Monday, 28 December 2009

Marked Change

So, ths blog has been running for over two years, and so it's time for a change. I think we've all had enough of slightly perverted, peurile humour, and so it's out with that. In 2010 it's all going to be deadly serious, and...

...I'm sorry, I've just come.

Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes. 2010 is going to be a very important year for me because not only do I qualify in a few months, I'll inevitably be moving onto pastures new in lots of ways - hopefully moving into a new place, at least! - and I need a more refreshed attitude. So, accordingly, I'm going to take a more highbrow approach to these...

...I'm sorry, I've just come again. Give me a second, will you?

Right, that's that cleaned up. So... starting in 2010, this blog will take sex as the serious, no-nonsense business it is. There will be no frivolity or frills as I grow up into a mature, well-balanced person. No jokes, no laughs, no snark, and most certainly no irrelevant tangents...

...Ooh! That one nearly blew my socks off!

So I hope you will all appreciate my new, much more strait-laced attitude towards the grim fandango that is life in 2010.

Tuesday, 22 December 2009

FAQ III

It's now one year (well, one year and a day) since I started this blog, so watch as I casually cut-and-paste the FAQ and fuck about with the answers for a bit. Enjoy, won't you?

Oh, and the original FAQ is here, and last year's redraft is here.


STARTING QUESTIONS

Who are you?
I am Innocent Loverboy, commonly known as ILB. I write a sex blog as well as doing other things, none of which are particularly interesting, but never mind.

Age / Sex / Location?
24 years old / Male / London.

And what's with the love status?
In a relationship with The Drinker, (also TD) formerly The Oxford Seamstress, known by other names to me, one of which is 'kitty'. We've been together now for over a year and a half, since 11 May 2008. My gosh, doesn't time fly?

What's your main job? And what's hers?
I was a teaching assistant for two years, and since then I've switched. I'm actually in training at the moment, so I go to University (one of the colleges of the University of London, but I won't say which) for a vocational course, but I spend most of my time 'on the job' while learning the skills. I'll qualify this academic year... and yes, sexual knowledge helps in this job! It's not hard to work out, really.
TD is also at a University doing a postgraduate course, although her aim is to continue on and do a PhD and become an academic. I am jealous and slightly amazed at her commitment. And interestingly, we are both English graduates first time around. Hooray for the recession and everyone going back to Uni!



BLOG QUESTIONS

What's this blog for?
It's still a sex blog, despite what else you may find here. You'll find reviews of sex products as well as posts about actual sex, my addiction posts, wistful ramblings and other stuff about life, love, the universe and coffee. Except maybe not coffee.
I don't generally write about my life, as such. There are places for that stuff, such as my LiveJournal, and this isn't one of them. This is a much more interesting blog.


When and why did you create it?
Exactly two years ago - 21 December 2007.
I'd been reading sex blogs for ages, and very few were written by boys. There are now a few more that I'm aware of - Todger Talk and The Edge of Vanilla are examples - but most of them, and especially the more famous ones, were written by girls - the Channel 4 documentary only ever mentioned the girl sex bloggers! In my personal blog, I'd mentioned love and sex a few times, but I wanted to muse more upon the topics than I did, so I started a more anonymous way of conveying my thoughts - thus, ILB.
There's a post about it here.

And what's with the blog subtitle? Why do you keep changing it?
Because it's funny. Do you have a problem with that? I like to change it once every couple of months. For the first two days, this blog had my profile as its subtitle, and that just looked ugly, so I made it prettier. And, frankly, shorter.

You still clam you're different. What makes you so different?
There are, again, a number of reasons for this:
(i) I place much more value on love then sex. I'm not saying that other people don't (by all accounts, other people should), but to me, love is vital - sex, while fantastic, can only be a side-effect of love. I can both merge and separate the two very quickly. I can also fall in love very easily.
(ii) I'll admit that sex happens for other reasons than love - I've experienced that myself - but I prefer to link the two.
(iii) I like softcore erotica. I don't like hardcore porn nearly as much.
(iv) I'm genuine and honest. I don't smoke, drink, do drugs or even eat meat. And it's not all a facade, that's just who I am.
(v) I'm incredibly shy to ask people out. In fact, I don't ask people out. I have such a morbid fear of rejection that I don't even try. The two relationships I've had have been more luck than effort - in fact, I think they just 'happened'.
(vi) Despite my inner shyness, I'm quite an outgoing person. But it's mostly false bravado. Covering up the shivering wreck I really am does help somewhat.
Basically, I'm not your typical 'lad'. Not trying to stereotype boys, of course, but the unfair image that has been applied to them definitely doesn't apply to me. I don't even like sports of any kind! In real life, the idea that 'boys only want one thing' isn't true. In fact, in many cases they can be much more romantic than girls... and I'll prove that to you. Ha!


Why are you using Blogger?
A lot of sex journals are written in Blogger. There are better blog services out there, such as LiveJournal. However, places like LJ (and I already have an LJ, anyway) are much more personal-based and it may not be very prudent to start a blog there if I wish to remain anonymous! Also, quality of blog service doesn't equal quality of blog! There are sex blogs on LJ that are truly atrocious!
I don't mean to diminish other blog services such as WordPress, either - my sister and some of my friends use it; I just don't like its control panel's layout much. Mind you, Blogger isn't much better. It took me ages to format this post correctly!


And you've written a book?
Well, it's not exactly a book unless you count self-published things as 'books', but for the sake of my own vast ego, then yes, I have written a book. The first print run I did via University photocopiers had some rather dodgy page alignments and picture qualities, so I'm working on another print run at the moment. The content's exactly the same, though. You can find more details here.

Sounds great! Where do I get it?
Well, if you have PayPal you can buy it online (ink, paper and postage don't come free, alas) from its minisite here. Yes, I did the site myself. You can probably tell. It costs £3 in GBP, plus 50p postage. You can order from abroad if you want.

What else do you write?
Songs (I'm the lead singer of a band and I love it; although we are kind of inactive we're aiming for our second single next year), poetry, reviews (mostly of games) and fiction. Through university (first time around), I was a staff member of the paper, and when I was young I ran my own self-produced journal! I was so enterprising back then. It's unlikely that you'll have come across anything else I'll have written online, but it may happen. It won't be labelled as ILB, though, so don't go nuts looking or anything.

Who did the buttons on your sidebar? Who drew the FAQ girl, for example?
Me, of course. Interestingly, the FAQ girl is a drawing I did years ago of a friend called Anna, at a time when she was very confused. I thought it'd be perfect for a link to a load of questions!
All the other buttons are 86x45 pixels, and all made by me, excepting the NaBloPoMo awards, which are made by them with me adding the month below in coloured text.


What do you think is the best post you've written?
Ah, now this is a difficult one! It's pretty much impossible to choose. Here's an idea: you read the whole blog, and then you tell me!

What's with the blogroll? Heroes? Villains? Excuse me?
Okay, well, this was an attempt to make my blogroll more interesting. If you're a villain it doesn't mean I don't like your blog, of course. Just clearing that one up.
Heroes are bloggers who keep their blog updated. These are the ones I check and read every day because they're either likely or semi-likely to have something new to read. Villains are blogs whose authors have stopped writing them, or have gone on hiatus, or simply disappeared. They're worth reading in archived form but aren't worth a check every day. If they start updating them again they become a Hero.
Unaligned blogs are blogs that aren't really about sex. I am well aware Chelsea is in this category, but as I'm unsure about whether that's a sex blog or not, I think it's fine where it is anyway. These are just reminders that the wider world isn't full of smut. Well, not if you look carefully anyway.


PEOPLE, LOVE, AND SEX

How many people have you had sex with?
I have had sex with six people: Rebecca (my first girlfriend who left for another man), Louise (an oversexed friend of mine who I still talk to occasionally), Alicia (an older woman who I had friendly sex with), Lily (my only one-time stand, not at night, who was not nice), snowdrop (a friend, but this is complicated) and, of course, TD. They're all fine, last I heard, although I haven't seen a few of them for ages. I met all of them on the internet, funnily enough.


When did you last have sex?
A few days ago - three? Two? Last time TD was here, anyway.

How often do you have sex?
Well, I can't really say that it's a planned thing, but it tends to happen pretty much once or twice every day we are together, unless it's a flying visit. Sometimes more, sometimes less. It depends on the feeling, y'know? And then there are those times where you don't have the sex, but the effects are felt...

Who are the people mentioned on this blog?
Okay, well, what a question! Single Student has a list on her blog's menu which links to the appropriate people, which is helpful, but since it's a private blog, I doubt anyone else can read that! I may as well list people here - and there have been a few changes since last time.

