Monday, 30 March 2009

Fetish, man

Eugh... I'm really ill. Like, really really ill insofar as the fact that I'm a little bit ill, but I'm male and sensitive so I inevitably think the worst... "Oh my Glod, I'm coughing and I'm shivering a bit... I have BRONCHITIS, quickly, hide me from the world or I'll infect you all!" In reality, it is probably man flu, but it didn't stop me from waking up at 5am yesterday morning feeling like I was a wet dog in the Arctic, despite my skin radiating the kind of heat that you only get from a particularly horny rabbit.

This stopped me (well, actually my girlfriend stopped me, but I agreed with her) from doing the gig I was going to do, but it didn't stop us from having sex, which was some of the best sex I've ever had, except that afterwards I felt myself slowly burn up from the inside. I was reborn from the ashes almost instantaneously, so I don't think she noticed. It was an interesting experience, to say the least.

In the gestation perod of the crippling disease, we made it along to the BEAST known as the UK Web & Mini Comix Thing 2009, something have been to for three years running and so I went along this year, naturally forgetting to either wear my badges or buy a new one for this year. So much for the badge collection; good one, ILB. Anyway, we bought a load of comics (so much for the savings; good one, ILB) and went to the pub for lunch (so much for the diet; good one, ILB). Among our purchases, however, and by far the most value-for-money, was the first eight issues of Fetishman for a mere £8 (there's a correlation there somewhat).

And this took me back to the glory days of the small, warm and very red underbelly of Coffee, Cake and Kink which I now realise I'm missing a little more than I actually should. Despite the website boasting proudly, "
Soon back in Central London!", I have to admit to remaining slightly cynical of this fact, and although you can buy C, C and K from the site itself, it's hardly the same as just popping down to Covent Garden and visiting the place, which made for a good afternoon's date / hang-out (whatever you want to call it), and at the moment we're trying to think of something to do tomorrow afternoon. CCK plugged that gap for the slightly sexually inclined people who can't afford to go to Liberty for afternoon tea...

...hang on, Liberty for afternoon tea, there's an idea... now, if only I dressed up as Fetishman and turned up like that... I'd be guaranteed a seat!

Oh, and one more thing: I joined Twitter. This way I can keep people updated with my new, hectic lifestyle. That, and I wouldn't be a proper geek without it.

Thursday, 26 March 2009

Pensive

Hmmm, I've been very 'on' this week. Not that it's at all strange for me to feel turned on, but this week it's been an almost constant state of play - every morning when I wake up, and every evening when I talk to TD before attempting to sleep. I know people go through stages of feeling consistently turned on - everyone does, but it's more common to hear about girls being super mega ultra aroused for, say, a week or so, because of that strange monthly cyclical routine that I know nothing about. Bs, even IL-ones, seem to be aroused for a while, and then go and make a cup of tea and forget about it. Or punch something if they're an idiot.

I've been going to make lots of cups of tea this week, and it hasn't made the feeling go away.

Of course, I'm not walking around with a permanent erection. That would be ludicrous and also probably cause death at some point. But there's that curious feeling in your stomach which I've talked about before (but I can't find the post right now), and that's what's been following me around. The feeling that says, "go ahead, think about sex, why not?" And my willpower, strong as it is, often yields to the sex, given that resisting meat is using up most of its points - although resisting everything else isn't taking any willpower at all, if you don't start you don't stop. haven't actually had sex this week (yet!), but I have been thinking about it. I wonder if the two are connected?

A friend of mine once said, while we were compiling our Anthology of Sex back at uni, that while you're about to have sex, you don't really think about it, because it's presented itself to you and you don't need to think about sex any more.
"I don't know what kind of sex you've been having," I quipped.

Strange, eh?

Wednesday, 25 March 2009

I'm a bad, bad boy

So, yeah... I'm worse than I thought.

I touched myself at work.

I couldn't help it. It's been mentioned by Abby Lee in her book, but I didn't really pay much attention. In fact, I bet it's something quite a few people have done at some point. I've certainly felt turned on at work before... but that was a different job, and a different situation. The image in my head, however, was almost exactly the same, except with a few more months' experience behind me this time.

