With Rebecca, I felt more free, more alive. (In fact, towards the end with Rebecca I felt like I needed to tread carefully. I was a different person back then. Maybe I was happy, but deludedly so. Whatever. It's in the past.) With Drinker, more recently, things have been fantastic. My inspiration has come back - I've left my previous job and now in training for another. I'm writing a lot more, and my muse has returned - you should hear the songs.

I'm not generally a happy person. Not really at all. My default setting is "mediocre". But over the last year or so, I've started to appreciate more things. I'm enjoying more things - when I look back at me, between the age of 14-20, I didn't really enjoy much at all. Fair enough, I was a teenager. But still. Now, I've carved myself a niche. Starting ILB was a good decision because, apart from anything else, I can express myself without fear or regret here. I'm not trying to appease anyone.

And so I let my loving side come out, I wrote about it, and I fell in love. And now I'm in a better place.

So I may not be happy by nature, but by conviction, I'm beginning to think it. Maybe at some point in the future I'll begin to feel it, not in short bursts like I usually do, but over longer periods of contented time.

Saturday, 8 November 2008

G is for... Grin

While I was at university, I was a staff member for our newspaper. I reviewed computer games - I even got free ones sometimes, but they were all shit. But I enjoyed it - because I like games, and I like writing, and I was a close friend of the editor, so I used to pop into the office to chat to him once in a while. I was, however, a little surprised that, in the first issue he edited, he included a full-colour spread on what your orgasm face meant. (This was, it turns out, a cunning advertising placement by Trojan, and in retaliation I've always bought Durex.) I was a little interested - and bored - so I read it.

According to the article - and, surprisingly, this tallies with my personal experience - one of the best things your partner can do (assuming they are a girl, and I've just realised how sexist this article was) in bed is to giggle, or at the very least break into a smile, during orgasm. I like it when that happens.

Not least because people - the obvious exceptions being myself and, for the record, Lord Voldemort - look better when they smile. I've never had sex with someone I consider unattractive, of course, but there's something about the act of a broad grin unfurling on somebody's face that really brings out their beauty in multi-layered ways. My girlfriend looks utterly radiant when she smiles, and there's a definite cheeky grin there post-orgasm (during orgasm, I'm usually too busy doing other things, like continuing to do whatever it was I was doing before because I'm unstoppable, or something like that).

There's also the point of looking at the other person during sex (missionary, or astride, are good positions for this, and also coincidentally my favourites - it's good to see who you're making love to), and seeing a smile on their face, assuming they're not a girl in a Hentai game and will accordingly look like they're in extreme pain. You can moan through your mouth, but I think it's nigh on impossible to have passionate sex and keep a straight, serious face all the way through, and while drawing breath (which you have to do at some point - airway, breathing, circulation) you may well smile without knowing it. Fun, eh?

And then there's tickling. Now, I'm probably the most ticklish person in the whole world, but even if you're not, during orgasm all your nerves increase in sensitivity, and if you touch, well, anywhere (but let's say a specific place) immediately following its subsidence, you can make your partner laugh - usually accompanied by a squirm and a remonstration, but it's a laugh, and all in good fun! You can probably even kick off an aftershock that way, which I like doing, too.

So, yeah, an open mouth and a loud moan - well, that's fine, but it's more likely to be faked (although, in all likelihood, probably); a giggle, or even a grin - that's apparently the best reaction to get. Maybe it sounds odd, but it's certainly worthwhile. The best thing is, you don't need to try - it comes automatically...

...except if they are laughing at you. I hadn't considered that.

Friday, 7 November 2008

F is for... Fuck

I had a very immature music class in year 8. They were, in fact, my form group, but as we weren't streamed for music, we had the classes in those groups. They were quite immature to the point of about 8 loud-mouthed reprobates doing an ABC game about sex while our long-suffering fourth music teacher was attempting to take a register.

Idiots... you do an ABC game about sex in your own time.