The main players on this stage are:
- ILB: Innocent Loverboy, a sensitive and engaging boy with a rapier wit and a big head.
- The Drinker: A lovely girl who happens to be my girlfriend and also writes a blog.
- All other sex bloggers are referred to by their blogging name.

The people who know I am ILB are:
- H: Is my best female friend. She makes me feel relaxed, which isn't easy. I don't see her as often as I used to, but she lives in London so she's always close by.
- 47: Is my best male friend. He's one of the very few people who knows I am also ILB, and he's clever enough to have worked it out himself. His friendship is an acquired taste, but I can tolerate him, mostly because he's stuck with me through some very tough times, and I'm reciprocating.
- Mini: Is a close friend who I don't see nearly enough, and I told her I am ILB. She's cool with that. She's also the shortest person of my age that I know, being roughly the same size as my 13-year-old cousin.
- Syren: I hold this young lady very close to my heart, although the only time I did that physically, she fell asleep. Hmmm. She's impossible to describe, but I used the word 'delicate' while talking to Knightmare Winner last night and mentioned her, so I'll go with that.

The other people who may get a mention are:
- Robinson: Is my oldest friend. I've known him since we were about 3. We grew up in the same school, both went to The Woodcraft Folk, and still meet up (with other Woodies) every week to go to the pub. I don't even like pubs, which shows my dedication to these guys.
- Hairy Friend: Matches me in the facial hair stakes, only in his case, he's trying to grow a beard. I'm just lazy. He's the second-most sexually active of my friends, after me. And he's a riot, too.
- TD's friends: Are mentioned on her blog, usually by single initials. Should I ever need to mention them, I'll use the same system (although I only ever think I've mentioned N thus far - feel free to prove me wrong, though...)
- University and job people: Eh, I may make up names for these if I ever mention any of them.
- Knightmare Winner: This one's a bit of a no-brainer. You could whittle this down to one of a few different names, but why the hell would you do that?

Will you go out with me? / Will you sleep with me?
This question is a little redundant, since I'm in a relationship, so I'm guessing that if you're asking this, you're either a bot, a webcam girl, or a scam girl. I've got strategies for dealing with all of these, and they usually involve creative use of MSN's "Block" button.

Can I talk to you? / Can I ask for advice?
Since I started writing ILB, I've actually counselled a few friends of mine (mostly female friends such as FL, who has since quit Uni, but 47 at one point as well), who all seem to be grateful for an innocent loverboy's point of view.
The answer, anyway, is yes. You don't even have to talk about relationships - Jessie, Glamour Girl and Anna have all felt okay with chatting away to me informally, TD - evidently - is my main conversationalist (that's not even a word, is it?). If you want to ask relationship advice (well, opinions), just drop me an e-mail or add me to MSN (tim2timmers at yahoo.co.uk) and we will talk, promise!

What's with that e-mail address?
Well, okay, first of all, my name isn't actually Tim, heh. It's just a pseudonym I used before I started ILB, and since it was a spare e-mail address, I decided to use that one. I am well aware that Yahoo! is a shit company, but at least it still works. And yes, it works for MSN despite not being a Windows Live! address. Don't believe me? Add it!

What's your favourite sex position?
It's a tie. Missionary, astride (cowgirl), reverse missionary and doggie all have their merits. Although it's nice to see who you're making love to, so...

MORE ABOUT ME

What do you look like?
I'm tall for my age. I'd describe myself as 'average build' - or I used to on dating sites - even though I do have a slightly large stomach. I'm not a round person though, I'm a thin guy who got fat. I have short black hair, and sparkly blue eyes (my eyes are the only feature about my physical appearance I'm totally happy with). My hands are OK too, and my arms have a bit of muscle, due to playing musical instruments and computer games.

What are your activities, outside of your job and blogging?
Writing, and reading. Music - I mentioned my little rock band before, and I've also played in various orchestras and emsembles, although none of them for a very long time. I also once had a short-lived solo career. I like to sing and to dance, occasionally at the same time.
I've also been known to act. My biggest parts have been in Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard, Plautus' Gloriosus, Nichols' Forget-Me-Not Lane and a pantomine called Snow White and Several Dwarfs (we had 8). I did make an appearance on-screen in the recent movie An Education, but my cameo (where I walked across the screen smiling) was cut from the final edit. Damn you, Hornby!

Who are your favourite band?
James. By a long way. They have always got a song for every occasion, and I am grateful for their skill and dedication. Thanks, guys.
I'm into most rock, indie, alternative and pop bands, though. And I also have an inbuilt love of classical symphonies and Bolero by Ravel. Srsly.

If I want to read other blogs, which ones should I read?
Well, there are a few I recommend.

And what are you going to give me for Christmas?
This, of course.

*

That's it for another year. At this point, I'd like to thank everyone who's ever read the blog, the book, the reviews or anything else I've written, and especially much love and thanks to Lady Pandorah for reading and commenting so much, and Lace Stockings for being friendly and helpful recently. Blacksilk, Silver Archeress, and everyone else on Twitter who communicates and comments via the media revealed by Modern Technology. And you, whoever you are. (Yes, you! I'm talking to you!)

Monday, 21 December 2009

Review: Durex Play Vibrations (Twinkle Ring)

So, it was TD's birthday the other day, which of course means birthday sex. I'm sure it means other things, too, and certainly a few things stick out in my mind. It's just that they're all related to sex. I'm like that, you see. Anyway, it was my idea to use the Durex cock ring just before we had sex and therefore, there ensued a few minuted of manic fumbling while still erect. Hilarity is not dead, people.

The first thing I noticed about this product is the fact that the packaging it comes in isn't the easiest of beasts to open. Well, okay, maybe it is, but in fairness if you're ripping the thing open (or locating the pull tab) when you're actually raring to go and there's a beautiful naked girl with her legs open right in front of you, you don't actually want to be looking for a way to access the damn sex toy. Anyway, I got it open eventually.

The second thing I noticed is how much bigger my penis seemed once I'd actually put it on. Optical illusion maybe? I'm not entirely sure. I've put a cock ring on before and it's not exactly difficult - a bit of quick jiggery of the foreskin, positioning to put it in place and there you go. It's been a long time since I used a standard one sans glitter, so maybe I'm remembering wrongly, or perhaps I was just looking from a different angle. I looked huge. Maybe I am huge and hadn't noticed before. Or maybe the ring was trapping the blood in the erectile tissue. Whatever the cause, the effect was magnificent.

Apart from that, it just acted like a standard Durex cock ring. It vibrates the penis so there's more sensation and - if you position it correctly - it acts upon the clitoris, so your ladyfriend can have an orgasm clitorally as well as vaginally (go for the G-spot and tickle the anus with a finger and you may get all four at once... although I didn't actually do that; I'm not Plastic Man). It certainly had a cool effect, although a couple of times it slipped into a wrong position, so I had to withdraw, adjust, and go back in. But I guess without some sort of (possibly extremely painful) clip mechanism, it wouldn't stay in place anyway unless you just slide the penis in and keep it in one place. Where's the fun in that?

Orgasms ensued, although I'm uncertain if they were due to the cock ring, and satiated, I withdrew, and then played about with dragging the still-vibrating head around her still-wet pussy lips. Not a bad activity, really.

So what do I think overall? Well, it's very gimmicky, but that adds to the slightly kitsch charm of the thing. And it's almost Christmas, so I guess it's seasonal. But in operational terms, it's just the same as a standard ring. If you like it (then you should have put a...? No, let's not go there.), then you like it; if you don't, you don't.

But you should buy it, anyway, because...

IT'S GLITTERY!

It's got GLITTER in clear plastic! Just how cool is that? It makes no difference whatsoever to how it works, but IT'S GLITTERY! How much better would everything in the world be if it were GLITTERY? It. Sparkles. And. Shines. Fuck me sideways if that's not one of the best ideas in THE HISTORY OF MANKIND.

So, in a nutshell, twinkle back into one's sex life: maybe not. GLITTER: yes, certainly. Can't really find a way to fault that. Cheers, Durex.

Thursday, 17 December 2009

It's a Kodak moment

"Do you know what I mean by a border?" she said. My hand worked its way up a thigh.

"I think so?" I said, putting the interrogative onto the end of what wasn't actually a question.

"The border fits into the frame, so you put... " She spread her legs for me to settle myself between. "...the border on first... and then the picture, so you can't see the edges of the picture."

"Ah, I see," I said, lowering myself down and pushing my cockhead against her pussy lips. "Yes, let's do that. Or if I can't find one we could make one out of cardboard."

