Thursday, 28 April 2011

Addiction XVII: Spoon

Over the past few weeks, I've gone to bed, wrapped my arms around my toy rabbit, and pretended he is someone else. Sorry, Oxford. No offence intended, but as nice as a rabbit is, it's no substitute for a warm human body.

On occasion, I imagine it's someone specific. This usually isn't in a sexual context. There are several people I owe hugs to, and sometimes I wonder whether it would be nice, lying in the spoons position with them, making them feel safe with my arms around them and lulling them to sleep with my heartbeat. I used to do this with TD - she fit nicely into my arms and I was used to her body shape, knowing where to put my limbs to fit the contours. Like a human game of Tetris. Not so much with Rebecca. I'm not sure why. I don't think she liked it too much.

But I like it - I like it a lot. I like the warmth. It's comforting. And it's soothing. And, although it's intimate, it doesn't need to be sexual. Yeah, fair enough, it's often better if it is (if you're naked, for example, you get the added bonus of skin against skin, another soothing feeling), but I like the fact that it doesn't need to be. I've held H before (although not in the spoons position, but near enough) and she's nearly fallen asleep every single time. I don't know whether I'm boring or soporific, or just comforting. I'll go for the last one.

It's one thing I miss, and I think on reflection, perhaps the thing I miss most when I don't have a lady with me... the lack of someone for me to hold, and the lack of someone to be held. Even the lack of a bum to curve my crotch and thighs around... I miss that too.

My bed is colder these warm days than it has been for a long, long time.

Wednesday, 27 April 2011

Lullaby

[16 hours ago:]

@masochisticteen: Can't sleep. Anyone want to come and gently lick my pussy up and down until I drift away?
@tryitprincess:
that's exactly what I need too!
@masochisticteen: I'll do yours if you do mine!
@tryitprincess: that sounds like the perfect solution!
@innocentlb: I've done the licking to sleep thing. It's very sweet.
@tryitprincess:
I love it!

It's odd, really, when you think about it, that oral sex can be so soporific, when it is generally a stimulant. But, as with all sexual practices, when you consider the aim, it doesn't need to be so odd after all.

Cunnilingus can be performed many, many different ways, and in the way that @maoschisticteen describes it above, I can see how it would help one, as she puts it, drift away. The gentle, rhythmic thrum of a tongue slowly working its way up and down pussy lips can provide a steady beat - especially if it's not too fast - which can regulate breathing, eye movements under closed lids, and the circulation. It's all psychosomatic, but it does work - that's why regular movements of a watch in front of your eyes makes you sleepy, and most genres of music designed to relax you, like chill, have a regular beat underlying.

Then there's the act itself - sex is a very relaxing activity. Even after frantic, urgent, energetic sex, the calm that washes over you afterwards works on many different levels. But you don't need to experience orgasm to effect the relaxation. The body reacts to sexual stimulation by releasing endorphins (and we all know the connecton between that and chocolate), which make you happy. And the happy feeling makes it easier to feel calm. If you do experience orgasm, then that's surely a bonus, right...?

Oral sex can produce a feeling of being blissed out. Well, most things can, but oral sex in particular. I've never experienced it myself, but then again, I haven't received much oral sex - I've induced it plenty of times though. Of course, there's the danger of frustration if you are brought to the brink of orgasm and it doesn't happen... but if you don't concentrate too hard, you can feel very peaceful while receiving oral sex (orgasm or not!), which can't make it too hard to drift off.

Somebody should market this as an effective cure for insomnia...

I, of course, volunteer!

Monday, 25 April 2011

Bi

H texted me the other day to tell me that she came out to her mother over Skype.

This needs context.

H is bisexual. I've always known she was bi. I remember the first day I met her. Evidently I didn't know she was bi then, yet I've never officially been told. I just kind of... knew it. Nevertheless, I've never considered it any form of massive secret, which is probably why I'd never considered the ramifications of telling her parents. Even though they had managed to live through 27 years without knowing.

More context needed.

H is from Australia. Her mother is British, so she has dual nationality. Her mother is also younger (not by a vast amount, but enough to seem a different generation) than her father, whose age is around the 80 mark and works as a practising surgeon in an Australian hospital somewhere. She speaks, like most people I know do, with reverence about her father, although she has some reservations at times. The main one being that he doesn't need to know she is bi. I think it's an unspoken fear that he will find out, although, as I've pointed out, there's nothig wrong with it.

I looked at the text with interest, sent something back and then continued blogging for a while - at which point my 'phone rang. As I pressed the receiver button, it dawned on me that the impact on H may have been much greater than that on her mother. Calling me was a bit of a no-brainer, though. Sexuality revelation, uncertainty: call ILB. Simples.

The key point, as I perceived it, was this. H had come out to her mother on the proviso that her mother doesn't tell anyone else (including her father). Her mother's reaction was not what she had expected; she was calm and gave the standard "oh, that's all right" response. Despite that being the best you could hope for, it must have been unnerving. A shouty disowning response may have been more of a dramatic confrontation, but not one that's likely to end particularly well. Part of my brain tinkled, "maybe she knew already." It's been 27 years, but I've never met H's mother, so I'm not sure how good she is at working stuff out. Not that this matters, as she said she was fine with it. She didn't make it a big issue either, and that's commendable.

Evidently the problem, as H saw it, was what her mother would do with this information. She's in Australia, and H is here, so that's actually pretty okay, seeing as it's THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD. H was afeared that her father may find out at some point - either by her mother passing on the information by accident, a friend of her mother getting the information and passing it on, or her mother reneging on her promise to keep schtum (although I don't think she'd do that; still, you never know) - and disown H.
I reassured her that although her father may disapprove, there's not much chance of a total disowning, or even a partial one, on account of the fact that your daughter may be bisexual - very few people are that heartless (although, sadly, it happens). Plus, her father may be in denial rather than give a knee-jerk reaction if he does find out.

H also told me that she followed up her coming-out with, "but at least I'm not gay!". Seems like an odd phrase, but it softens the blow a bit. I did put forward that, if she were gay, coming out might be a little easier. Not due to any particular thing, but it may be, in her mother's mind, a more significant event. It shouldn't be, but it might.

I asked H why she came out. H told me that, at the age of 27 and with a possibility of returning to Australia at some point in the not-too-distant future, there's always the possibility of finding some sort of partner (although she's not the marrying type - something else she told her mother; she doesn't want to get married) - of any type (she's single at the moment), and if this all happens, the parents are going to want information. Her mother already wants information anyway, and asks about all her friends in very leading ways via Skype. One of those nice things that parents do. What if it's a girl? That was her reasoning. Seems fair to me.