And I don't touch myself that much any more, anyway. Every now and again, but now I'm an Attached Loverboy, the amazing sex does me good, and satiates me, so there's very little hand action these days. But, for whatever reason, and the fact that I wasn't just about to have sex with the person who I was imagining it with (yes, it's who you think it is, not anyone else, thank you every much!), I felt the absolute need. So I walked casually into a staff toilet and locked the door.

I'm beginning to fear that I may be an addict. I should either seek professional help, or have more sex. Or cut my penis off and sell it as ham, but I don't think that'd work.

Still, when you think about it, it's a very illicit act, and that's kind of hot.

And it woke me up quite nicely. I was tired beforehand, and everything.

Sunday, 22 March 2009

Oh, baby

Couples who have energetic, passionate sex are more likely to have a baby - that is, according to the Observer, who ran a full two-page article about it today and puported the virtues of sex which focuses on pleasure for both parties involved (versus routine, daily sex for the making of children only), because a boy will ejaculate more sperm when actually pleased, or something.

What the paper failed to mention is that energetic, passionate sex also helps with other things, like sleeping - as evidenced by myself about a week ago, when after birthday sex we managed to fall asleep with her wrapped in my arms, and woke up the next morning with the light still on - or today, when we had sex after a day or two of not having done so and ended up both drifting off (except I ended up dreaming about Voldemort in a library, and that was very disturbing).

I'm waiting for the article about the non-scientific, spiritual benefits of passionate, meaningful sex. Perhaps I'll write it some day, and upon opening the Observer at a table in a café bar with a tall cup of Joe I'll turn to one of the famous literacists I'm discussing the finer points with, and sneer, "Would you look at this headline? Good sex equals good sleep? I wonder who wrote this? Hope it's not that Innocent Loverboy bloke."

Thursday, 19 March 2009

Do you like the way you look?

My mother woke me up this morning to tell me that I'm getting kind of fat - not that I see any difference myself. I have a rather large bulge around my stomach, which is at odds with the rest of my frame; according to my natural shape I'm tall and thin. I just eat too much so I have a flabby stomach. This I know.

But the fact that my mother actually told me that I looked overweight made me feel both humiliated and physically repulsive. I'm the nicest guy you'll ever meet (a little weird at points, but I'm lovely really), but for years recently I didn't have a girlfriend and was therefore convinced that the main reason was the fact that I have a large stomach. A particularly embarrassing moment came at a camp once where everyone took their tops off, and even the other geeks had flat stomachs. I just looked hideous.

At least, society dictates that I looked hideous. I'm not a fat person - I feel fat, but I know that most of me isn't. Just check out my guitar-playing, violin-holding, button-bashing, songwriting, lady-fondling hands. And the muscular arms that are attached to them. But I still feel like I've done the wrong thing because since the age of 11 I've had this stomach bulge. It's not like I've gone up and down, it's just stayed the same.

So why, I ask, do we live in a society that says thin is attractive? It's almost like you have to conform to an exact size; too thin is too thin / too fat is too fat. Look at me from the side and I'm too fat; from the front I'm OK. Where do you place me? And where do you place me when I wear my work uniform, which accentuates my curves?
The health risks aside (and you are only at risk if you are very large; obese people often live with no health problems at all), being slightly larger-than-average merely shows that you enjoy good food and living life. I'm not generally a happy person, but because of job and girlfriend and music and people I've started to occasionally think that it's not so bad after all.

So I put on a bit of weight. I didn't notice it myself (because I don't weigh myself), but evidently my mother did.

I don't weigh myself, because that's fighting a losing battle. Rebecca, neurotic and deluded, used to weigh herself daily and cry if she was over eight stone, even if she didn't physically look any different. What I go by for myself is size - and I know my waist is too big by society's standards. I don't even know what my standards are any more. I just feel very unattractive now that it's been pointed out.

I don't even eat that fatty a diet. For a start, vegetarian food doesn't have any animal fats in it. I eat a hot meal at work, because I need that fuel boost when I'm working, and usually have a snack when I get home. On days off, I'll have a cheese toastie and glass of fruit juice, and maybe some baked crisps (very low fat). I rarely ever eat breakfast. And sometimes I'll go on a date with TD and we'll have something in a restaurant. When I cook, it's usually something with pasta and salad and they're both good for you. And yet, short of starving myself, there's not much else I can do in order to get any smaller. I'm not sacrifising food, and besides, diets don't work, because they fuck up your body's metabolism.