"Aaaaaaaah," she said as I slid my whole penis over her soft folds and deeply into her in one smooth stroke.

Wednesday, 16 December 2009

And you've had a bad day...

Got up very early this morning to go into college and have an exam which I promptly failed with style. Ah, crap. I mean, I don't have the final mark, but to pass this particular test you needed 100%. As most of the questions were physically impossible sans aid, and I was running out of time, I actually just guessed a few of the answers. So yeah, I failed.

Came home and tried to finish Super Mario Land 2: Six Golden Coins. Wario's Castle is a bastard of a level. At one point, after a particularly stupid death, I punched myself on both thighs (I have this habit, when I play games and I'm in a bad mood, I hit myself in order to get better. It doesn't work). Sat back in my chair and went "aaaaaaah, fuck" for a while. I eventually finished the game. I had to use save states, so yes, I cheated. But after the exam this morning I couldn't handle another crushing defeat, and I've been playing games since I was about 5, so I thought I ought to be able to do this.

So yeah, not a good day so far.

I'm off in a bit to talk about sex for a few hours and then to meet my girlfriend. So here's me being uncharacteristically optimistic. Well, I mean, this day can't get any worse, can it?

Tuesday, 15 December 2009

We Are Sound

The sounds that you make during sex are manyfold, as I'm sure you'll all agree. However, there's one rather permeating sound that I've noticed recently, although to be honest, it's conspicuous by its absence more than anything else (as I haven't been in bed with a naked girl for... must be coming up to a few days now; once you get started it's hard to stop, n'est-ce pas?). And that's the sound of skin against skin.

I love skin. Naked skin. It's beautiful; it looks great, it feels great, it carries a lot of significance, and the sound of naked skin against naked skin is something I have been thinking about all morning.

Of course, if you are engaged in rather rigorous love-making, then there are other sounds your bodies make that aren't from your mouth - the rather stomach-turning 'slap' of a pelvic thrust is one of them. I didn't even know sex made that sound until I watched hard porn for the first time (having been brough up on a diet of softcore smut found on L!VE TV and Bravo, I wasn't even aware sex made a sound of its own accord). But there's nothing like the aforementioned skin sound, and I think I know why:

It's soft.

That's right, that's why I think I like it so much. I like soft pillows, soft bodies, soft covers, soft porn and soft sweets, so why not soft sounds? Plus, you don't even have to be having sex. You can just be snuggling, or even hugging (although the nakedness is pretty much a prerequisite for this). A low hiss, almost a murmuring sound, and less of a slide than a roll. And next time we wake up together of a morning, I'll rub a hand over her arm, and listen out for the tiny, satisfying sound, like a sigh from the skin.

Friction's never been so sexy.

Sunday, 13 December 2009

Durex Viral

Anyone notice how Durex Play is being advertised a lot these days? I've seen it advertised at bus stops, on the TV, on billboards... kudos for Durex getting its message out there. Might be time for another review soon, methinks.

And then there's this...




Mummy, make the bad man stop.

Friday, 11 December 2009

The young raver who knew too much!

The young raver who possibly had swine flu is now fully recovered and ready to rejoin our little social clique of outcasts and general misfits. We no longer do the quiz, but we still go to drink... or, in my case, er... drink, but not the same stuff. He mentioned to us a girl, Natasha, who has gained notoriety within our world despite the fact that nobody's ever met her - or, as I believe, come across any evidence besides his word to suggest she exists - who lazily MSN'd him an invitation to Cardiff to 'stay over' for New Year's. Clearly there was something else on her mind...

...except not really because she told him that nothing was going to 'happen' should he go to Cardiff.

"Stuff's going to happen anyway," the young raver informed us. "I'm not spending £70 on a train to Cardiff for nothing to happen."
"It's an odd sort of booty call when she's specifying no sex," I commented. Robinson nodded sagely.

The young raver has had sex (with Natasha) in a park - in fact, that's where he lost his innocence (not that he was ever innocent before); however, any shred of youthful naiveté that he may have had retained was lost when, somewhat foolishly, he went outside to stick some burning leaves in his mouth, leaving his phone on the table unattended. I was alone at this point, as everyone else had gone to stock up on alcohol. So out came his received texts. Most of them were from girls, obviously, with names saved like "Ashley the best" and "Ciara xxx". But the most revealing came from someone called something like "Emilee" (it was a corruption on Emily, anyway) which started with:

French pants and nothing else... it's warm lol what r u wearing? x

Hmmm. I really shouldn't be lookng at the next one... oh, go on then.

You promiscuous man lol x

Okay, now that could have come as a reply from all sorts of texts. And then there was one more...

It's a mistake lol, but neva mind I'm doing it too lol x

Well... I don't exactly know what to think. Neither did Robinson when I gleefully passed him the young raver's phone upon his return to the table. But it's nice to know that at least one more person's having fun.

Thursday, 10 December 2009

List Of Books Read By ILB To TD, 2007-2009

The Little White Horse, Elizabeth Goudge
Heidi, Johanna Spyri
A Little Princess, Frances Hodgson Burnett
The Ordinary Princess, Mary Margaret Kaye
Tom's Midnight Garden, Phillipa Pearce
The Dragonfly Pool, Eva Ibbotson
The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery
The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett
Vinegar Street, Philip Ridley
Farmer Boy, Laura Ingalls Wilder
Knife, R. J. Anderson

Because it's good to keep a record somewhere.

Wednesday, 9 December 2009

Removes pain, period.

I know all about abdominal pain, so when young ladies complain about their lady-parts-go-ouch days, I sympathise. I mean, being a sympathetic guy I'd sympathise anyway... because that's who I am... but I digress; I spend a lot of my time in considerable stomach pain, so I understand. It's a hateful, spiteful kind of pain, the kind that makes you want to wave a fist angrily and scream, "How long, O Lord?" (Habbakuk 1:2).

But the period has an upside, at least, it does if you are me, and of course, the obvious upside being that I'm not the one experiencing the period. But then there's the fact that I get to pet my lovely girlfriend, and share chocolate with her, as well as stories, snuggles, advent candle watching and Russell Howard's Good News. And of course we have an excuse to do all that, because she's on her period and needs some TLC. I, of course, am not complaining.

And then there are the sexytimes. Obviously there's little penetration to be done when the young lady is 'on' (although it's not unknown; I've had period sex; seems to work just fine) - and licking out sans tampon (not being a lady I don't actually know all the mysterious practices, but I know you can use a tampon or a sanitary towel) makes me feel a little bit like Dracula - but there's always licking to be done with a tampon in, too.
In fact, that's convenient. You've got a little blue string to hold onto, which is also a useful placefinder when it's pitch dark. The clitoris is also still available, and free for stimulation... oh, and the tampon soaks up most of the mess, too. I fail to see any faults... except for the whole no-penetration thing. But I can deal with that.

I didn't realise the orgasm would be that intense, either. But, as I said... I'm not complaining. Neither, come to think of it, is she.

Monday, 7 December 2009

Addiction XIV: WaveRace 64

Just read a post on a friend's LiveJournal... you know, one of those friends who knows who I am. She has the guts to set her 'current mood' to oversexed and write explicitly about the, quote, mind-blowing sex she's been having recently. This girl seems to have quite a lot of sex, except that it'd been a year since the last boy, so - with personal experience behind me - I sympathise. But reading her joyous shouts of rapture in excited prose form got me thinking.

I had mind-blowing sex last night. I mean, I really did. I'd wanted to have sex with her (TD, not my oversexed American friend) since... well, always, but specifically had been in the mood since about 5pm. Had a sneaky feel of her knee under the table in the pub; didn't go any higher than that, but it got my important bits working. And so we continued our day, with me rather tightly wound. Not that I'm sure she noticed. I shall have to ask.

And lo, the end came to our day. Well, sort of. In fact, the DVD of Lewis was in the laptop and we were about to watch, but then I sort of... accidentally took my pants off. Well, that is, deliberately. But I say accidentally because it's funnier, and because I was turned on. To be honest, TD was naked at this point and in my bed and I was wound-up and if I hadn't taken my pants off at that moment, they would have probably been ripped off from within, so it wasn't really my fault. I was showing great consideration for my underwear.

It didn't take long for the laptop to end up sitting on a chair elsewhere in the room, leaving space free on the bed. It also didn't take long for me to penetrate her. How I'd missed that - yes, it had only been a few days, but I'd missed it. And here's the explicit bit, folks: when one's penis enters one's lady's vagina, if one takes a short grace period before moving, there's a feeling of the pussy walls sort of... moulding their way around one's shape. It's almost like they're getting (re)acquainted with the feeling of you inside her, against those walls which are so adaptable. That's what I'd missed... the feeling of being inside. The feeling of being taken... the feeling of the walls reshaping themselves.

