Wednesday, 30 November 2016

Execution

"Okay," said the judge giving the final verdict, "is there anyone here who thinks we shouldn't burn her to death?"

Silence around the table, with each and every one of us giving a savage nod.

"Then let's give our..."
"Wait!" I interjected. "I have something to say."


I stood up, for the grand effect.

"As a member of the clergy," I started off, "I would like to say that if this young woman believes it is God's will she is obeying, then she would be right to stand firm. I will agree," I acquiesced, "that she is dangerous. Quite possibly mad. Ought to be locked up, but that is no reason to destroy her."

More silence. I continued.

"She's just misguided. Thinks she's important. I'm not sure we should execute her."
"Yeah," said Blaine, "but that's only because you fancy Sherri."
"That's beside the point!" I blurted out. "I'm completely disconnected from personal life while rôleplaying the trial of Joan of Ar... wait... you know about that?"
"Dude..."
"Father!"
"Father," he sighed, "everyone knows about that. I've seen the way you look at her."

"As a member of the clergy..."

There was a shuffling at the far end of the room as Sherri Joan of Arc took her position. Our history teacher asked for our final verdict, and the girl playing the judge said that it was unanimous: she was to be convicted of witchcraft, and taken to a place of execution to be burned alive. Meg, as designated executioner, dragged her off, at which point we all returned to our notebooks.

"Good work, everyone!" chirped our history teacher. "Next week we'll be rôleplaying aristocracy versus clergy versus the working classes, so workshop that with your groups! Any questions about the lecture, come and ask me!"

There was a general bustle as everyone threw their bits and pieces into their bags. I was herded out into the busy university corridor and elbowed my way through the crowd of confused arts and humanities students until I caught up with Sherri.

"Hey, Sherri," I said, as cheerfully as I could manage. "I've got something to ask you."
"Go ahead," she beamed at me.

"So, yeah, uhm, I don't know if you've heard the rumours, but I've got a bit of a crush on you, and I wondered if you wanted to go on a date some time?" I said.

Only I didn't actually say that. I got as far as "yeah", and then changed tack.

"So, yeah, I wanted to say that we didn't all vote to burn you," I actually said. "I wanted to spare your life because I've got a bit of a crush on you, and I wondered if you wanted to go on a date some time?"

Only I didn't actually say that either.

"So, yeah, I wanted to say that we didn't all vote to burn you," I actually actually said. "I just thought you were mad, and wanted to imprison you for life instead. If that's any better," I added.
"Oh, so I managed to convince you?" said Sherri. "Great! Thanks, that makes me feel better!" And she bounced away, presumably towards wherever she lived (which, I assumed, wasn't student halls, since I never saw her there).
"One more thing," I managed to say. "I've got a bit of a crush on you, and I wondered if you wanted to go on a date some time?"

But, by that point, she was so far away she didn't hear. And, besides, I didn't actually say that anyway.

"Smooth," said Blaine. "C'mon, let's go and play Counter-Strike."

Sunday, 27 November 2016

Soft Porn Sunday: Taimie Hannum & Richard Burns

This is, without any shred of a doubt, one hundred per cent cheese. B-grade, glossy, vapid erotic sci-fi schlock, with laughable CGI, barely creditable acting, an absolutely terrible set-up and a plot which, despite the fact that it contains alien invaders and a journey through space, manages to be incredibly dull, only livened up by the occasional flash of skin.

Why I've never talked about it before I'll never know.

Pleasurecraft (Welcome Aboard is either the subtitle or tagline, it's not explained which) takes place
"Must fix this movie!"
on the spacecraft Prometheus (no, another one), a cargo ship carrying something unexplained - but highly desired, since an alien race called Mutarians attempt to kill them for it. Captain Jason (Juan Carlos) and his crew - Carter (Billy Riverside), Len (Vincent Kessler), TJ (Richard Burns) and Dex (Paul Johnson) - a robot devoid of human emotions, although with acting like this, who'd know? - fight off the Mutarians and continue their epicless amble through space.


Into this yawn-fest, enter the cargo: Reva (Brandy Davis), Deena (Taimie Hannum) and Junet (Amber Newman). Yes, women are the cargo.

No, really, I'm not making this up.

The RDJ Team are aliens from a race whose purpose in life, apparently, is to share pleasure - which, in layman's terms, means they fuck. Once this is established by way of a lesbian threesome (which happens - and, again, I'm not making this up - as a result of boredom), the rest of the film genuinely doesn't matter.