"You're quite active, aren't you?" said my mother after making me feel ugly.

I don't know how much she knows. I have a demanding job with lots of walking, I practice guitar a lot, I dance (although not so much as I used to - have to get into that again), I act, I swim, I go on long walks by myself and I have very energetic sex. I'm not sure she knows about that last one, although my birthday sex was rated "amazing++", so I don't care even if she does. But evidently that doesn't work either, because short of going to a gym every morning, like Clive Owen does if he has to take his top off in a movie, I'm not actually going to spend a hell of a lot of time and money (because I don't have any) exercising. Unlike Hollywood actors, I don't have a lot of leisure time, and when I get a bit, I'll spend it in actual leisure, such as spending time with friends, or girlfriend, or playing video games, writing songs, making up stories, watching Doctor Who or writing incredibly long posts in my sex blog.

You see, I'm living an OK life for the first time in years, and because that has made me slightly podgy if you happen to be looking at my midriff if my T-shirt is off - although for what reason that might happen I don't know, unless you're about to sleep with me - society's claims now tell me that I am physically repulsive. If I had a six-pack, maybe I'd be okay to look at again. Never mind my blue eyes, my soft hair or my strong arms.

But then again, if I had a six-pack I probably wouldn't have much of a brain either.

Thanks, Mum.

Monday, 16 March 2009

Watchme(n)

Tomorrow is my birthday, and in anticipation of the utter horror that is the concept of me actually being 24, I visited TD over the weekend - well, I would have visited her over the weekend anyway but we had the excuse of a pre-birthday meet this time and any reason to spend money works for me - and we, being a typical geek couple, went to see Watchmen. The cinema, perhaps predictably, was filled with supergeeks. Fantastic.

Watchmen, for what it's worth, isn't as good a movie as it could be, but it's still pretty awesome when you consider what it is - and it's in a different league.

Oh, and it has sex in it.

The much-publicised love scene (between Silk Spectre II and Nite Owl II, maybe it's a two thing) was so unbelievably hot for the following reasons:

(i) It takes place on a flying ship.

I could actually talk about how both superheroes are totally naked throughout the scene, how artfully done the scene itself is, how they are both attractive enough for it to work, and how mind-numbingly sexy the scenario actually is, but we know what's really involved; this is a film by geeks for geeks, and therefore two characters having sex on a flying ship is one of the best things to happen, anywhere, ever.

There's also a scene wherein Silk Spectre II is being seduced by Doctor Manhattan, which consists of her face and his hands - four of them. Any film with that sort of scene and sex while on a flying ship is practically begging to have some sort of implications on any sexually charged people who happen to be watching.

So I made TD orgasm. In the cinema. With a hand on her wrist. You know, just because I felt like it. And I wanted there to be a new contender for The Best Bit Of The Film.

Afterwards, we went back to her place and had sex.

This, of course, means that I am always going to associate anything at all which alludes to Watchmen with sex. I can almost see the future scene in which my friends break out the special edition DVD and I go scarlet and sit in a corner for a while. I've never even read the graphic novel, and now I may just have to because my dirty, dirty mind will probably interpret it as mental porn. I won't even go and see it again, even though it was brilliant (and I have a cinema card) - because it just won't be the same.

And thus, a previously respectable comic book franchise has been tainted for life.

Fun, eh?

Thursday, 12 March 2009

Sexy rabbit


I don't have a view on this, but Oxford, my cuddly rabbit, expressed it very succinctly:
"I so would."

Wednesday, 11 March 2009

á l'enverse

Yesterday I met a man whose penis, like the rest of the country, is in recession. He happened to cheerfully drop this fact into conversation, and explain that his penis is actually little more than a stump retreating steadily into his body, and to urinate properly he has to sit down.

I quickly stopped myself from asking if he could get an erection and then urinate, opting instead to nod and act as if this were a condition I'd heard of before. I reckon I was quite convincing.