Of course, I'd missed the orgasms as well. Hers. That took slightly longer... not that that is a bad thing at all, you understand.

"I've got a problem," I groaned.
"Wha'?..." she gasped.
"I can't stop!" I replied.
"Don't stop!" she moaned.
"I don't want to!" I yelled.
"Good!" she purred.

Then she came. Come to think of it, so did I.

Down I went, pressing my tongue against her clit. Swirl swirl swirl, lick lick lick. She came again... I felt the ripple, I tasted the cum, I had her legs clamped hard around my head. Yep, that makes two. Back up again. Still hard? Yes. Good. Back in. Thrust.

I don't know about you, but I've always found that girls' orgasms get increasingly lustful the more they have. I must test this theory. So there I was, on top, bracing the waves of something like the four-millionth orgasm. Or the fourth. Fuck, they all just ran together, who's counting when you're having this good a time? Or, actually, this good a ride? I even stopped for a second or two to reposition, and I still felt myself moving.

That, my friend, is what mind-blowing sex is. Now, would you mind being more explicit about yours?

Shame she won't ever see this. But I'm pretty sure that she has better things to do than reading blogs...

Sunday, 6 December 2009

You're wellcome to it

So, at the Wellcome Collection they have this new display about the notion of identity. I don't usually have to find an excuse to actually go to the Wellcome Collection (as long as "I'm expanding my mind... and they have tasty cake, shut up" counts as not being an excuse) but, in the most recent case, our university decided that it would be in our best interest to simply attend this display. In case we don't know what identity is, or something. In fact, the concept is questioned as soon as you step in, as you are assaulted by a huge maze of confusing corridors and the repetition of the statement "I am...", as well as "who am I?" - to which there's only one answer: "I'm Jean Valjean!"

Anyway, so I was extremely interested to find out there was a room about diaries. In fact, I spent quite a long time in this room, trying to crack the Peyps Code (which is much more interesting than the Da Vinci code), listening to Tony Benn's tapes, watching the idiots in the Big Brother diary room talking to the idiots who watch Big Brother, reading the diary of a small girl scout - no, really, it wasn't that interesting - and perusing the reams and reams of books they had chronicling people's drab, wretched lives. What a fun time I had.

But there was one thing missing. Well, two things. They didn't have any Adrian Mole books - come on, collection, can't you give an example of a fictional diary? Also, where do blogs feature? Couldn't they have had a screen, or a print-out, or even a mention? So to the wall plaque I went. Ah yes, there's the mention. Blogs don't count, apparently. They're on the internet so everyone can read them; therefore, they don't count as real diaries.

Humph. Yeah. Right. Okay, whatever. If I go back any time soon, I'm taking some print-outs (not a guarantee).

Anyway, this identity display may not have been in the safest of hands... even if they did deign to mention blogs, although they wouldn't show any. Identity they may be interested in... but sometimes they don't seem to know who they are themselves.

Tuesday, 1 December 2009

Addiction XIII: Comfort

As self-deprecating as I often pride myself on being (now there's a paradox), I rarely deny myself any opportunity for hedonism that would dare to come my way, although it often presents itself when I'd least expect it. For me, one of the greatest pleasures I can find to indulge in is finding some time to be in a state of relaxation. As Roger McGough puts it:

When you're depressed / deep rest / is best.

I've written before about how I have IBS, and although I've been indulging in the liquid Mebeverine (although that is in no way hedonism, because it tastes of banana and I hate bananas - and even if it didn't, it would still taste foul, so I need to find some water whenever I do take it), I've run out recently and it takes my pharmacist a couple of days to order some in. Also I'm lazy, so, y'know, haven't actually taken my precription in. Ahem. Anyway. I haven't any strengthening potion, so I haven't any strength, or other such analogies.

Last night I was awoken by throbbing pains in my stomach. That's odd, it's usually my penis that's throbbing. I lay there for a while, wondering if I should just turn onto my back and wait for the pain to go away. I did so, and it didn't. It just sat there making me hurt, like a stubborn cat that really doesn't want to get off the cushion, despite the fact that you need it to rest your head on. Eventually I lifted the covers with a rustle, stumbled out of bed, pulled the covers back over TD ('cause I didn't want to leave her cold), and staggered to the toilet (which, thankfully, is the first room you get to after leaving mine, first on the right).

I re-entered the bedroom feeling better, but cold and a little sore. I shivered my way across the carpeted floor and craeled gratefully back into bed, upon which I found that I'd woken TD up, not by getting up or getting back into bed, but merely by not being there. What that says about us I've no idea.

She sleepily moved over to me, kissed my cheek and then pulled me into a cuddle. I found myself relaxing, perhaps visibly (although it's hard to tell in the dark). Well, I thought, this was all right. Yes, I would prefer not being in any pain, also with... I checked the clock... three or so hours before dawn, I would prefer to be asleep. But this was all right. TD was warm and her skin was soft, and my soft pillow provided a place of respite for my head, which (apart from hurting a bit anyway) had so many things throwing themselves about within it I was beginning to think Valium would be a good idea.

So I lay back, not trying to sleep. I hardly moved - I barely even breathed. I concentrated on the mattress, the pillow, the girlfriend. Rest, softness, warmth. Soft sheets, soft sloth, soft skin. Like a long, steady, breath outwards. And after my brief moment of extreme pain and half-hour or so of discomfort, this was what I needed... I just needed to be comfortable. I just needed to lie there.

And so I did.

Friday, 27 November 2009

Girlfriend Replacement Therapy

I just went out and bought a tub of Ben & Jerry's, walked back home and ate about a quarter of it while watching Doctor Who on BBC iPlayer. On the way back home I passed a Domino's Pizza, so I bought a pizza and a can of Sprite too.

I'm not being deliberately decadent for no reason, nor am I committing suicide by sins of the gullet. Today I finished a work placement and after this weekend I'm back in college, and that's a cause for celebration. Not that I actually disliked my placement - I liked it, in fact - or that I like college - because I don't. But the fact that I got through the placement largely unscathed is a real cause for celebration. Because, well, there's a recession on, and so everyone needs a cheerful evening every now and again.

This is the first Friday evening I've spent alone in a long time. My parents are out and my cat is asleep, and as for my girlfriend - well - she's in Oxford, with a phone sans charger. Were this a usual evening, I'd be celebrating in a rather more horizontal fashion. The best way to get over something that's finished, after all, is to get over, on top of and into someone else. It's the way of things.

But no such luck for me. Not that I'm complaining (there are a lot of worse things than being in your house on your own, I turned Doctor Who up to 11), but I'm lonely, wanting to celebrate and I haven't had sex for a while, so I'm a little grumpy. Note to the virgins out there: don't start unless you can cope with stopping. Took me a few years to get used to not having sex, and then of course I started having sex again, and so on and on the merry dance goes.

So what do I do spending a Friday evening without ladyfriend here? Why, I go and buy Ben & Jerry's, of course.

This took me longer than I'd originally expected, although I was prepared for every eventuality - I had my iPod in case of a long journey, my wallet, comfortable shoes, fantastic all-weather jacket and Thinsulate gloves. I walked casually to the nearest cashpoint. It's bitterly cold, but not actually windy or snowing or anything like that, so I was okay, really. Got cash out and headed into the Turkish supermarket, went straight to the ice cream freezer and riffled through the Ben & Jerry's. Cookie Dough, Caramel Chew Chew, Phish Food, Chunky Monkey... hmmm, no Half Baked. That's the one I really wanted. I mean, I'd set my heart and stomach on Half Baked. Right then and there, I was craving it more than I craved sex.

So I went into the next shop along. Cookie Dough, again. Phish Food, again. Does anyone actually eat Chunky Monkey? Gripe, moan, complain. Horny. Hungry. On to the next shop.

In the end, I walked all the way up to Costcutter, which is about half a mile away. On a cold night in a heavy jacket, that's a more arduous journey than you'd think. I felt exactly like Harry Brown looks. Into Costcutter, up to the freezer, and there it is. Half Baked. My prize. Handed over the ready cash that I can't afford to have handed over, back out of the shop, by way of Domino's, home. Power walked home, actually, through the pitch-black back alley that takes me home two minutes quicker. My time is that precious. Also I wanted the toilet.