Anyway, I listened and I talked. She felt a lot better. Job done.

Apologies for the extremely disjointed manner of this post. There was a lot of stuff to write and no discernable order to write it in. I hope it makes sense. I'm also hoping for a time when you shouldn't have to be scared of your parents' reaction to your sexual orientation, and it shouldn't actually be news to be divulged in a serious moment. But that's wishful thinking.

Might be nice though, right?

Sunday, 24 April 2011

Soft Porn Sunday Special: Threesome

So. It's Easter - happy Easter. I thought I'd do something special for Easter, but it was difficult thinking of something non-Jesus, non-chocolate and non-rabbit related. If you want to read about my religious views, go here. But this is far more interesting.

I'll tell you what I did earlier this week. It's not really related to Easter.

Back when
I was a young ILB, I used to watch L!VE TV. I think everyone did, specifially since it came as a free channel with cable packages. And my gran had cable. There came along, in the channel's twilight years, a couple of low-budget sexual programmes of their own making (although they probably should have just stuck with Compromising Situations). Blonde, Busty and Keane (groan) was one, although no actual sex happened in that, just a little nudity. The other, Threesome, was far more interesting. I actually used to watch it, and then when L!VE returned (albeit briefly) in 2003, on occasions where I had access to it, they'd show it again and I'd watch it again.

The closest we'll get to David/Helen.My recollection of this show is somewhat sketchy. Hilariously, its IMDb page doesn't actually list its three main stars - Emily Booth, Anneka Svenska and Taylor Dean - as particularly important, hiding them under "extra cast". I know Emily "Bouff" Booth - who lives near me, apparently - is trying to leave this show behind, but I doubt that's the reason.

As far as I can recall, Threesome was something of a cross between soap, sitcom and drama. Helen (Svenska), who is a sexy writer, lives with Eve (Bouff), who is a sexy actress and model. Davi
d (Dean), Helen's sexy boyfriend, moves into the same apartment, and lots of sex occurs. Or not, because the stars rarely get their kit off in the first few episodes (except the first ever scene, which has Helen riding David). How do they circumvent this problem? Simple. Have Helen write erotic fiction and film some sex scenes in soft focus with Svenska narrating David/Eve. This lasts about three seconds.what the characters are doing.

Yes, this is very cheap. Very cheap indeed.

With the exception of the episode Solo, which has Helen and Dean going on holiday and consisted mostly of Bouff rubbing herself and moaning a bit, and the episode where David (who, apparently, is a photographer) had a model over to take pictures off and ended up screwing her, very little sex occurred between the leads until the second half of the series, in which essentially a triangle happens (gosh! didn't see that one coming!) with Eve wanting both David and Helen, Helen wanting David, and David wanting Eve. Or something like that. It doesn't really matter because still no real sex occurs.

Or it does, but it's very brief.

I did manage to catch the last epiosde at one point, in which they manage to reconcile all their differences by having a threesome. In soft focus. But there are some tantalisingly quick sex scenes in between beginning and end, which tend to focus on Helen/Eve, but some David/Eve and a few Helen/Davids. So I went a-searching, and found... nothing.

It took me ages to even find anything related to Threesome. It seens to have been edited out of history and there's no DVD available (or even VHS). Via some very inactive forums (and a lot of patience and constant searching on Rapidshare), I downloaded about as close as you're going to get to a collection of the sex scenes from Threesome. Very few actually depict sex, and most merely imply it - and the dialogue is absolutely terrible - and they all lack the longevity, plot, music, cinematics or even eroticism to get close to getting me off whatsoever. That's why the scenes aren't really suitable for SPS - there isn't much to write about 'em!

Eve/Helen. I can't enjoy this scene because Svenska drawls 'Ooh, he's like a bad penny' halfway through.But maybe, because of its relative obscurity, and the fact that nobody would watch this for good quality acting or good quality sex, Threesome acts as an interesting curio. It's in no way special, but I kept watching it, maybe for the implicit idea that eventually we'd have a full-on sex scene featuring both the actual actors and a good length. Evidently this didn't happen, and I wasn't happy with that. But, as an example of what not to do, Threesome stands on its own two feet, because in many ways it was actually putting in a very good attempt at being an erotic soap opera (it's better than Eden at any rate). And, you know, it's got Bouff in it and I've always been curious about her ever since I saw her in Bits.

I may share these scenes at some point. I doubt many other people have them at all. But if anyone's got all the episodes on VHS, I'd buy it. I actually would. Just to see if it works any better than memory serves.

Friday, 22 April 2011

Crush

When I went to Center Parcs I ordered a drink from a bar called a Peach Christa. This was the bar in the Subtropical Swimming Paradise, and it's always hot in there (it's subtropical, although in the current weather, being outside of it might be nice). We perused the drinks menu and desiced that a Peach Christa sounded like the nicest.

"Peach Crystal?" asked the guy behind the bar. "What's one of them?"

I helpfully handed him the menu. He shuffled off to make us one. It was delicious.

Center Parcs this is not, but it's hot. And my Gosh, is it hot. (It is.) I've been trying to detox on water recently, but in these extreme climates, although water is clearly the best thing to have, you can't help feeling that something's missing eventually. I graduated to squash a few days ago - peach, echoing the heavenly drink of the past - but I still felt that something was missing.

My brain isn't functioning properly. It's too hot.

So, anyway, today on Twitter, a theatre girl mentioned a rave. That's all she ever seems to do - well, that and perform, and date (seems like a good life to me) - but up came the subject of drinking. As I've said various times, I'm teetotal, but that should (in theory) make me more popular, as I'm not likely to be catatonic when there is the need of someone to take care of the slightly intoxicated people. In theory. It doesn't always work out that way - being good, especially on Good Friday, perhaps causes a temporary overload? - but since I don't actually mind people drinking, as long as they're safe (that's where I come in, again), I suggested three drinking songs to help her on her way.

Probably not the best of ideas, but they were what came to mind.

What also came up in the conversation was pineapple. We all know the story of pineapple making one's man juice taste good. I'm not a regluar taster of man juice, so I can't confirm or deny that theory, but it sounds plausible enough to believe. So I'll go with that. Cloudy lemonade came up, as well. I'm a big fan of this stuff - it's very bad for you, but I can't help loving it.

Hey, I need one indulgence if I'm not going to drink alcohol.