"The doctors say that it isn't going to get any better," said the guy, "but I'm an old man now, and getting older, and by now, I've had me fun, know what I mean?"

And he threw me a roguish wink. I was immediately reminded of the Energiser bunny at the end of their advert.

Fear not, however, my penis appears to be sticking out, like it should be. But just in case I develop such a penis in my senior years, I'd better start losing waist size now, so it looks much bigger than it is in comparison to the rest of me. It's the only logical solution.

You... you can lose weight by having sex... right?

Monday, 9 March 2009

Stuck in a Moment

Picture, if you will, the epitome of British suburbia that is my London borough, covered with torrential rain, pouring down form the heavens, making its characteristic sound on the conrete slabs of pavement, hitting lamp-posts with a metallic ting sound, and splashing against windows making a dull thud.

Glide across the roofs, around the chimneys, brush the top of the trees, and through the sheets of rain, zoom into one window. Through the water-flecked double panes of glass, observe a double bed, with a (new) springy mattress covered with red bedsheets. A green sash is tied to the bedhead, forgotten a long time ago.

Lying on the bed is a girl, fully clothed but for a pair of frilly knickers, draped over a chair, and discarded glasses on a bedside table next to a cubic clock radio. Her hair, shorter than before, sprawled out on the pillow, provides a perfect complement to her slightly flushed, but pale, cheeks. Her eyes are closed, half-sleeping, half-blissed out.

One hand lies under her head, presumably for relaxation rather than to keep her awake. The other hand falls slightly limp, some muscles somewhat in permanent use to keep a loose grip on my hand, as I - still awake - lie behind her, the other hand on her waist, listening to the steady and persistent patter of the rain, as I wait for her to slowly work her way back to the real world, decide which DVD to watch, and perhaps tell me to wash my face.

Friday, 6 March 2009

Open the sluice-gates!

I've said before, on numerous occasions, how much I like to make girls cum - more often than not, through creative use of my tongue, coupled with perseverance and what I won't call "skill", exactly, more like "style". However, although I've talked about how it happens (not to mention when...), I've never really talked about the stuff itself...

...and why should I? It's one of those things that people rarely talk about - the cum that tends to shoot out of the penis during sex (or related stimulation, of course) is that which is generally referred to - or, in the case of any film starring Peter North, seen (which is one of the reasons I don't like hardcore porn - the sight of boy semen doesn't offend me, as such, but I'd prefer some gender equality with the money shots). But, despite the fact that when a girl's turned on, they are "wet" - and holy Jesus the phrase "I'm wet" turns me on just about 100% of the time when whispered in my ear - very little mention is made of a girl's - shall we say, vaginal discharge, in any of the media I've encountered.

Although that's not quite true - I haven't read much feminist literature, so I wouldn't know about that; it's not mentioned in Luce Irigaray's work as far as I know - nor have I read any of the erotica books I saw in Waterstone's. But in Goblin Market there's certainly fruit juices, a clear allegory, and in some books - often written by fellow sex bloggers - there's mention of the stuff.
And we know that girls do orgasm - if we take the aforementioned Peter North, there's a memorable video I think I may have somewhere in which the girl (Ariah?) has what is very obviously not a faked orgasm. But the video's focused on her face, which although hot doesn't really give the full picture. (Doing this all from memory, as I haven't seen said video in months.)
Even in soft porn, if a female orgasm is implied it's always at EXACTLY THE SAME TIME AS THE MALE ORGASM. That doesn't actually happen a lot of the time, guys.

...And then there are the squirting videos, which are pretty disturbing, although curious, but are usually manipulated to highlight how similar a female squirt is to a male one (disclaimer: it's not).

Girlcum itself is just not often described. It's taken as a given that when a lady hits orgasm, liquid comes out. It could easily be 7UP for all the description that's given, and she's a lady, not a vending machine.