Neither does any of the above, really, apart from the fact that it gives an excuse for

Appearance: Pleasurecraft (1999)
Characters: Deena & TJ

TJ is a technician, and therefore doesn't have a very interesting life. This is evident, as we first see him using some sort of tool to do some sort of technical stuff on the ship. He is surprised when Deena turns up, and even more so when she heals a wound on his hand with a kiss, so he may continue with his work. It's probably not very important maintenance, however, as he chooses instead to have sex with Deena, so of the ship crashes and they all die, then it's totally her fault.

Or his. I dunno. Nor do I really care too much.

"Our people have certain empathic gifts," she says. "We sense what people need and strive to fulfil that."

Of course that's a believable line. But then again, after Honey G, I can believe anything.

Kisses.
Disrobing.
Sex!

"Chewie, we're home."
The first half a minute or so happens at a succession of Batman angles, with TJ pressed up against a wall by Deena, both of them taking clothes off with occasional kissing. It's nothing special, standard softcore disrobing, but for what it is, it isn't really that bad. TJ isn't really doing much - maybe that's the character, maybe it's just Richard Burns' acting - but Deena's obviously into it, with Taimie Hannum putting a lot of facial expression and hip-gyrating into a performance which really only amounts to taking her clothes off. After over a minute of this, we finally get to see her boobs - his have been on show since the start - followed by a bizarre bit where she does a sort of pole dance without a pole, while he looks on stupidly and does nothing, as if he's had second thoughts.

They do some sort of twirl, kiss a bit more, and then we get a few seconds of soft porn cunnilingus (similar to a soft porn blowjob, only slightly more realistic and involving less hair) and boob-rubbing before mixing to actual penetrative sex, which mostly consists of Deena riding TJ in the astride position, while he tries to sort out some sort of lower back issue he's got going on.

This bit I actually quite like. There's been a slow start, but now we get down to it, it's relatively sexy,
It's got to be sci-fi; the background's grey.
in a way. I like the "spontaneous sex wherever" bit, I quite like the set-up and pay-off, and although I don't have much time for Richard Burns, Taimie Hannum is an incredibly beautiful woman, and while there's not a lot of bouncy energy in her performance, there's certainly a decent amount of sensuality. It's not a romantic sex scene, but she moves her body in an attractive manner, which helps.


It carries on for a while, actually, with a number of relative degrees of proximity, occasional things involving hands (rubbing, sucking, laying on thereof, et al.) and some smiley-laughy faces from Deena, all without a change of sex position, before kind of giving up and mixing away to Carter, who's snogging Junet in his pilot's chair.

All of which is overlaid with stabby, synthesized electric guitar and a techno beat - again, some music that was probably more fun to make than the scene itself.

Hmmm.

Lollipop, lollipop, oh lolli lolli lolli...
I've always thought of this as a good sex scene, and now that I look at it again, it's not that good. For what it is, it's okay, with a good performance from Hannum and the requisite sack of meat that is Burns; it's just not particularly inspiring. There isn't really a lot to go on - would it have hurt to put in another sex position? surely it was an option? - which isn't helped by the fact that it doesn't really go anywhere. Lesbian threesomes notwithstanding, it's the first full sex scene in the whole film (a few "virtual strip club" scenes don't count) at over half an hour in, which may go a fair way to satiate the "I want straight sex scenes or I'm turning off my cable TV" market. Who knows?

I'm not sure what else there is to say. There isn't really much more, anyway. The film itself appears to be in the wrong order, really - there isn't really a plot to follow after this scene (well, there is, but it's a very thin one, with nary a Mutarian in sight) - we get a number of crew/alien-girl pairings and a third-act cloning scenario, but those are just there to fill space. You could, in all honesty, cut a lot out of this movie and have the whole thing over in half an hour and still be able to fit in all the sex scenes and make sense of the plot.

I sense a business plan...

Thursday, 24 November 2016

Hold

LLB: "How was work?"
ILB: "Well, I got through it without falling asleep."
LLB: "Excellent!"
ILB: "It was a bit touch-and-go, but I did it."
LLB: "Do you know what your prize is?"
ILB: "No; what's my prize?"

LLB: "You get to cuddle me!"