Anyway, they got to F and said, out loud, "F is for Fuck." Our teacher looked at them, scandalised, but didn't manage to say anything more than a stuttering "excuse me" before they sank back into their sordid, twisted game that I then played after school on my own.

What's a fuck?

That's an actual question. There's a lot of discussion about it. Abby Lee uses it a lot, while Todger Talk use "shag" and I'll use "sex" or even "making love" (the latter phrase turns me on). So I throw the question open: what, to you readers, does "fuck" mean? And, if it maeans something different from the general act of sexual intercourse... ever fucked anyone?

Thursday, 6 November 2008

E is for... Excitement

(With apologies to Elizabeth).

The feeling of sexual excitement is a good one, even if you're not getting any sexual gratification. It can be on the sly at work, or even just at home - in fact, you can be sexually aroused anywhere, providing your mind is inclined that way. I remember letting my thoughts wander and suddenly feeling horny halfway through watching Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. But I digress.

I guess it must be different for girls. For a boy, if you feel horny, you eventually get an erection. It's not instant (as the rumourmongers would have you believe), but you'll get an erection, and soon, after the first moments of feeling turned on. Maybe a willing girl will explain how you feel when turned on in a public place?

Anyway, there's that jolt in your stomach you get just when you:
(i) realise you have a crush
(ii) see someone you think is attractive
(iii) begin to feel horny
It's not the same jolt. Just before I get a real craving for it, my stomach radiates a dull, pleasant sensation, which is different from the nervous, sharp flip you feel during situation one. Nevertheless, it's pleasant, but a little guilty; every now and again, I think to myself something like, "I might masturbate when I get home," or "I had sex last night, wasn't that great?" or even "hey, I have that new soft porn DVD I haven't watched yet" (even though I haven't bought one of those for ages...), and before anything else, there are butterflies starting to stir.

I don't know why. It's got to be a psychosomatic thing. Your vision might go blurry before a migraine - a migraine aura - so maybe this is a "sexual excitement aura"? Something which says to me, "you are about to be hard". (Or, "you are about to be wet"? Sexual equality, and all!) And it lasts anything from a few seconds to however-long-you-can-go before surrendering and actually becoming sexually aroused (like during my A-Level History exam... stomach felt great, but had to keep bringing myself back to World War II, which wasn't as appealing as Lisa Boyle in Friend of the Family just then...).

It's often scooted over in favour of portraying people in a heightened state of sexual arousal. But there are those vital moments just before you're excited, those moments when you know you're about to be...

...and isn't that an exciting prospect?

Wednesday, 5 November 2008

D is for... Desperation

Back in the days when I was single - young and free also come into the equation somewhere, but I'm not sure where - I experienced practically the same longing as everyone else in their 20s who isn't in a stable relationship did. I questioned the fact that I may (or may not) have been getting enough sex. Many (in fact, most) other people I talked to were asking themselves the same question, the only difference being that they (not all, but again, most) went for the occasional shag, and got it. I was the opposite.

Kind of the opposite. I had the occasional success, which you'll have read about if you've been following ILB for as long as... well... as long as I have, but in practially all cases, it ended up as a failure. One crap shag, one total lack of action, and one weekend of ecstasy followed by a mass of confusion, hurt, and pain. Oh, and a girlfriend. That one's not so bad at all.

But it's difficult for an innocent loverboy to get his foot in the door, if you consider all the methods I tried. I can't go up to a random person and ask them out (I've never successfully asked anyone out; once, and I got a rejection, so I gave up trying), I don't like bars too much so I can't do the 'hopping thing that ranndom-Swedish-girl-living-in-Denmark told me she did, and as I've said before, internet dating is risky at best, and at worst ended up with me having my identity stolen.
Add that to the fact that my profile on sex dating websites went something like, "well, actually I'm not just looking for sex; it would be nice but I also like listening to music and dancing and going to the theatre...", and you can probably understand why.