I wandered downstairs to quench the inevitable thirst. Pineapple juice, of course, was on my mind at the time and, having been roped in to put the shopping away, I knew exactly where it was. But as I poured it into the glass, a wild idea came into my head and, as my halo spun around rapidly like a circular saw on speed, I cracked open a bottle of cloudy lemonade and added that. Pleasingly, a fizzy head appeared and flowed down the outer side of the glass, giving me a little pool on the kitchen table to clean up. That makes it decadent. And that's fun.

I took a sip. Absolutely delightful. Another citrus mix of gorgeousness.

And now I am addicted. To a drink with both natural and added sugar.

I'm going to be high as a kite by this evening, just you wait and see!

Wednesday, 20 April 2011

Just let your boyfriend be your guide!

I read a lot of blogs, and I occasionally read erotica. I've even had cybersex (and some people send me logs of their cybersex sessions, which is remarkably odd, but why not?) and it's often amazing to see how many different phrases, verbs and nouns people use to describe sex or sexual acts. I wrote a post about how it's called "sex" a few years back, and spent a month keeping an ear out for sex references, both oblique and explicit, and yet that barely scratches the surface. I love these words and phrases, and I have a few that I keep as my personal favourites.

My favourite phrase is "[to] guide [someone] through their orgasm."

It's not as unusual a phrase as it may seem at first. It's also not really something you should be thinking of doing - it should come naturally. But I think awareness of the practice is a good thing too.

As far as I see it, when you "guide" someone through their orgasm, they have to be orgasming first, obviously. I'd like to hope you've made them do that too - otherwise, what the hell were you doing? But that's guiding to orgasm, not through orgasm. It's not the end of the journey. Guiding someone through their orgasm, as I put it, is the act of keeping going, despite the peak of sexual excitement being evident. Why keep going? Well, for a start, it feels great...

...but there's a bit more than that. It doesn't have to be hard and fast (in fact, from what I've heard, it's better if it isn't); those extra few thrusts, maybe getting slower (but deeper) as you go, while she orgasms, serve to "help" the orgasm... after all, it's extra pleasure, right? I've always made a point of continuing to lick, even if her thighs are clenched very tightly around my head and she's screaming, gently, until the orgasm's finished. It helps prolong the experience, and hopefully, make it a little more intense, and better for all involved!

I mean, what are you going to do - just let them get on with it? That's lame. It's not masturbation, it's sex. Vive la difference!

And then we have cleaning up, maybe also involving creative use of the tongue. And aftershocks. But we can deal with those too.

Hopefully by eliciting another orgasm...

Monday, 18 April 2011

Ready and willing, make me dirty!

Although I'll freely admit to being as explicit as your average sex blogger is on occasion (and even more explicit than a few, due to the fact that I have no shame in saying certain words!), I've never considered myself dirty. It's not a word with good connotations - not just the adjective in the common parlance, but also in sexual context - having a dirty mind is all right (a little dodgy, perhaps, but usually cheeky enough to get away with), but being a dirty man is not - it implies the lecherous older gent upon hearing the phrase. And being a dirty girl means that you love Benedict Cumberbatch. But some people will freely admit to being dirty.

I don't. I don't think I am. The ironies of the Innocent in my name are pretty obvious, but I've never considered myself too 'dirty'. Sex is messy, but I like to consider it good clean fun - and if you place a negative adjective in front of it, then it makes it seem wrong... and there's nothing wrong with sex. Er, right?

So I surprised myself the other day.

My sister and I were out in town buying a birthday present for our 15-year-old cousin. Or attempting to. We had no idea what to buy her. It was easy when she was young and cute - I bought her a toy squid when she was 4 and she loved it - but at 15, no idea. None at all. We looked in all the shops, and by the time we'd found something in Waterstone's (it was my suggestion, but still the last shop we tried, as my sister gets distracted by shiny things), I was basically drying out. I hadn't had a drink for hours and it was very hot. And I get thirsty quickly. And it was 3pm and I hadn't had lunch. So we headed for Starbucks.

There was a brief cry of my sister's name from somewhere, and having located the course, she introduced me (or rather, briefly introduced, but then tried to distract attention elsewhere) to a friend of hers, allegedly from the amateur dramatics group she was part of - although I can't recall seeing her on stage. Not that I pay too much attention to that group, mind you - their productions are usually pretty awful, especially as they've started penning their own recently. But this girl had some sort of effect on me. I'm not sure what it was.

She entered the coffee shop with us, I got my sandwich and water, and we all sat down. I shot a quick glance back at this girl (whose name I've forgotten, but it's not important for the purposes of this entry), and suddenly the revelation hit me: I wanted to have dirty sex with her. That's what I wanted to do. It was so unusual: not actually being overly physically attracted to someone (although I didn't find her unattractive; there wasn't anything about her I'd usually go for), but wanting to have sex with her. And dirrrrty sex.

I could picture it in my eyes. The room would be dark. Something oppressive, like out of film noir. I'd be on top of her - deep inside her. We'd both be naked, our clothes strewn on the floor in a fit of animalistic lust (although maybe she'd still have her shoes on), and we'd be banging together fast. Hard. Every thrust with a moan of pleasure, or possibly a grunt in my case (I don't grunt! Why did I even think of that?). It just came to me. I don't know where from. But the scene was there. And I wanted it.

Of course I didn't do anything about it. I put it from my head. I didn't know anything about this girl. She could have been married to a staunch Catholic warlord with a serious temper problem for all I knew. I never asked, so I never found out. But I didn't want to find out. I just wanted to fuck her.

Briefly.

I didn't want to half an hour later, when I was walking home with a hopefully suitable present in my hand, and the forming stages of a planned CD-R of "ch00ns" to bolster the lameness of the last-minute gift decision. I'd kind of forgotten about the whole incident. And yet, for a short time, with one unfortunate young lady as my focus, I just felt dirty.

Whyyyyy?

Sunday, 17 April 2011

Soft Porn Sunday: Jennifer Burton & Kevin E. West

I wonder what that E. stands for. I guess it'll always be a mystery, like the E in E. Edward Grey from Secretary.

Appearance: Click - Sex, Lies & Politics (1997) - aka Sexual Dependence Day
Characters: Officer Shelley & Ron Slick

OK, so I'm not a major fan of the Click series. The basic premise is a bit too far-fetched for me, and when you consider that I like softcore films which involve time-travel, a female Sheriff of Nottingham, alien female sex clones, lesbian cyborgs and a planet populated entirely by women, that really is saying something. It's never really explained, but there's this... thing, a bit like a remote, that you click (hence the unoriginal title) and that makes you horny. Cue the sex. That's about it.


In
this scene, Ron Slick (another wildly original name there), who is a lobbyist, is being arrested by Officer Shelley. Why? No idea. He's called "Ron Slick". That's enough of a clue. They end up having sex via the power of a click!