[30 minutes of cuddling later...]

ILB: "Hold on to me."
LLB: "Why?"
ILB: "We're mere specks on a tiny rock that's moving through deep space at tens of thousands of miles an hour! We have no control, we need to hold on to each other!"
LLB: "..."
ILB: "I just like holding you, okay?"
LLB: "..."

[15 minutes of cuddling later...]

ILB: "We should get lunch."

[They do not move.]

Monday, 21 November 2016

#DEBill: What is porn?

Okay, I'm going to say it without being (too) blasé: the Digital Economy Bill is fucking terrifying.

It really, really is. I mean, it's completely unworkable: a clusterfuck of ambiguous words, with no concern for personal freedoms, freedom of speech and expression and financial gain; no government in their right mind would do this.

But then again, Brexit is unworkable. Donald Trump is unelectable. Prince is immortal. 2016, so far, has been a year to prove that the impossible is possible, and in ways that are progressively worse. When the Digital Economy Bill was first introduced, MPs voted against it, including my local MP, for whom I voted simply because of that. This year, with basically no opposition, it looks set to sail through unhindered. And that's what's terrifying.

Girl on the Net has a post with some links to further reading on the Bill and, to prove there's some resistance, there's a compilation of evidence submitted my Pandora Blake and Myles Jackman here (which is easy to digest, even if you don't speak legalese; go and read it, it's very rational). Quick, dirty research reveals that the Bill itself makes constant references to two BBFC certificates: 18 and R18 - classifying them both as containing content intended to arouse... which isn't true; I've never once had a wank while watching Hannibal or Kill Bill.

Leaving aside R18, which has its own myriad of problems, and the obvious predilection of how to classify material that arouses, there's something niggling at my mind that hasn't been addressed, and I think it should be important.

How does the Digital Economy Bill classify soft porn?

Soft porn is 18-rated material intended to arouse. Whether or not you find it arousing, that is its purpose. When it actually comes down to it, soft porn has exactly the same aim as hard porn: entertainment to cause a sexual response in the viewer. Like every sort of porn, it is both subjective and divisive; what it lacks, however, is the stigma usually attributed to hardcore porn, the sort that involves explicit sexual contact and is usually referred to as, simply, "porn".

My concerns involve the following: 
  • Soft porn would, under the Bill, be classified as 18-rated material intended to arouse, and therefore, access to it could be restricted.
  • However, soft porn relies (for the most part) on plot - more so, in my experience, than hardcore porn (although it does depend on which producer). Because of an emphasis on storyline, this may reclassify such material as entertainment, which happens to include sex scenes. Game of Thrones is like this, and I don't see that being restricted.
  • The banned fetishist acts which restrict R18 films are, for fairly obvious reasons, not depictable in soft porn (in fact, most of those acts involve visible genitalia, which soft porn does not show). Are softcore films which simulate such acts, or 'unrated' director's cuts which accidentally show actors with flaccid penes or visible vulvae, considered obscene or not?
  • Soft porn is very difficult to find online via streaming porn sites such as the Pornhub network owned by MindGeek. How would the Bill consider such sites as softcoretube or Ancensored, both of which being hosted outside the UK and catering mostly for softcore viewers?
  • On the same subject, what about sites behind a paywall offering softcore to download, such as erotic4u?
  • I also take issue with the definition of the word 'porn' or 'pornography'. From what I can see, 'porn' is defined at R18-rated material explicitly depicting sexual contact. Soft porn depicts sexual contact without explicit content (and, actually, doesn't involve any real sex, as it is all simulated). What is porn?
  • And I will say that again, as it bears repeating. What is porn?
    Once again, my main concern is that this all comes down to a lack of empathy, understanding, or careful consideration. The fact that this Bill should get past the first hurdle is astonishing in itself, and the fact that it could get passed at all is so mind-numbingly infantile that I'm amazed it's even been mooted as an option. Falling as it does under an umbrella of "protect our children" only goes to highlight the need for better SRE over a kneejerk reaction to adult content.

    I started watching soft porn at the age of about 12 or 13 and I'd like to think my sexual desires are healthy and non-threatening.

    However, for all I've said above, this isn't about softcore, hardcore or really any sort of porn at all. It's about a coming restriction of liberty - a revocation of a human right present in UK Law, the EU constitution and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. It's something illegal being made legal, it will benefit nobody, and it must be stopped.