You find me here, slightly sore, floating on the borderline between turned on and frustrated, tired and yet not tired, and achingly lonely. But on the plus side, I'm stuffed full of ice cream, and when I have that fighting my corner, I can go without the warm embrace of sex for a day or so longer.

Thursday, 26 November 2009

School Belle

"I really have to work on our call girl system," said the receptionist at work.

There was a very short pause.

"Excuse me?" I said as I whipped around. Our receptionist is a cool black guy, with a crazy manner but very suave personality, always ready with a joke, a quip, or a holler of his catchphrase ("Do some work!"). Had it been anyone else, I would have been more confused.
"Yes?" he enquired.
"You did just say call girl system, didn't you?"
"No, mate," he grinned. "I was talking about our bell system. The bell that rings, you know?"

Bell... rings... rings... Belle?

Sorry, mind wandered somewhere there.

"Oh," I laughed with something halfway between relief and amusement. "I thought you said..."
"CALL GIRLS!" he cut across my sentence. "Yeah! Let's get the call girls in!" He bounced happily on the spot.

You heard it here first.

Wednesday, 25 November 2009

Snark Mode Activated

"Why don't you like being in photos?" I asked H, as we made our way to the S&M café last night (not as kinky as it sounds, being as it stands for Sausage & Mash). "I like being in photos."
H tells me she's not keen on being in her company's 2010 calendar. It's hardly Calendar Girls, but she's not happy with it, anyway. TD also tells me she refused to go on University Challenge, even though she was asked. That's something I'd kill for, actually, but it's another of my life ambitions that will never, ever happen, seeing as how my university's selection day started this week during one of my shifts so I couldn't go (in short, I will die unfulfilled). But, anyway, I digress - why didn't either of these girls want to be seen? Because they're uncomfortable with the way they look.

I don't like the way I look either. I hate it, in fact. I've written about it before in extremely graphic detail, only it's clear that all I've done since then is put on more weight. It's clear from looking at me that I'm not even a guy with a fuller figure, even. I'm just a thin guy who got fat. That's what I am. I remember being thin and now I experience bulges where there shouldn't be bulges. I look down and I see moobs, huge thighs, and hair where there shouldn't be hair. (My hair grows very fast. I was absolutely convinced in my single days that I'd never get laid, never mind a girlfriend, because I had too much body hair. Case in point: I didn't have any facial hair three days ago, and as I write this, my beard looks like I've grown it specifically for style - it took Robinson a few months to do that - whereas the real reason I have a beard is because I didn't have any razors). I don't like my body, because I used to be tall, gangling, sweet and slightly handsome. Now I think I'm ugly.

But for all my physical flaws, I'd be all too happy to pose for a company calendar or go on University Challenge. Why? Because of my motto, temptamus delectare. "We try to please," it says, although in my case I prefer to think of it as "we aim to amuse." I know I can look like a prat sometimes, but I like that. I have no shame indulging in self-deprecation, so why should visual shame be any different? I mean, if it makes someone laugh, why not, eh?

That's how I'm trying to explain away the fact that I've put on a lot of weight. Hey, I'm sure at some point it will make someone laugh. And I'm still in a relationship and we still have sex. So that's something.

Anyway, here's a conversation I had recently (while typing this entry) with a bot who added me on MSN. I'm enjoying these.

Eliza says:
hi

ILB says:
Hey

Eliza says:
hi how are you today?

ILB says:
You're a bot.

Eliza says:
my name is paris I'm doing great today I'm 21 yrs old how old are you?

ILB says:
I'm four million years old. Technically. In the South American currency of your choice, bringing me up to about 10 or something.

Eliza says:
listen hun, I am just about to start my webcam show with jen, come chat me there in my chat room? We can cyber, I will get naked if u do..lol!

ILB says:
I'd like to, except I happen to be a largely ethereal being, so you being naked doesn't really do anything for me. You'd have to charm me spiritually and bring me back to a corporeal form, so we could even begin to cyber.

Eliza says:
I can show u how to watch free if u promise not to tell anyone else how to do it???PLEASE

ILB says:
I'll publish it in my next book and write a widely-read academic exposé on it. I'd strongly advise not giving me a redirect link, also, or the universe will spontaneously combust, and then it'll all be your fault.

Eliza says:
well since its free the law that u gotta be 18 (nudity involved), u have to sign up with a credit card for age verification! BUT .. Once you are inside, just clikc on "Webcams" let me know what name you use to sign in with so I know it is you babe! http://www.localpartyground.com/melia/ fill out the bottom of the page then fill out the next page as well and u can see me live for free!

ILB says:
Will there be Daleks?

Eliza says:
Please dont mention anything about that in the chatroom once u get in ok?

ILB says:
Of course not. A full-scale invasion from the legions of Skaro may not be appropriate conversation in a sex chatroom.

Eliza says:
OH SHIT.. k I am late to start my show, I gotta get off msn...I will see ya inside my chatroom babe.. remember not to mention that I am upgrading u for free... You can use your msn name to sign in so i know it is you..

ILB says:
Forever and ever, amen.

Eliza says:
AUTO-RESPONSE: hey just in the middle of my free webcam show if you want to watch click the link http://www.localpartyground.com/melia/

See, I may not look great, but I certainly have a way with bots.

Sunday, 22 November 2009

The female orgasm doesn't exist...

...because there is no "the" female orgasm, I am reliably informed.

I know about some orgasms. I know you can orgasm vaginally, anally, clitorally and via the g-spot, although I'm unsure what the difference is, or what it feels like. I mean, I've had a verbal description, but from what I've seen, all the orgasms induce writhing and squirming and - hopefully - girlcum. The lady I gratefully had sex with approximately four times last night has experienced all of them, but the difference is a mystery to me. I mean, when I orgasm, I know exactly what's involved...

Someone enlighten me? How do all these different orgasms happen / feel? And when you orgasm from just a touch of the wrist, or kiss of the neck, does that count as a "touch" orgasm? And where does the excitement take centre stage in that case?

I may like to give young ladies orgasms as much as possible, but I'm still confused! Comment, please?

Friday, 20 November 2009

What with all the shenanigans and the goings-on, I forgot the right word.

A Colleague: "He's kind of... zoned out. He's just..."
ILB: "...Not there?"
A Colleague: "Right."
ILB: "Yeah."
A Colleague: "Although I sort of envy him. I'd like to do that, just go to another place."
ILB: "I thought you liked it here."
A Colleague: "No, I don't mean here! I mean just sort of... go somewhere else."
Another Colleague: "Leave this world, go to another world, even."
ILB: "That's a nice way of putting it."
A Colleague: "Yes, I want to do that."
ILB: "I've got a friend who does something that works for her to escape this world, and something that I've tried too... masturbation."
[A Colleague and Another Colleague stare.]
ILB: "Meditation! I mean, meditation!!"
[All laugh.]

Wednesday, 18 November 2009

Giving the Cold Shoulder Warmth

...also known as: "On the Hard Shoulder". It's a sign of the times when thinking up the entry titles is more fun than writing the entry.

Last night, feeling rather too ill for much else, I was snuggling the lovely drinking girl quite intimately (read: warmly), and - having nothing else to do - I kissed her shoulder. This got more of a reaction than I was expecting, but it was an appreciated reaction. In fact, she thinks that shoulder kisses are the most intimate kiss that can happen. A strange thought, perhaps, but not one that's largely unfounded. Let's have a think about this:

Cheek: Well, anyone can kiss your cheek. I mean, you can do that to your friends, or your mother. It's pleasant, but not too special (except if it's your significant other who you're kissing, natch).

Lips: This is an odd one, considering you can peck someone on the lips or have a full-on snog. And the second of these things - wonderfully intimate as it can be - can happen randomly (although I guess so can sex, but you know what I mean...). TD says that you're more likely to get snogs from prostitutes than you are a shoulder kiss. I'm more inclined to say that drunk girls will give snogs, although I don't really have that much personal experience... anyway, it doesn't have to be intimate.

Stomach: I'm not allowed to kiss this bit. But it's closer to...

Downstairs: Very intimate. Of course it is. But I guess prostitutes will kiss you, or let you kiss, there too. Plus, although I hate to admit it, you're more likely to do this with someone you're simply having sex with than you would with a lover you happen to be snuggling from behind. Plus, do you count it as a kiss? I love oral sex, but does it count as a long kiss with style, or a form of sex? Argh, the debating hurts my brain!

Back: Well, I like to kiss the back, actually. I'm not sure whether this is more intimate than the shoulder to kiss. It's unlikely that you're going to spend a long amount of time kissing anyone's back if they're not your lover, hence why I think it's intimate. Strangely, despite the amount of nerve endings there, you don't feel back kisses as much as you would in other areas (unless, like me, you are hypersensitive), so although it's a more 'lover' thing to do, it may not work for you (hint: experiment, damn it!) - but it's a contender.