I like this scene mostly (all right, entirely) because of the set-up. After some hilariously non-threatening banter - "Why are you lying to us, Ron?" - Shelley finds the clicky thing and clicks it, despite Ron's (feeble) protest. As he continues to be an idiot, Shelley gets visually quite aroused, and radios to her colleague to tell him that she's got a couple more questions she wants to ask. Yeah, we all know what that means.

A bit more banter, although this time with suggestive use of truncheon - "Call me Shelley, and that's an order!" - and then we cut to the other officer, Murray, played by Vince Cole, who is making his own arrest. And then this happens:

[Murray checks his radio.]
Murray: "Yo, Shelley! What the hell's goin' on up there?"

[Unmistakable sounds of sex from the radio.]
Shelley: "Oh! Um, aah, checkin' the suspect. Oh! Be down in a few... oh!"
Prisoner: "Sounds like one hell of an interrogation."
[Murray nods.]

That's an okay set-up. But wait, there's more! Immediately we get the music, drum beats heralding some sort of hybrid between rock and dinner jazz, overlaying - and this is the bit that turns me on the most - a camera panning over discarded clothes in a line, including Officer Shelley's holster, uniform and badge. And then we slowly see more and more of what Shelley and Ron are doing. Yes, they're having sex, the policewoman still dominant as she is sitting on him, riding him very passionately indeed!

As we see this from various angles (top-down and side-on, mostly), more is revealed - she's handcuffed him to the
wall, they're sitting on a red trunk or some description, his legs are splayed quite wide, she has a visible bikini line, and her breasts are nice and perky. Towards the end of the scene, she picks up her pace, and just when he thinks it's all over - he makes his fatal mistake of asking, "could you, er... uncuff me now?"

"Oh, no way," says the officer, grinning. "I've got a lot more information to extract from you."
"Oh, boy," says Ron, as we fade out, but hear Shelley's moans as she starts to ride him again.

I don't know what he's complaining about. If he's having sex with a hot policewoman without having said anything at all seductive, I want that clicky thing.

It's odd to think of this scene as anything but a bit of whimsy, as it's obviously meant to be a bit comedic as well as hot. It sounds, from what I've said, like this is a dom/sub sort of scene. It's not at all. Shelley plays a police officer and therefore she is in control al the way through the scene - even when she is starting to lose control of her body. She gets her man, she handcuffs him to the wall, and she's on top of him throughout the sex. And then we have the ending, which has her continuing, even though he's clearly not too keen to carry on (again - idiot). But it's not meant to be a BDSM follower's wet dream. There's a little bit of the elements there, but this is soft porn - it's not meant to convey anything except a lot of skin.

Plus, I'm not really into BDSM much anyway - so why do I like it? As I said, the set-up. It's original, it's fun, and I love the clothesline effect. The little funny scene with Officer Murray is good, too. So yeah, while I wouldn't usually recommend the Click series much, this scene is worth a look, because for some reason it works for me. You have to watch it all the way through, though... don't just skip to the sex; that's lazy!

You can watch this one online here. Tell me what you think!

Saturday, 16 April 2011

Long, long, long, long, long distance

[AKA: "A Long Strong Distance Relationship On The B Side" - but I doubt anyone will get that.]

Mane, who has been touring Asia for the past few weeks, returns from his travels today. As we are sociable beasts, and most of us are teachers or students, and it's the holidays, we congregated yesterday evening to watch some DVDs in addition to talk about what we'd do when Mane got back. Mane's younger brother, who is taller, lankier and crazier, was supposed to be bringing Sharktopus. He didn't. He didn't even turn up.

Neither did my sister. Neither did Hairy Friend, or his American fiancée. In fact, so few people turned up that the DVD evening at Robinson's house was a rather subdued affair, compared to our usual fiasco. At least there was more food.

The young raver got a text from Mane's brother telling us that we may as well watch something since he may not have been coming. (It turned out that Mane's girlfriend had turned up at his house, and she was just sitting there waiting for him to return! Lord knows what she may have been doing!) We (that is to say, myself, a friend-who-is-a-teacher and Robinson's girlfriend) chose How To Train Your Dragon, which was a lot better than I thought it might be. The same two girls and me also volunteered Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Part 1), which the friend-who-is-a-teacher hadn't seen, even though she's read the book... for which I applaud her.

Anyway.

It was quite late in the evening when someone, the young raver I think, pointed out that Hairy Friend wasn't actually there. He had been at the pub the previous evening, and was quite keen to meet up again, so it took us a few minutes to puzzle out why he hadn't turned up, specifically since he would have his girlfriend to show off to people, in addition to the promise of Sharktopus (which, sadly, we didn't manage to see in the end).

It wasn't too difficult to work out, in hindsight, why my Hairy Friend and his pretty young long-distance American fiancée (who he hasn't seen for a month or so) didn't turn up to the DVD evening. Mane's younger brother, I don't know. Mane's girlfriend, I don't know. My sister, I don't know. But Hairy Friend and his SO - I can probably guess at the reason.

Robinson texted me today to ask if Hairy Friend had been in contact with me - he was purporting a trip to the pub this evening as well. But I haven't heard from him yet. Since they're both about 21, I can't say I'm too surprised.

"They're probably still in bed," I texted back, well aware that young lust was probably going to deny me another night out with my friends. Still, I can't really blame them, with the full knowledge that I'd be doing exactly the same. Still, for want of something to do, I did end up ordering Mega Shark vs Giant Octopus. So that next time we have a DVD evening, we can have two films of shark/octopus carnage. With or without certain American girls.

Thursday, 14 April 2011

...and eat it.

I saw on Twitter this morning that it was "cake and cunnilingus day". I didn't even know that existed, but I suppose it's some sort of alternative to steak-and-a-blowjob day earlier on in the year. I prefer both aspects of today though, to be honest. You know, if it actually is C&C day. I haven't seen it mentioned anywhere else on Twitter and I'm too lazy to Google. But I don't care whether it is or not. It gave me an excuse to up my questionable thought process.

I love cunnilingus. Love it. Love love love it. And I really want to lick a girl out. Really really really. I want to make her scream. I love the whole process - the licking, the sucking, the breath, the taste. Everything about it. Love it.

But anyway, yeah, so I haven't licked any girls out for a few months and it's not likely to sta
rt happening now, no matter how many times I offer my services. So that only leaves...

"Mother?"
"Yes?"
"How long does it take to bake a cake?"
"Depends on what..."
"Victoria Sponge."
"About an hour, beginning to end? Baking for about twenty minutes? Why?"