So understandably, I was desperate once or twice. It's been said by countless people that I've talked to that once you've started, it's hard to stop. But what if you're forced to stop? What if you just can't get any? It's interesting, but also frustrating, what desperation will drive you to. So... I started a sex blog. It was my way to get my views and frustrations out without offending the masses.
And in a weird way, it also meant I got some sex.

I'm older and wiser now, not to mention the fact that I love someone very much. We have sex, as part of a relationship. But there are, as we all know, other factors in a relationship - and without them, as I learned the difficult way, sex just isn't as fantastic as we all know it can be. I'm beginning to wonder (crave physical action as much as I did over half a year back) if it wasn't, in fact, the whole package that I was desperate for after all.

Tuesday, 4 November 2008

C is for... Confusion

There's nobody in the world who isn't, at certain points, confused by people, whether they love them or not. I'm not saying that my lover confuses me - in fact, I often feel like we understand each other a lot more than anyone thinks (I am, at this point, tempted to start with, "Hello, I'm a Mac / and I'm a PC..."). There are, however, certain points wherein I suddenly think, "hang on, I didn't understand that". To be honest, I like that.

I'm not a fan of ambiguity. But I occasionally like it. There seems to be a culture of trying to work someone out hovering around these days, and maybe there shouldn't be. With regards to my relationship, I'm consistently puzzled by the fact that she seems to find me attractive! But, yes. I am also referring to mood-swings that don't only happen to us, but also to everyone else (H has a huge capacity for changing moods very quickly) - it's a natural human thing, right?

I'm sure she was probably confused by my extremely grumpy, upset mood last night when we were having dinner - I'd had a very bad day, but most people get over it after a while. Go for me, the loser!

The reason I'm writing about confusion, however (finally getting to my point), is that I'm trying to stress the fact that you can be as confused as you like about anyone, but that doesn't mar your relationship with them - be they a friend, a lover or a colleague (except if it's a colleague, they're probably trying to confuse you, in which case I recommend Blast-Ended Skrewts pointed in their direction). You may be confused by their mood, actions, attitudes, et ceteri, but that doesn't take away the fact that they're lovely. Maybe you should try being politely baffled, in fact... I think it's quite endearing.

At least, it is when I do it, anyway.

Do you remember that old TV show,
"Arthur C Clarke's Mysterious World?"
Well, if ITV make a new series,
They ought to come take a look at my girl...
I don't understand her,
She doesn't make any sense to me...
I don't understand her,
But she's as lovely as she can be!


(Neil Hannon / The Divine Comedy)

Monday, 3 November 2008

B is for... Beauty

With the kind of day I've had so far - one of the worst mornings in my life - it's hard to appreciate anything right now. I am, however, battling (or, more to the point, cradling my head in my hands, dissolving into tears and hoping it will all go away) through the day, with the promise of a romantic dinner with my girlfriend this evening, and that is what makes me think of... beauty.

Physical beauty, people say, is only skin deep. I'm not entirely sure I'd agree - yes, there is such a thing as a good-looking person. I wouldn't say I'm one of those, but that's because I'm me. My girl says she isn't either, and I think she's fucking gorgeous. (Both sets of parents say she is, too, so she's outvoted - ha!) And yes, physical beauty goes a longer way than people make out - "you have a great personality" sounds nice, but it's an overused cliché. Particularly if you don't actually have a great personality.

I'm going to be a git now and say that I once knew a person who was not physically attractive, and she was also a bitch. Wheh she got pregnant in secondary school we were all wondering how anyone would go near her - and I can promise you we weren't referring to her unsightly appearance.

However, there is a great deal of internal beauty - as I'm sure B
ê
te de Jour would agree - and that comes through in things other than personality. Yes, personality is a factor, but there's also a different kind of aesthetic beauty that comes through in things like poetry, music, prose style, dance, acting, film and other art forms (in fact, art is perhaps the greatest expression of beauty). Consider Stardust. Pan's Labyrinth. Even a romantic movie, like... let's say Pretty Woman. There's beauty heaped into these films, and all my friends could talk about was the amount of violence. That's just missing the point!