Ears: An erogenous zone. And licking behind the ears is also very intimate. Something you can spend a lot of time on, as well. Another candidate.

Feet: Not something I've ever really gotten into, but then again, I did put a picture of my own up at one point.

Shoulder: So, is it? Well, it's certainly not something that would occur to you to kiss (unless you are 'aware') if you're just having random sex. But it's an
erogenous zone, like the ear; it's a lover's advantage (especally during spooning), like the back, it's exciting, like the lady garden - and it's pleasant, like the cheek. It's also clearly not something that's designed to be kissed, which makes it unexpected. And that's naughty. Yep, all the boxes ticked there. We have a winner!

Or do we? Does anyone have anything else they like to kiss? The possibilities are... well, not endless, but there are a lot of them...

Tuesday, 17 November 2009

London, Dating, Camgirls, and Utter Stupidity

So, there's been a shocking revelation via the letters page in the Metro this morning. Some girl can't find a boyfriend in London and therefore every boy in London doesn't actually want a girlfriend and is automatically after one thing. And, let's face it, so am I. I want it now - it's the best feeling when you know it's coming, and whoever you get it from, it's all the same really. That's right: money. I don't have any and therefore I'd like some. Damn you, whoever invented money (Romans? Or beforehand? I don't really know, or care). But anyway, back to the post.

I'm assuming that this girl is referring to sex, which is the thing that automatically all the boys in London are after. Why, yes, of course they are, my dear. Because girls don't really like sex, do they? Boys get erections and chase skirt, and girls end up forced into an act they absolutely hate.

With an attitude like that you're not likely to get any sex yourself, never mind the boyfriend you claim to be looking for.

Having said that, it is - of course - painfully obvious that this girl is deluded. She just happens to have met some wankers. But girls in London (those you can meet over the internet, anyway) sometimes don't do themselves any favours. The majority of girls on sex dating websites and listing services are camgirls, who will attempt to scam you out of some money (but won't get any of mine... because I'm too smart, and don't have any anyway!) by promising you sex, and may not even be girls in the first place. It's likely to put you off any sort of Internet dating, not that match.com or Guardian Soulmates or... any of the others... seem to work that well either.

And what if you are a real girl looking for love, or even simple honest-to-god sex? You're going to be extremely difficult to find among the sea of camgirls. Sex bloggers are a lot more reliable. I met my lovely girlfriend through writing a sex blog and she's not even from London.

Anyway, this girl who took it upon herself to text Metro deriding all the males in London is wrong. I'm willing to bet any amount of money (don't take me up on that, you'll be sorely disappointed) that truckloads of lovely boys have texted in to correct her by pointing out that they, in fact, are looking for girlfriends, rather than That One Thing. From my experience, anyway, boys are more inclined towards romantic endeavours than girls are. Or is that just cynicism?

Oh, also, you can have sex with your girlfriend if you want. Did anyone point that bit out...?

Sunday, 15 November 2009

Blabbermouth

"What do you write?"

"I write articles about sex," I said cheerfully to the doctor. Check me out, talking casually to a doctor I just met casually wandering about. I hadn't even checked to see if there were any children around. Bad ILB. Don't mention the fact that you're a sex blogger - even a veiled hint at it - and always check for children. Not that there were any. Phew.

"Fantastic!" ejaculated the doctor, a bit like the Ninth Doctor in fact. "Where do you write these things?"

"Um, uh." Talk your way out of this one, ILB. "On the Internet." No, no, no. Do not say that.

"I also write poetry... and plays and... er, I write songs. I'm in a rock band!" Nice recovery. "And, er, er, I did a degree in English, and I wrote half a novella for my dissertation..."

Fortunately, that did the trick. We talked about rock bands for a bit and the doctor, distracted by the witty banter, didn't mention sex any more.

But I really shouldn't get carried away like that. After all the stuff with Belle that seems to have happened during one weekend in which I've been absent from the glorious Internet(s), you can't be too paranoid careful. Note to self, ILB: read your own stuff.

Thursday, 12 November 2009

Adequate product placement

So, I was at this... court today. Nothng to do with me, of course (I haven't been "court" yet... ho, ho!) - I was just a casual observer. At some points a bored observer, at others a sleeping observer. When the court was in session it was actually more interesting. Anyway, so my mind wandered at points, and you know what happens when my mind wanders. No, I thought, definitely not. You don't want to be getting hard in the middle of a legal trial. That makes you even more confusing than before. So I tried to stop thinking about making the lurve, and concentrate on something else. Clearly, I needed help.

Suddenly, the door burst open.

"Hi there, BARRY SCOTT HERE! Do you have problems with FEMALES, LUST, or MIND IN DIRT? They're a challenge for some bloggers, but not for CILLIT I-L-BANG!"

The results were apparent immediately.

"Simply get out your phone, and engage in flirty texts. Look what it does to your willy! Good as new!"

That didn't make any sense. Surely sending flirty texts for a while would have enhanced my turned-on-status, but it worked. I think that I was concentrating more on the grin slowly unfurling on my face, and the act of texting, than thinking about sexytimes. (Don't worry, I'm better now. I can easily equate the two.)

I am a convert.

"CILLIT I-L-BANG cleans up your MIND!"

Bang! And the flirt is on...

Monday, 9 November 2009

I suck in other ways, obviously...

Hey. Hello there.

I'm sorry I've been a bit rubbish lately. I mean, I've still been writing posts but there hasn't been anything of discernible quality for a bit (well, not since this anyway). I haven't exactly run dry, but I haven't been feeling good about myself for a while and therefore I lack the energy to write anything on the preconception that it's going to be bad writing. Like Bad Science, but with words.

Why don't I feel good about myself? Well, I'm not sure. I mean, I have a very poor self-image anyway, despite indication to the contrary - my girlfriend, evidently, is still pleased that I am me, my supervisor at work called me a genius the other day (why, yes; yes, I am) and I've made it onto the Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2009 (at a paltry #97, but at least I made it onto the list this year, along with other people of whom I approve). But still, I'm feeling a sense of dissatisfaction with whatever I do at the moment, and I've little idea why.

I just think I'm comparing myself to other people and that's not something anyone should really be doing. I should be planning my Christmas gig, but I'm not, because part of me is convinced that nobody will turn up - despite the fact that people did turn up last year, 4 to be exact, but it was one of the best gigs I've ever done - yet still I rehearse, in my front room, in front of a crowd of 20 imaginary people. I was in An Education, but you can't see me, apart from a blurry few seconds, and I've had some positive feedback from the tiny book I wrote (mostly from LS, to whom my thanks are due) and yet I'm still a little annoyed at myself for writing it.

I just feel inadequate. I feel like I've tried to do all these things and yet I'm not-quite-there and never-will-be. Ironically, like I'm one of the last few on the list. Within reach, but slipping, perhaps?

Evidently this will pass. I just can't make that happen myself.

My favourite season, autumn, didn't come. We skipped straight from spring to winter this year with an extremely short Indian summer in between the two, but it was hardly much of a break. I'm trudging to my work placement in the cold and I'm returning in the dark, despite sometimes finishing at 3. It's weighing rather heavily on me, this end-of-year.

It's going to be a long, long, long, long Sunday afternoon...

Friday, 6 November 2009

How to look good naked

I mean, clearly she's naked. It's obvious. I know there are two windows between me and her, and that she's in the house on the other side of the road. But I'm sure she's naked. Either that or she's wearing a skin-coloured, skintight top with fake nipples, and so far I've only ever known one person to wear one of them, and that's Brüno. Yeah, she's naked. I can tell it by the way her boobs move.

And this begs the question, exactly what the fuck does she think she's doing? I don't even know if those are net curtains, it's probably just slightly dirty glass. And she's... dusting? She's cleaning her house? Naked? I'm all for freedom and liberation, and the human body's a wonderful thing, but... but... does she know what sort of people are over here? Here, in my workplace? Does she know the kind of people I work for? It's just not... well... appropriate!

And yet, there she goes, merrily flicking away with her dusting cloth, cool as you please, tits out for the world to see (or any curious ILBs that happen to be at the wrong window at the wrong time). This isn't even vaguely arousing. It's just... confusing. I mean, there are kids around here and yet she's...

...ah. She's gone.

Damn it. I was enjoying the confusion.

Tuesday, 3 November 2009

provocative texting: ur doin it rite

She: "If I change my name to [where I'm working], will you do your placement on me?"
Me: "Change your name to Course. Then I'll just be doing you for two years."