    Saturday, 19 November 2016

    It's March 8th

    So here we are. November 19th. It's International Men's Day... although you probably don't need me to tell you that. If you were anywhere on social media during International Women's Day this year, you'd already be incredibly aware.

    Twitter on IWD seemed to me to be particularly single-minded. There were the usual shady comments wishing people a "happy when is International Men's Day day" and several "It's November 19th" tweets. @ruffledsheets even changed his display name to "It's November 19th", which - I think - may have been taking it a bit too far.

    Okay, I say "a bit..."

    In amongst all the celebrations of marginalised communities in the world squats IMD. It is a confusing beast, with a mostly positive agenda yet both ignored and reviled - or satirised - by both people who don't understand its message and misandry-infused radfems, and misinterpreted by the horde of angry "men's rights activists" (I have a massive issue with that term and its negative connotations; everyone has rights, including men, but we know what I mean, right?) who use it for their own nefarious ends. IMD is for neither of those groups. It's a celebration and commemoration of inspirational or influential men throughout history and the present day.

    Last I checked, that was also the point of IWD (for women, natch).

    Do you see where I'm going with this?

    Spending all of IWD reminding people of the existence of IMD, in my opinion, devalues them both. It does a massive disservice to women who want to celebrate IWD because their own day is being overshadowed by something else which isn't actually happening. It does an equally massive disservice to men who want to celebrate IMD because it paints them as whiny, sulky egocentrics who need to be reminded of a day of their own which they probably don't deserve anyway.

    It doesn't help anyone. Both IWD and IMD are there for a reason, and promoting one on the other somehow defeats the point. It doesn't help promote equality, it furthers a divide that shouldn't be there to begin with, and it promotes a massive stereotype war: radfems on one side, MRAs on the other, and the hundreds of thousands of people who actually understand the idea of sexual equalisation not given any airtime, because being rational isn't in the least entertaining.

    As a man, I have sometimes suffered. I've been passed over for jobs in favour of women with less experience; I've been told I'm both too masculine and not masculine enough ("man up!"); I've not been allowed to look after small children on my own - despite being trained to do so - because I'm a man; I've been called out by my sister for enjoying a marriage ceremony because she thought it was too phallocentric (although I'm assuming it's just her). I've certainly been verbally abused, both by girls because they "can", and boys because "boys are just joking around, so it's okay."

    And, to put it bluntly, the centuries of assumed male dominance and perceived sidelining of women in history books written by men were very unfair... but they weren't my fault.

    I've been told at one point that they were.

    Reminding me of all this on IWD doesn't do anything to promote women. Demonising men isn't the way to do that. And, unless we get back on track to actually do the things we're meant to be doing, then we may as well not have either day.

    Let's not let hate win.

    Wednesday, 16 November 2016

    A Memorable Fancy

    I got into a discussion this morning about the meaning of the word "leisure".

    I described, in response, a scene: winter has closed in, turning the sky a dusky grey, no matter what time it is. Mid-afternoon, I'm sitting in a big, squashy sofa, a steaming mug of hot chocolate to one side with a very good book in my hand. There's soft classical music playing on the radio and a huge, roaring fire in the fireplace. My cat is on my lap, purring contentedly as I exhale slowly and enjoy the stillness.

    I wasn't alone, subsequently, in expressing discomfort that this wasn't, in fact, what was happening, in contrast to the corporate room with white walls, fading lights and uniform grey carpet tiles, frosted glass keeping out any view of the outside world. In reality, though - in these dark and despondent times - who wouldn't?

    I know that I, certainly, want to be in that room, with that fire, and that drink, and that book, and that cat, and that music, on that sofa... in that room.

    Naked.

    Cupping the bum of the girl on top of me as my smooth, firm cock slides easily into her warm, slick cunt. The book discarded on the floor. The hot chocolate, ignored, steaming away on a coffee table somewhere. The cat nestled by the fire, not wanting to interfere. The music accompanying us, guiding us on in our lust, both our bodies caressed in the warmth and the glow and the music and the stillness. As we caress each other.

    And as I let go and shoot my warm, sticky cum inside her, her inner walls tight around my throbbing shaft, I let out a sound less like a grunt, groan or moan, but more of a contented sigh, looking upon her as both our bodies shine with sweat.

    Because that's the sort of leisure I want right now.