"Can I bake some?"
"Well, I suppose you can, if..."
"Thanks!"
I ran back into the kitchen, where I'd already got all the ingredients out.

Now, as you may be aware, I'm trying to lose weight at the moment and I'm actually making a pretty good attempt at it, even though it's not at all apparent. So I in fact halved the recipe for Victoria Sponge Cake and made one tin's worth. None of this fancy sandwich stuff. I also used lighter Lurpak spread as an a
lternative to butter. I also beat it thoroughly... very thoroughly. Although I was using a blender, so maybe that's a cheat. I don't care, it's cake. Into the oven it went, and started baking nicely. I was so pleased with myself that I'd been narrating my progress as a sort of Cooking with ILB programme-in-my-head.

I acquiesced and actually used real butter for the buttercream icing, because my mother insisted.

"What are you making?" asked my sister, barging in from wherever it is that she's been today.
"What does it look like I'm making, my dear?" I asked, gesticulating with my wooden spoon. "Buttercream icing. Pass the vanilla."
She passed the vanilla. "Why are you making it?"
"Well, there's cake too," I said, needlessly pointing to the oven.

"Why are you making cake?"
I leaned forwards, whispering into her ear so the parents, who were talking about something so mundane I don't even remember the fact that they were there, couldn't hear. "It's cake and cunnilingus day, and as I'm single, I'm going for the cake."
"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," interjected my sister. She then paused and grinned. "Save me some."

I began to clean up when the oven pinged. And here it is.


I've managed, it seems, to invent the incredible self-disintegrating cake. Well, you've certainly got to admit it's light.

And, I'm happy to say, that like cunnilingus... it tastes great.

Tuesday, 12 April 2011

For A Few Magical Moments...

"What is more dull than a discreet diary? One may as well have a discreet soul." - Chips Channon

I used to keep a paper diary. I've got three hefty books, every day filled in without fail. This was, of course, before the days of blogging (well, I'm pretty sure LJ was around but I didn't have one, it was in its fledgling days). From 1999 to 2001, I wrote almost religiously in black ink, usually accompanying the day's entries with a quote someone said during the day, a statistic or fact, and in later entries, a moral learnt. I had a massive downward spiral into depression in 2001, but the diary still makes for interesting reading, including an early history of my romantic failures. There's even a lot of stuff in here about Louise that I'd forgotten.

But a look back through the diaries, before the whimsy of 2000 and the "veil of tears" entries of 2001, reveals my 14-year-old self in all his glory. Including some subtle references to the crushes I had at the time - mostly this girl, but also another one, who I fancied for a couple of months - not a long time, but it was a very passionate crush. Being 14, of course, I wasn't exactly hoping to have sex with her, but I did kind of hope something happened at Woodcraft camp. Something did happen at Woodcraft camp - she hooked up with a friend of mine on 2/8/99, according to my journal. 7/8/99 was an important date for me, essentially, because that would be the end of the camp, and I had the entry all planned out.

What I'd do was this. I'd be getting off the minibus, catch the girl's eye, and hold her gaze for a few seconds, smile, and then move on. And for those few seconds, we would have Been A Couple, and this would be the definining moment in my life, because she would have been my first girlfriend for a few seconds, and that would be a lifelong memory for me. I even had the middle of the entry in my head; it would read:

And for a few moments... for a few magical moments...
...we were boyfriend and girlfriend.


Clearly I was an ILB back then, as well.

I'd planned it for months and, evidently, I never got to write that. But for what it's worth, I championed the relationship between my two friends, because if I wasn't going to get with her, I may as well have made sure that she was happy with who she had. So a lot of entries around August and September '99 made references to those two and how happy I was for them. I genuinely was, as well. Just a bit gutted.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

The interesting thing about my diary, however, was that it was essentially for public consumption. I wasn't going to try and get it published - that's an idiotic idea, why did I ever write that? - but I'd read bits out to my friends and family, even my little sister, and I'd pass it around the minibus on trips so people could have something to read. I didn't make it explicit about my crush(es) throughout those three years, in case it leaked, and the only one I was really totally open about was the crush that I was, well, open about. That didn't end well either.

But at least I kept writing the diary. For three years. Then I started an audio diary akin to The Benn Tapes, which didn't last past April. But the dictaphone I got still works. And of course I had an LJ by then (I cross-posted a lot from my LJ to the final stages of my paper diary, actually), so it wasn't something I gave up. Obviously.

I never got those few magical moments. But that's okay. Because, to be honest, I got some better ones. I just had to wait.

For years.

Monday, 11 April 2011

Seri0.usly?

My Yahoo! Mail address is a breeding ground for the stupidest spam I've ever seen. Yes, I'm using Yahoo! Mail. Don't judge me.

The reason I started using Yahoo! Mail stems from the fact that I already have an account on Windows Live! Hotmail, Google Mail, talk21 (now replaced by Yahoo! Mail anyway), and a more personal one. You know, one of those e-mail accounts that's actually not web-based. Remember those? Yeah, I've got one of those. Yahoo! was the only service left, so I set up an e-mail address under a false name ("Tim"), and when it came to writing ILB, it turned out that I got here a little too late. No old Blogger accounts were still available, and I had to get a new Google account. I've now got 4. Really should get around to deleting one of those.

Also, if anyone knows a way to set up a Blogger account, that would be handy. There must be some sort of way to hack it. Or I could just cop out and set up a new Google account that isn't signed into by using the Yahoo! address. Hmmm. I shall ponder.

Anyway.

Some spam is just so self-referential it's difficult to believe the spam merchants actually thought anyone would fall for their scams. We all know spam occasionally uses misspellings and the odd grammatical error to get past a webmail spam barrier; even Yahoo!'s rudimentary one copes quite well. But then we have this.

Email m.e. .at aullebriweith@hotmail.com and i am go^ing to respond bac$%k with m!y private! %pho^tog&raph@s.

Seriously, that's a verbatim copy of the e-mail. I didn't genuinely think that it would ever be that ridiculous! Here's a tip, guys. Don't do it in every single word. Just a suggestion.

Still, the name this e-mail was sent under? It was this:

HILARIA

So maybe it was just a prediction of my response. And quite an accurate one, at that.

Sunday, 10 April 2011

Dihydrogen Monoxide

I feel like I need some sort of detoxification. Even if that isn't a real word, I need it. I guess I just feel somewhat unhealthy at the moment. There hasn't really been any massive change in my diet or activities (although maybe that is a contributing factor!) recently, but I don't feel... well, not well. I don't feel unwell. I just don't feel right. I feel like something's kind of missing. Something more than sex. I'll always miss sex if it's not happening, I'm only (mostly) human.