Monday, 2 November 2009

Talkin' 'bout An Education

I sat in the cinema yesterday awaiting the screening of An Education.

My mind flashed back to the past, before all this, back to when I was younger but no less Innocent. Back to the filming of An Education. Going into makeup and coming out dressed as an Oxford student. Sitting in the green room chatting to the guy playing the barman. Rolling, rolling up, Soundspeed! Take seven, action! Walk across the set, slight smile on face, holding a (fake) beer. Signal some other students. Say the line. Do it again. Chat animatedly to Dominic Cooper in the lunch break about the different versions of The History Boys. Get in Rosamund Pike's way, hurriedly rushing back to the starting point. Camp costume designer straightening my jacket, coat, trousers. Over and over. Walk across the set. Cameo, in a film.

Best feeling in the world.

So the film started. Fantastic soundtrack. The acting was amazing - I don't think anyone gave an Oscar-winning performance, but this should scoop a few BAFTAs. I'd give a full review, but I'm in it, so I'd be highly biased. But the Nick Hornby script was spot-on. Sharp, funny, and cinematic brilliance. Not the best thing I've seen this year, but certainly one of the best. Only nine major characters, really, of which four are the most focused on, plus two or three more minor ones. I grinned broadly at the wit and felt highly attuned to this film. That's the mark of a Good Solid British Comedy. And on came the scene I'm in, about a third of the way through.

Best feeling in the world.

Carey, Pete, Dom and Ros stand about saying this and that. At this point, I walk past holding my beer and wearing my vague smile. And yet... nothing. I'm not there. I am confused. I recognise the camera shot... Damn. This was the shot they took when I walked behind the camera so as not to obscure view. In shot: my mate playing the barman. Well, he would be. He got a great part. But no me. There's my cameo... gone.
Change of shot. Carey, Pete, Dom and Ros sitting at a table in the bar. In shot: my mate playing a student who looks almost exactly like my girlfriend. (I-ro-ny!) In the background: a mix of students drinking pints. I know I'm one of them. In fact, I know which one is me. Yes, I'm in this film, but still. You can't tell it's me. You can barely see anything, never mind my face. Me, and a bunch of other students, just walking around pretending to drink. There's my voice, in the background, somewhere. But no four-second cameo. I'm in this film (and I got paid for it, too)... but just barely.

Deflated.

I picked up a little after a few minutes. I mean, they can't show everyone. And I shouldn't be ungrateful, either. Some more of my fellow Supporting Artistes barely got a look-in. I think a few of them probably weren't in it at all (barring the background noise, which we all took part in). And hey, I was in a film. And it was a good film. The plot got more intense, the music was still excellent and I started enjoying it a little more. I thought I could definitely see it again. In fact, I'm going to, right? Why not? Here's a film that many people could grow to love.

Best feeling in the world.

And then came the final bits. Sentimental. Happy ending, but tinged with sadness. Some beautiful shots of Oxford finish the film off, and I'm reminded of how much I like the place. I miss it, and I miss her, and I remember back in my fledgling days, when everyone thought I'd end up there myself. But I didn't.

Deflated.

And so I left the cinema with very mixed emotions. Fantastic film which contains two moments of great poignancy for ILB. I wasn't sure quite what to make of it... if I'd seen it without reading the script, what would I have said? What would I have thought? And so I remained largely silent.

Got into a car with four of my friends. Everyone had a smile broader than the one I'd had when I did the filming. The brothers were bantering back and forth. Young raver was telling a story of something that happened at Hallowe'en and making everyone laugh. I sat in the passenger seat at the front, glancing at the Paddington Bear air freshener. Relaised the presence of everyone else. I was surrounded by the friends and allies I've known since I was four. Just another Woodcraft trip to the cinema.

Best feeling in the world.

Thursday, 29 October 2009

Tropic of Calculus

I've been told, although by whom I can't quite remember, maybe it was myself, that an acceptable calculation for the minimum age of whom you date is half your age plus seven. This is flawed on so many different levels it's almost impossible to begin consdering it, but let's assume that, for a theory with absolutely no basis, it works. Not being a mathematician, I am enlisting the help of Windows Calculator.

I'm assuming this theory comes from teenagers and men in their early twenties, so let's assume you are 20. Easy enough - minimum age is 17. That seems to work - it's over the age of consent and sensible enough to know that if they are dating a 20-year-old, he/she is three years older and possibly involved in different day-to-day activities, like higher education or even the hideous "work" that people keep talking about. (Unlike the couple I knew who were 14 and 21 - that was just a bit creepy.)
This also works if you're 25 (19 and a half) or even, at a push, 30 (22... although that's a real push). But any older than that and this theory falls to pieces.

Okay, they say all's fair in love and war and, I suppose (although I don't agree - war is not fair, and love sure as hell isn't), as you get older the age difference isn't exactly the same as it makes a difference when you're younger. But seriously - say you are 70. 42 is the age calculated, and that's not young enough to be a toyboy/girl (do toy-girls exist? Or are they called something different?), but old enough to know better, surely? 42 (28) provides more of the result I was thinking of. But, as I say, it's flawed.

And what if you are a child? I mean, I was romantically (although not sexually, that'd also be weird) interested in a young lady when we were at the age of six - and that brings up ten. 6 and 10 kinda doesn't work, when you're young a couple of years makes all the difference.

I'm not really going anywhere with this. It was just something I was thinking about on a train late last night, and wanted to use it to demonstrate two universal truths: people are stupid, and doing maths sucks.

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

What's in a name?

My mother adores my sister, and dislikes me for the reason that every time she says something adoring about my sister I inadvertently make a snide comment, just to balance everything out a little. The rest of the time she thinks I'm OK. Mostly because I stay the fuck out of her way.

I hear through the grapevine - well, via both parents and various sources - that my sister has become vice-president of her university's Feminist Society. This was surprising, as I didn't even know she was a feminist. When my mother repeated this fact with the air of God announcing Christmas would be extended by a few days over the dinner table last night, I put the point to her that I didn't know my sister was a feminist.

"Of course she's a feminist," my mother said. This was, of course, a perfectly valid and totally flawless one-liner to avert any argument that may have resulted. What an intelligent and witty person my mother is.

I have a problem with the concept of feminism when it's applied to the word "feminism". I don't have a problem with the general concept, insofar as it should be taken to imply that women should have the same rights as men. I mean, that's what feminist writers tend to be hinting at (with a few exceptions, notably Rosemary Radford Ruether, who wrote a whole book called Sexism and God-Talk about how God is actually a woman and therefore all men are actually wrong in every way), and it's what modern feminists - in general, anyway, the ones I have studied - say. Even the Spice Girls said in a magazine once that Girl Power is "about being friends with the boys and having fun with them." Exactly, Girls.

The problem, in my view, is that the word has the Latin "femina" in it. There's no masculine aspect of the word and in a theory which promotes equalisation between the sexes, that's remarkably - well - sexist. And because the word is thrown about everywhere these days, it gets applied to things which aren't actually feminist. You get people thinking about butch lesbians who want to kill as many men as possible, like that woman in The Naked Gun 33
. I don't think that sort of person actually exists. You also get positive discrimination, which I absolutely hate - robbed me of a perfectly good job in the library when I was 16, and scars run deep. (Incidentally, my sister went on to work in said library, and she didn't do the job properly, but I'm not bitter about that... well, not very).

Feminism shouldn't be called feminism. You go too far one way, and you get oppression; you go too far the other way, and you get oppression by the other side - normally the once-oppressed. The olives call the grass green and we start all over again.

So, I'm not a feminist. I stand for gender-equality-theory. It's not as snappy a name, but it's much more accurate. In fact, if you just discard all these theories and see people as individual people, we wouldn't need to debate about it... because there would be true gender equality.

And you know what? There is! It's just not been put into practice yet...

Monday, 26 October 2009

We have no time for these games!

I saw a piece about Megan Fox in the Metro this morning. Admittedly, she's never actually out of the Metro, but nevertheless, the article headline had the word "sex" in it, so I read it. And these are the things I discovered:

- Megan Fox likes sex. She's admitted to liking sex, so it's true.
- Megan Fox likes admitting to liking sex so much, she's admitted to admitting to liking sex.
- Megan Fox likes sex, but doesn't "play games" with men, despite this.
- Megan Fox would prefer a romantic meal in a steady relationship rather than playing games which might get her nowhere.

This sounds familiar. I wonder where I have seen it before...

..oh yes, how about EVERYWHERE EVER?!