I love girlcum because it tends to be a lot more liquid than boy cum. And I tend to get a lot of it in my mouth too, and I really like the taste - a kind of vaguely salty, somewhat sharp but not too strong taste. In some cases, it goes on my chin and dries out, so I can wash it off. You know, that actually sounds horrible, but I promise you I really like it - maybe I get some sort of perverse "badge of honour" kick out of it.
And then there's the fact that if you do both orgasm at approximately the same time, when you withdraw your cock, it's covered in the stuff. I'm convinced that one of these days I'm going to see a rainbow on it if the sun's at the correct angle. It's almost like you've traded orgasms, rather than had them. Good, n'est-ce pas?
And finally - a girl can cum from different ways of stimulation. I'm jealous, personally - stimulate a clitoris, a vaginal opening, a G-spot or an anus (or even lick or touch the right part at the right time - seriously, it works) and she can hit orgasm. The girlcum originates from the same place, sure, but I'm told that it feels different. Good in different ways.

I wonder if it tastes different? I'll have to experiment.

So, yeah. I love girlcum. Love it, love it, love it. It's wonderful stuff, and I love inducing it, tasting it, I even like the way it feels. And after the orgasm, you can simply clean it up.

And then do it all over again.

Wednesday, 4 March 2009

Hush!

Keep it quiet, guys.

I'm not going to tell you that various pictures have been taken on my 'phone, camera and other machines over a varied period of time.
I'm not going to tell you that they depict a certain young lady in corsets.
I'm not going to tell you that they depict a certain young lady in the bath.
I'm not going to tell you that they depict a certain young lady in my bed, or at a bed in Center Parcs.

So keep it quiet.

I'm not going to tell you that these pictures have a certain effect on somebody whose name may or may not abbreviate to I. L. B.
I'm not going to tell you that these pictures have been collected from various sources on his computer.
I'm not going to tell you that a special folder has been put in place on a certain external hard drive in order to house these pictures.
I'm not going to tell you anything, really.

But if, for some reason, some idiot happens to write anything that may be the slightest bit suggestive on a public medium, say - for example - a universally-accessible blog on the Internet, keep what I haven't told you in mind.

You ain't seen me... right?

Tuesday, 3 March 2009

Lite Sleeper

According to that paragon of virtue, the London Lite:

Almost 80 per cent of Britons prefer a good night's sleep to sex. In a study of more than 8,500 people, 79.2 per cent said they preferred the thought of some extra shut-eye. Only 12 per cent said they got eight hours' sleep although 40 per cent believed that was how much they needed.

Didn't anyone say they would prefer sex and sleep? I can't usually sleep much, except after sex!

Sunday, 1 March 2009

A Good Man

I've always thought I'd make a good boyfriend. I am weak and flexible and I'll bend to any whim - and I have triple-jointed thumbs - who could ask for anything more? So, when I have Monday off and the girl I love is working all Sunday, I have a choice - I can go home and piss about on the internet, or I can stay here and piss about on the internet, with one proviso - staying here necessitates fixing the computer so it can actually access the internet.

So I think, "Easy, won't be a problem."

So on goes the computer, up comes Vista (eventually), a quick diagnostic run and I surmise, "hmmm, it isn't working." Genius. Eat your heart out, Sherlock Holmes. So I try a manual connect with the saved WEP key, and it still doesn't work. So then I turn the wireless router off and then turn it on again.

Everything starts working.

So then I think, "right, well, she wanted to to install a virus protection software," so I go up to the loft, and brush away all the dust, uncovering three different versions of Norton and one version of McAfee - none of which work becuase Windows Vista is a bucket of wank.

So I then run a Google search for AVG Free Edition which, besides being the best version of free virus protection software out there, is free to update for life and also appears to run on Vista. After some careful consideration, it also seems that Superfrog runs on Vista as well, but that's not actually that important. Well, maybe not for her, anyway. I don't know exactly.

It starts downloading, and while I look for a way to do my college work from here (my college, in a masterstroke of bad planning, actually don't appear to have put the work that I thought they'd put up up, so I actually can't do it - thanks, college), it finishes downloading, and Vista handily squirrels it away somewhere I can't find it. I search everywhere, open a command prompt and type "dir avg /s" - nothing - so I re-download the file, hit "open containing folder" and there's the first one. Cancel download number two, install AVG.

Take THAT, Vista.

So, good boyfriend I may be - and if you are my girl, you may ask me to do things - but if you are a computer, as it turns out, I am bad, and you... you are MY BITCH.