Maybe it is the lack of sex, if that doesn't make me sound shallow. Even if it does, I'm sticking with it. As I said years ago, I'm more up for flirtation in the summer. And sex. Everyone is. It's not quite summer yet, but the weather appears to be pretending that it is - and that's good enough for me. It's also the first summer that I haven't had a girlfriend for over three years. Maybe my body is getting a little nervy. I wouldn't blame it.

Anyway. I'm detoxing on water. Fair enough, so I had a Diet Coke at lunchtime, but that's the first drink that isn't water that I've had in the past two days or so. I'm sort of proud of this. Sort of. I actually like water, so it's not exactly difficult. But I do like taste - and water isn't really great in that department. It tastes of, well, water. Water's been given quite a bad press by semantics though - when something's "watery" it's too limp or runny. When a smile is "watery" it's too weak. When a drink "tastes like coloured water" it's bland. And when a creature "crawls out of the water" it's considered, unfairly I might add, to be a lowly beast.

But water is supposed to be healthy. It's the basis of all known life, for Glod's sake. And a well-regulated flow of water through the human body - especially one that uses the toilet regularly and has a fairly frequent sexual release (ejaculate fluid is mostly water, guys and girls) - is meant to be very good for you. There are those Volvic adverts that show people performing superhuman feats of endurance after drinking their natural mineral water for a week. I'm using the tap variety - I doubt it's much different. Plus, it's cheaper.

I haven't felt any effects yet. But back when I had that job - the one that I failed - and earlier on in my TA days (both jobs that required me to be on my feet almost constantly), it was taking the occasional mouthful of water that seemed to keep me awake. And that's natural refreshment, apparently.

Besides, I'm doing this to detox. And the intention's there! And that's the important thing, right...?

Right...?

Friday, 8 April 2011

Unwind

It's Friday afternoon and I'm listening to Tim Booth's new album for the third time today, despite it not being that good. Earlier today, I woke up intending to apply to play a character for the new M&M shop that's opening in London. In an hour and a half, I'm going to go off to see The Wicker Man (the original) with H. I encourage a pair of twins to have a good time at a rave thay are anticipating this evening. 47 pops up on MSN to tell me that he's making some videos which may (or may not) contain me playing the guitar and singing. My sister turns up and shows my dad her tattoo. I bash some buttons and work out how to get past King Dedede in Kirby's Epic Yarn.

Welcome to the life of ILB. When it's sunny and bright like this, this sort of day can seem like it's the sort of thing you're living for. Like Tim Booth's album, it's nothing special... but at least it's OK. And that's the sort of thing I'm learning to appreciate right now.

Thursday, 7 April 2011

HNT: Face it

Does this scare you? It should do. It scares me.


I decided my teeth needed a lot of attention last night, because I saw a scary advert about gum disease. So I brushed consistently for a while until my mouth bled, quite profusely. I think I've wounded the inside of my mouth somehow - there's a very sore patch just inside my left cheek and it hurts to have any hot drinks.

*Sips his tea; curses.*

I do this thing every now and then called "The Face." I stretch my mouth as wide as it can go. The picture shown is not actually a demonstration of that; I just took a picture when I yawned and thought, "there, that'll do." I also tilt my head a bit to the right and roll my eyes upwards. My friends seem to like it, and I can't actually recall any gigs in which I haven't ended up doing The Face. Every musical comedian has to have a schtick, and I appear to have abandoned satire and cheekiness in favour of looking like a constipated zombie. Ah well, makes people laugh.

I'm quite proud of my mouth. I can do incredible things with it, like eating, or sipping hot drinks and cursing. There are, of course, other things one can do with one's mouth, but I'm far too innocent to mention those here. Oh, and talking. I do a lot of talking. Mostly to myself.

Plus, I can stretch it wide. When I die and they lay me to rest, I want them to arrange my facial features so it looks like I'm doing The Face. A final testament to a truly busy mouth.

Wednesday, 6 April 2011

Apalethargy

I'm not totally apathetic. Sometimes I just can't be bothered.

Not blogging. I'm never too out-of-it to blog. But then again, blogging is the only pretty regular thing in my life right now. It's the irregularities that are the fun things - aren't they always? The gig I played a couple of weeks ago, and the one I'm in the formative stages of planning for next month (I play an average of one a year at the rate I'm going, so this is pretty good). Mitch Benn's Distraction Club I attended last night, which was awesome. Seeing 47. Seeing H. They're all good things and they all happen sporadically.

I'm not exactly one to stick to a daily routine, but then again, I need some semblance of something to avoid. Sitting at home and jobsearching doesn't really cut it. Jobsearching generally involves sending things off via the internet, and that's what I do anyway.

Although yesterday afternoon I decided to make a bit of an impact, so instead of the standard form letter, I 'phoned the job I was applying for.

"Hello?"
"Hello there. I'm sorry for the unsolicited call, but I'm interested in this job, the reference number is 24601."
"Ah yes, do you have the application pack from our website?"
"Yes, I do, but I was wondering if I could send a hard copy to you through the post?"
"Of course you can, if it would be easier for you."
"What's easier for you? Because I can do either, but I think my application would come through a little better if I could post it."
"No problem. Our address is..."

And I filled in my details on the form and printed it out. Yes, that way around - I sent a hard copy of a typed application form. And a hard copy of my CV. Along with a covering letter which I wrote from scratch. Not that they asked for one, but I like signing my name. And I needed to put some stuff in which there wasn't space for on the application form.

Although that's a rare example. Cheekily charming though that may well seem to be, it's not the sort of thing I usually do. Yes, blogging wakes me up (I should start writing in here first thing in the morning), but a combination of things are killing my drive at the moment, and they are these things:

- The heat. It's a lovely day outside. Spring. I'm enjoying this. Missed it last year, I was in the bathroom. We seemed to go straight from winter to summer and back again. But we suddenly have heat, and although it makes - as I pointed out to @atheatricallife the other day - the sky look wonderful, and my garden look pretty (my cat, Willow, is doing her best lion impression, rolling around on her back), heat is always soporific. I'd rather be hot than cold, but it makes me so sleepy.
- My stomach. I'm not having many IBS cramps these days, because although there's boredom, there's not a lot of stress. For me, anyway. But it's still making me want to use the toilet a hell of a lot (TMI?), and that's interrupting any flow of productivity I may be threatening to get into.
- Lack of sex. Always something that's irritated me. But in spring it always builds to heightened levels.
- YouTube. Hooray, it's a new day! Time to be productive, I have such big plans for today! But first... let's look at the plethora of funny animals instead! Hey, look, that rabbit's on a skateboard. This is now my purpose in life. Play me off, keyboard cat.
- Lack of anything to work towards. Let's be honest, I don't have any immediate goals. I don't have any future goals either, apart from maybe at some point manage to get laid. But since my only real long-term goal is to move out of this stupid house as soon as I possibly can, and that doesn't look realistic with the prices around here even if I did have a job, looking for work for the sake of looking for work just seems a bit pointless. Especially when nobody interviews me. Ever. At all.