I'm sure you're all intelligent enough people to appreciate the beauty that comes from a person - I damn sure appreciate it - but then there's the bauty that comes from the aesthetic, the creative, from the surroundings and feelings that channel through the world. I'd invite you know to take a moment to close your eyes, breathe heavily, and try to pick up on whatever your interpretation of beauty might be. It's there somewhere. Maybe closer than you think. You probably don't even need to look.

Sunday, 2 November 2008

A is for... Anticipation

I don't like to wait; it's not good for me. It's not good for anyone, really. Or anything. Waiting for something bad is probably the worst. I'm waiting to do this ghastly maths test on Wednesday. I have maths, hence the ghastly. I'd rather do it now. Get it over with. It's the uncertainty of waiting for something that I don't like. There's also waiting to go on when you're an actor, or musician or somesuch. You get jealous watching people do their lines - your turn in the spotlight comes and you have to make it the best you can. That's when I like to shine, if I can at all.

Then there's waiting for your lover... and that's difficult.

It doesn't really matter how long-distance your relationship is. You can be 'round the corner, in two cities close to each other, or on the other end of the country... hell, you could even be in different countries. You know when you are going to meet them, and it's the moment you wait somewhere for them, purely to see them, that's both difficult and wonderful in equal measure.

That's where the anticipation comes in.

It's not just sex you're waiting for. In fact, it isn't really sex at all. If sex didn't exist, it wouldn't be any different (unless you're inclined to wrestle your lover onto the ground in a public place and do it right there and then, for all you horny people who can't wait to get home, or find a private corner somewhere in a park or something)... you'd still be waiting for your lover.

And it's not even love you're waiting for. You're in love. Or at the very least you have a crush. You're not suddenly going to run out of those feelings because your lover isn't there. (If you do run out of love, just make some more!) What you're waiting for is the opportunity to express it. The warm cuddles of your lover. The kisses. The feeling of skin against skin. The trips to the theatre, cinema, shops, park, kitchen. The days where you don't do anything because you're not inclined to. The way their hand feels in yours. The smiles, the laughter, perhaps the tears that you kiss away. The feeling of contentment, perhaps those short bursts wherein you think that, actually, it isn't that bad; maybe everything will be okay after all.

That's what you're waiting for.

And because you know it's happening, you're waiting there for it. It's going to happen; you're there at the train station (or in the car or the coach or waiting at home or whatever) and it's so close - they're so close - it's almost tangible.

It sometimes seems that when you need some love, they're never there. But when your lover is coming, or you're going to see them, it's an inevitability. You will be together. You may be breathless, you may be giddy, you may even be sulky, fed up, sick. You may be excited, bracing, energetic, whatever. You are in anticipation. The very tip of the iceberg. It's a nervous, tentative state...

...but when your lover arrives, you can start the slide down, and that's what you've been waiting for.

Saturday, 1 November 2008

Go! Go! NaBloPoMo!

This could be one of the stupidest things I've ever done, but why not?

It's NaNoWriMo. I'd take part in that, but I don't have the time. Besides, I can't write novels. I've only ever finished one, and my mother didn't like it. I write short stories, poetry and songs. Oh, and a sex blog.

However, I decided to do something a little different this month, and so I've dedicated November to the curious NaBloPoMo - post once every day for a month. You choose which month, so November it is! (Oh, and thanks to 'mimbles' from NaBloPoMo for doing the badge I'm using!)

Because I'm Innocent Loverboy, this month is going to take a rather alphabetical theme. That is to say, every day I'm going to tackle a love/sex-related topic which begins with a letter of the alphabet. You know, like Maddox' book The Alphabet of Manliness. Except a lot better.

So, welcome to my month of total lack of sense, and welcome to NaBloPoMo - we start, tomorrow, with A!