Megan, my dear, I admire your performance in Transformers, but practically everyone likes to have sex and practically everyone likes to have a date every now and again. What shocking revelations you've given us there. If only there were one idea remotely new.

I also know why this piece of non-news was in the Metro: it's because you want to have people thinking about sex with Megan Fox. If that isn't journalistic spin, I don't know what is.

I'm onto you people.

Sunday, 25 October 2009

Holy shit! I've written a book!

I spent the last few months writing a book and an inordinately long amount of time and money on photocopying on the sly in my University's library. I'd feel honoured if any of you saw fit to spend £3 on the desire to read it. It's all new material, so you have no excuse not to, frankly.

Short version:

Friday, 23 October 2009

University FAIL!

I'm still not going to tell you what I do for a job. It's no secret that I used to be a teaching assistant and it's also no secret that I'm currently "in training" at a university for a job which pays more. Doesn't take a genius to work out what it is if you read my blog or tweets.

Not that I enjoy it or approve of the way it's taught or anything. I have to point out that the university I'm at is one of the really good ones. You know, one of those Top 20, Top 15, even Top 10 stalwarts. One of those really old ones that appears to be falling apart because they haven't got around to replacing the bricks yet. It's a far cry from the last university I went to, the one wherein I actually did a proper degree, since that was a post-1994 university. A fresh conversion from polytechnic to uniersity did that place a world of good and, while I didn't like that either, I'll admit that their courses - in my third year especially - were excellently run.

Came out of there with a good enough degree, too.

Take that, current university!

One of the courses we are doing at the moment is mostly run online, with the lecturer in charge of the course assuming in all good faith that you're reading through the material. That's an incredibly lazy way of running a course, akin to sticking someone on an Open University module and waiting for the results. Anyway, I've made my point to many tutors and nobody's listening. Fuck 'em.

Sexual issues were advertised on the module sheet for this time last week and I was - pleasantly - surprised. I didn't even think sex would be covered, but it's a very important part of life and I was expecting a quick lecture about sex and its impact on our, ahem, future "client group". After all, I gave a presentation last week in which I openly talked about sex for about ten minutes during which I only paused for laughs, so I assumed this would be an open and relaxed encounter in which the points were all covered quicky and concisely.

Unfortunately, it turned out to be one of the online things to reads through, with boring articles to look at and an equally boring quiz about sexual issues, which hardly mentioned sex at all and used very Bowdlerised language to gloss over the issues. Okay, so I wasn't expecting a raw, erotic and graphic description of all things carnal, but surely... surely... they could have given us something better> Or at least a lecture? I mean, this is important!

New life ambition: qualify, work, and once a year, return to this hellhole of a university (or perhaps a nicer one) and give a much-needed one-hour lecture on sexual issues. I mean, I could probably do it right now if you asked.

Thursday, 22 October 2009

Sex... the ultimate cure-all

I have IBS and, if I'm being mild, it's a fucking bitch and I hate it with every fibre of my being. (You don't want to hear me being moderate about IBS, and the one time I was severe, the Daleks were created as a direct result.) Even with the addition of hideous medicine like Mebeverine, which I have to swallow with my nose pinched as I don't like either medicinal compounds or bananas... and this one is both, IBS can attack at very inopportune moments.

This morning, for example, on a train, five minutes into a thirty-minute journey. With no toilets on the train. Huzzah for inadequacy. Upon arrival at the main London station I had to basically sprint to the toilets and spent about half an hour in agony trying to expel whatever it was that was causing the blockage - I'd forgotten, by this point, that IBS works on stress and the only thing that would calm me down was some de-stressing. There was also some blood on the paper, which didn't help my very illogical thought processes.

Anyway, I finally made it to college, but by this time I was too late to go into the lecture, so I just stayed out and went to the toilet again - this time I took a disabled cubicle. And, for basically no reason at all, I decided to sit and think about sex for a while.

No, I didn't orgasm. I didn't even touch myself... much. I didn't. I just reflected upon the finer points of sex. Innocent, remember?

But the thing is, it worked. Well, either that or dumb luck, or that thing that 47 claims Mister Jesus does for him (only in 47's case Mister Jesus removed a gallstone), or a combination of all three - like a Holy Trinity with only one of the original band members left. Whatever. I spent ages on the toilet in CONSTANT BLINDING PAIN, then thought about how awesome sexual intercourse is for about ten minutes and suddenly didn't feel so bad any more. I mean, I felt a bit squiffy,* and I still do. But there isn't any pain... and that's what helps.

Right, time go and make hot coffee for myself and possibly spend a few minutes thinking about sex. Hot coffee... sex... nope, can't see any jokes to end with there. Ah well, next time.

* It's a real word, honest.

Wednesday, 21 October 2009

Durability, Reliability, Excellence

Durex are an awesome company. Okay, so I'm biased - after all, I am currently in possession of a huge bag of goodies whch may cost something in excess of fifty quid were I to actually buy the things - but even if I were not so biased, I'd have been convinced by last night that Durex are an awesome company.

I'll admit that the speech given by the Durex representative, entirely in poetry, was a little odd. Some of the rhymes, er, didn't rhyme - and some of the lines were far too long to scan, for the sake of a rhyme. Still, any epic poem that's going to rhyme 'innovation' with 'masturbation' is worthy of some kudos. And the presentation was pretty cool, all things considered; mainly geared towards the launch of their new discussion 'thing', a multimedia project called ORA!, we got a highly-coloured history of the brand and product(s), with the walls of the venue bursting into moving images with animated text, before ORA! was even touched upon.

Oh, and the venue. Sketch, in central London. What an odd place it actually is. But it's super-modern, too. The toilets are all in little white pods (which talked to you, as well - "Hey, good-looking... I may not be Fred Flintstone, but I can sure make your Bed Rock!"), the door to the cloakroom hangs from the ceiling, and there's a little podium in the very centre of the room, which hosted not only the Durex guys, but celebrity MC Scott Mills, and at one point a lady sitting in a giant champagne glass.

You couldn't make it up.

Apart from awfully well-underdressed young ladies (and overenthusiastic guys) wandering around pimping Durex' products, we saw a few people we recognised - Emily Dubberley, who I pushed TD into talking to on account of the fact that they've both written for Scarlet at some point, springs to mind (but perhaps because she was sitting next to us) - as well as food of varying quantity and quality. The non-alcoholic cocktails were fantastically tasty, but the vegetarian food wasn't plentiful. It was delicious, but due to the sheer magnitude of people there were as attendees, the staff were outnumbered, and it was pretty difficult to find any food, particularly as it was in small bowls and they were snapped up quickly. Still, we filled up nicely on whatever we could find, and the vegetarian stuff was all marvellously palatable.

At 10:30ish the musc started, and so many people took to the floor and danced, but I just half-inched some "80" cupcakes from a stand, grabbed some goody bags and made my way out of the venue, with a more-than-slightly-tipsy Drinker. (To be honest, I'd have been thoroughly disappointed if she didn't get drunk, considering the waiters who kept on filling glasses with champagne...) And so we made our way home, feeling fabulous and frisky.

The goody bag contains three things that buzz, one of which is sparkly, five things that lubricate, one of which massages as well (and one of which tastes of cherries) - and a travel-sized packet of the same, some rubbery things which are marked XL (Good Lord!), and something that slides, slips and stimulates. Yeah, I think we're pretty much set up for a few years, don't you?

I don't think any of the rest of the party is explainable. It was just unique, once-in-a-lifetime. I don't even want to say whether it was good or bad. It just was. I doubt I'll ever see tables decorated with pearl necklaces or boxes of condoms forming the letters 8 and 0 anywhere else ever again, and that - for some reason - makes me quite sad.

Thanks, Durex. You are megastars.

Tuesday, 20 October 2009

I'm going to ink!

I was sitting in a lecture this morning, between two of my friends in the class - one, a married man of 25 with a dental hygienist for a wife, and the other our bit of token crumpet, lots of boobage and curves with appropriate tight top to emphasise the point. Still, while modest she may not be, she's a lovely person.

So why she appeared to be fellating her pen I'm not entirely sure I want to know.

I mean, perhaps she wasn't willingly giving her pen a blowjob. I'm sure that my fellow violinist in my first university wasn't wanking off her bow, either - but that's what it looked like. Well, in this case, my colleague was actually making the noises - a distinctive sucking noise which, coupled with the up-and-down movement her arm was making, was completely indistinguishable from anything else. She was sucking off her pen.

Mind you, maybe that's what she does. I mean, I brush my pens against my lips as if applying lipstick. It's more interesting than our lectures, in any case.

Durex party later. Yay!