To be honest, I sound like a bit of a slacker. I'm not. I'm really not. It's just that on days like this, when it's warm and there's nothing particularly apparent to do and all, lying naked on my bed with the curtains and windows open (although I'd check to make sure nobody was watching, natch) seems like the right course of action. And when the alternative is the equivalent of running repeatedly into a brick wall until you faint from blood loss, it doesn't seem like a terribly fair competition.

Plus, I can't fail at lying down. I always seem to be quite good at achieving that end.

Monday, 4 April 2011

Old friends

Following an involuntary foray back into singledom, I've managed to net myself a new collection of online friends, which is a good thing - connecting with new people, getting closer to people I'd been spying on from the sidelines before, and maintaining, as best I can, old links with old people (who, like me, are often young people, er... if that makes any sense). It is, after all, a lonely vigil, living out of this room. And with new friends come new experiences, and new ways of thinking.

Sometimes, though, it is just good to get back to what you know.

Retro fever can be strong sometimes. When it comes to wank fodder, sometimes the old things are the best. And by that, I don't mean by date - I mean old for the person in question. It's one of the points I've been trying to make by doing Soft Porn Sunday. They say (whoever "they" are) that familiarity breeds contempt, but if you've been watching something for years upon years and it still makes brings you to orgasm, then it's clearly doing something right. And, for that matter, so are you.

Retro fever caught me by the balls this afternoon and, while screaming in pain, my mind whizzed backwards. I want to pleasure myself. What do I choose? My fertile imagination, much overused already today, needed a rest. Where does the stimulus come from? I almost opened the box that contains the DVDs - but thought better of it. I almost cracked open my zip case full of CD-Rs with countless downloaded soft porn scenes - but thought better of that. I almost turned on my external HD and opened VLC Media Player - but though better of that, too. I needed something from way back when, something that used to be so familiar as to be now unfamiliar... but something that works.

It's amazing I remembered the URL. Hundreds of little flash games came up before my eyes, almost spoiling me for choice. Again, the plethora of various sources of sex came at me. Booty Call? No. Holio U? No. Three Way? Sigma vs. Omega? Meet and Fuck? Britney? No. I needed something more immediate, more now. Bingo.

My mouse pointer flew to the search box. Click. Tap, tap, tap, tap, my keyboard went, typing the four letters that I knew would lead to one flash game, and one flash game only. And there it was, in all its corny glory. The same graphics, the same scenario, the same music, with its characteristic electric guitar riff repeated over and over again. It even had the same faded "sample" watermark making its presence felt, implying that it had been ripped from its original home. And I felt nothing short of blissful, for a short time. Safe in the knowledge that this very simple cartoon would bring me the orgasm that I craved (and it did), and that I knew where it would be.

And now back to the new.

Sunday, 3 April 2011

Paedophilia

I was chastised by my mother for mentioning paedophilia at the dinner table at lunchtime today, although in my defence, my sister started the conversation, and she said something which I didn't agree with, so I tried to challenge it. I was shouted at by my mother, which proves once again that she needs lessons in parenting. Anyway. It's not very often that I aim to be deliberately serious on this blog, but I might as well say it here, on account of the fact that with my sister and mother around, I won't get to say it anywhere else.

I'm not a paedophile. I like children, but I'm not sexually aroused by children. If I were a paedophile, I don't think I'd have trusted myself to have worked with children in the past (as you'll know if you've been reading this blog, I have been a teaching assistant in the past, as well as a couple of other careers during which I've come into regular contact with children). I find young children easy to talk to and fun to communicate with, but as far as it goes, I don't know how a paedophile thinks - how a paedophile's brain may be wired. But for the purposes of this post, a "paedophile" is an adult human who is physically aroused by the idea of children involved in some sort of sexual act.

My sister said, "if you are a paedophile, you should be in prison." This, I disagree with.

I don't agree with paedophilia, as an act. I think certain things, such as kink, gender-bending, exhibitionism and cybersex and other sexual practices are seen as taboo and shouldn't be, but actually physically exploiting a child in order to get a sexual thrill is a crime, and rightfully so. It's a form of rape, even if it is statutory. (Two 15-year-olds having sex with each other is a different matter, but that's not the debate we're having here). Nobody should be exploited like that, whatever their age, as sex is meant to be fun, not forced. And so, yes, although I don't like the idea of anyone going to prison (it makes my skin prickle), I think that "rehabilitation" (as opposed to "correction" or, worse, "punishment") is a reasonable response to an act of premeditated harm linked to paedophilia.

However, the sentence my sister said, I'm not entirely sure she was thinking through. One doesn't have any control over one's sexual preferences. If you are set up to be a paedophile, you can't help it, and what's more, it's not your fault. Moreover, sexual release is a basic human right (hell, not just humans - all animals have the right to sexual release) and shouldn't be disallowed. If your masturbatory fantasies involve young children, then you are within your right to have them, even if many people - myself included - would blanch at such an idea. It can't be an easy life, knowing within yourself that you are effectively a social pariah even if you keep your sexual preferences a secret. That's being a paedophile, it doesn't involve any act. And I don't imagine you can choose to be one.

What you do have control over is your actions. Unless you are inhibited by some sort of intoxicating substance or - I don't know, whatever inhibits the decision-making process - you have the ability to make decisions based on whatever sense you want to go by - logical or poetic - and the reasonable thought process (although, as I have said before, I'm not in the right position to assume, but I'm attempting empathy here) should go something like this:

I want to [sexual act] with [young child], but this is [immoral / illegal] because [reason]. Therefore, I should not do so because of the repercussions on [the child] due to [what happens], and on myself due to [the consequences].

That's a should. The thinking process doesn't always happen that way, and there are occurrences of children being sexually abused, and that's why we have paedophilia laws in place.

But there's a difference between existing as and acting upon. The structure of the sentence my sister said could easily be applied to, "if you are a homosexual, you should be in prison." (Homosexuality is not a crime, but it was only a few decades ago.) What about, "if you are black, you should be in prison"? "If you are American, you should be in prison?" "If you are a Christian, you should be in prison"? Crimes can be committed by any sort of person, and the blind assumption that a paedophile will commit an act of paedophilia is just that... blind.

So I disagree with my sister entirely. I will admit to agreeing with, "if you commit a crime that in an imprisonable offence, including abuse of a child, also known as paedophilia, you should be rehabilitated in a secure environment"; in the case of paedophilia, rehabilitation applying to the promotion of the ability to sexually please yourself through imagination, rather than physical contact with children. But I don't agree with "if you are a paedophile, you should be in prison."

Because I'm sure there are perfectly innocent, law-abiding citizens out there who have paedophiliac tendencies. I just doubt they'd freely say so, that's all.

Saturday, 2 April 2011

Flirtatious Waitress

"That's a very flirtatious waitress," pointed out James Box, as she turned and sashayed away from us, having taken my order for a salad. I have to admit that I hadn't noticed, having been lost in her eyes for a while, how flirtatious she had actually been. Now that James was pointing it out, it did seem obvious enough to be a bit silly. She took orders leaning closely inwards, smiled a lot - a little too much than is natural, even for a waitress - and seemed genuinely pleased to be there.

Fortunately this waitress was kind of cute - something James didn't need to point out to me. It was a nice unforced smile. She has a cute body, a pretty face, and her hair was in a long plait (something I've always found attractive), which she had draped over one shoulder, so that it showed from the front view, not the back. Quite a nice trick, as her hair was good too - a mix between blonde and brown (as opposed to just blonde-ish-brown-ish). An overall look reminiscent of @teasingblonde, but shorter.

"I'm single," I pointed out to James, after ordering something else specifically so I could have her lean in again. "You're not, so hands off."
"She's flirting," he responded, but she's flirting with all of us."
I reflected.
"Well," I reasoned, "if you're going to flirt with a large crowd of people, we're probably the best crowd to do so with." I spread my arms and indicated the rest of the table, on which the usual bisexual polyamorous crowd of the monthly CCK Social had congregated.

She came back and asked if it was the English Breakfast tea that I wanted. I said yes, and she provided me with it.
"That's lovely," I said, "thanks." And I winked.
It took me a while to realised I'd just winked at a waitress. That's just wrong on so many different levels it's actually pointless to try and calculate them. H, who is one of my best friends, arrived later on, and I wouldn't even dare wink at her. Even in the slightly tiddly state she joined us in. Whether or not she noticed, I don't know. But I did feel jaded enough to tweet it.

I was distracted later on by Maxine's painful discovery that "later" is not the safeword, but nevertheless, I did keep going back to the occasional glance at the waitress, even once risking a quick look at her derrière on my way to the toilet. And towards the evening, I said those magical words:

"Can I have my bill please?"

She wiggled over with the bill. I extracted a £20 note, which about covered the £16 or so that the bill came to.

"I'll just go and get the change," she said.
"Oh, no. Keep all the change, I insist," I heard myself saying, my halo spinning around emitting gold sparks.
She blinked once or twice, thanked me profusely (and which point I said something like, "oh it's okay," even though what I actually wanted to do was touch her hair), and disappeared, at which point I snapped out of whatever réverie I was in. James was grinning.

It's a good thing I'd drunk the English Breakfast tea she'd brought over earlier. If it had been anywhere near me, it woud have gone everywhere, considering the amount of force with which I hit my head repeatedly against the table.

Still, it's always good to have ambition.

Friday, 1 April 2011

Beam

I'm still jobseeking at the moment and, although it's a mundane exercise, I'm beginning to think that it's actually OK and also a little more preferable to having a job, since I get more time to fuck about on the internet. That's not the way I should be thinking, but at least I'm not afraid to admit it. Which is one thing, I suppose. This may change at any point, though (although that's unlikely if the current streak of 50 jobs with not one single damn interview is anything to go by), but it's going to remain a priority that I continue writing ILB as much as possible, no matter what happens with my job situation.

Anyway, so. Today I got a call from a recruitment agency in central London. They had got my CV from... somewhere, I'm not sure where exactly... and thought I might be suitable for a job, but since this is an anonymous blog, I'll refer to it as the Job Of Mystery. Needless to say, it wasn't "sex writer". It never is. Le sigh. But they asked me to come in anyway because, get this, they can't pass my CV on to the people at the Job Of Mystery without me registering on their books. Sounded a little like a ploy to me, but nevertheless, I went along anyway.

So in I went, to Oxford Circus. Ironically, that's where I need to go for the CCK Social tonight. But, just to make things difficult, I couldn't just go there and then straight on to the CCK Social. Well, technically I could, but I'd have been waiting about five hours in between. So my plan was - go there, register, come back, shower etc., and then go back out again. Easy(ish).
Followed the classically hilarious directions, which in fact amounted to "walk down Great Portland Street" but filled up half a page of my notebook, including which exit to use from the station and which shops to walk between - the lady on the phone was thorough - and felt extremely uncomfortable in a corporate environment (ice water, unnecessary sofa, glass walls and all) for a while until my lady finally turned up and we had a "chat".

At least, I think it was a chat. It can't have been an interview. I assume, perhaps blindly, that it's the mystery job of The Mystery Job to interview me. Plus, I was in casual clothing. Nevertheless, this was an opportunity to talk about me, and I've never been one to pass that up.

About halfway in, I realised I was flirting. Not particularly heavy-handedly, but I was flashing my nervous smile every now and again, and giving too much unnecessary detail - "ah, well, yes, as you can see, I was a teaching assistant, well, I was working part-time and looking for something more to do, because there wasn't a lot of satisfaction in what I was doing, well, actually, I'd just come out of university, and therefore I didn't have much of an idea, I mean, English degree, of course, haha! So my mother suggested I give teaching a try and so I volunteered as a teaching assistant and I quite liked it, and the children loved me, I've always been good with children, some people have just got it, you know? And the pastoral side of the job clearly was..."
That's small talk. "Yes, I was a teaching assistant at some points" would have sufficed. But at some point, somehow, I had managed to switch to 'natural charm' mode. I wasn't even aware that I still had that mode programmed in. It hasn't had much of a chance to be activated recently. But it seemed to be serving me well, so I just coasted along with it for a while.

She said The Mystery Job will let me know on Monday. If it does, I have to face an hour's commute every day for at least two months. But hey, that's all part of the gig, right?

Feeling unusually spry for someone who was awake until 4 last night dwelling on the past, I journeyed back home, and as my iPod lurched between Spamalot, Amateur Transplants, Goldie Lookin Chain, Avenue Q and The Scaffold, the sun began shining down on me - and the future looked that little bit brighter.