    Monday, 14 November 2016

    I prefer to think of it as fuchsia...

    As part of the seemingly eternal quest we are on to organise the shit in our room, we recently bought a large pink washing basket for clothes, and a large pink storage box... for sex things.

    Our kitchen is currently largely unusable, and this includes the washing machine, so the washing basket is full of unwashed garments. As for the sex box, however, well...

    Last time we moved house, I packed a large amount of sex toys, condoms, lube and books into a plastic blue box which I put on the lowest part of the bookshelf. Moving from there to here, I put everything from said box - plus other sex toys we have accrued along the way - into a cardboard transport box which I marked "WMDs" to stop my mum opening it. Six months later, I managed to drag the box out of its corner, transfer all its contents into the pink one, and put that back in said corner.

    And so goes our bi-annual audit of sex things.

    The existence of some things doesn't surprise me. I appear to have mislaid my REV 1000 (although using it at a conkers evening may say something about it); my PULSE (still in its box) was there, as was a collection of Rocks-Off toys that look particularly hellish, all in sealed blister packs and accrued at basically every sex-related event I've ever been to (seriously, they're forcing these things on you...) and a Lunchboxxx full of vibrators of varying sizes, into which I forced a couple more. They didn't really fit, but at least my system wasn't thrown off.

    What did surprise me the most, however, was the amount of stuff we threw away. Broken sex toys that were particularly hated. Disposable sex toys that hadn't yet been disposed of. And about half the condoms and sachets of lube in our little Lovehoney drawstring bag which holds all these things.

    Expired condoms are a troublesome thing, and a little sad too, as Oxbridge mentioned in one of her recent tweets:

    I got a packet of condoms for free when I started university, which all seemed to last forever. They didn't hit their expiry date until after I got through a few with snowdrop, over five years later. I mean, they weren't great condoms... but they lasted. Some of the ones we threw away this weekend we only got about a year ago.

    Anyway.

    We also threw out a huge amount of paperwork - a seriously large amount. Flyers, business cards, promotional material, brochures, scrapped bits of notebooks. It all went in the recycling bin to give the dustmen a bit of a surprise. (I also considered throwing away a reel of bondage rope, since we may never use it, but I kept it, mostly because it was the exact shape and size of a space left in the box.)

    And even after all this I had to push down a bit for the lid to stay closed once I'd put everything in it (apart from the DOXY; that's still on our bookshelf atop a row of Point Fantasys and books by The Oatmeal). Another reminder of the massive glut of things that I'm never going to use.

    But at least it's pink!

    Thursday, 10 November 2016

    The Impending Splash

    Yesterday was fairly terrible.

    As a mass of disappointment, mundanity, grief, futility and fear, yesterday was not the best of days. The fact that Sainsbury's didn't have any Ben & Jerry's ice-cream sandwiches didn't help much, either.

    I found myself at work in the evening, waiting for my two-hour shift and wondering to myself exactly where I went wrong. Recovering, steadily, from a bad cold that impeded my movement last week and having had surgery earlier (there's still a scar, if you look for it, which is a little worrying), the steady hum of background noise and heat from the radiators - as a contrast to the cold world outside - was soporific; even a little overpowering.

    I was beginning to sense the danger of slipping away...

    I know, I thought, I'll masturbate in the toilets. I had about 45 minutes before I had to start, and I've managed to wake myself up in the past by wanking (hey, if it works...). In any case, I wanted to have an orgasm.

    When in doubt...

    I made my way to the staff toilet, locked myself in and let the vague thoughts at the back of my mind take hold. With what seemed like a frankly gargantuan effort, and a few minutes of visualising things ranging from the sweetly romantic to something approaching utterly depraved, I managed to get myself nice and firm, and was just about ready to lose myself in the peaceful bliss of self-love when...

    I stopped.

    I just stopped. I felt tense and alarmed all of a sudden. I had work coming up and here I was, having a wank in a loo. Yes, I'd set up - yes, I'd prepared. In fact, one of the reasons I'd had time to masturbate was the fact that I'd gone in early and done everything first. This was just bonus time with which I could do whatever I pleased. So, with respect, why shouldn't I be masturbating? And, more to the point, why did I just stop?

    In the time it took to complete this thought cycle, of course, my mood had vanished. And, as I glanced at the time of my 'phone, I realised that I had less time than I thought I did - spending time both wanking and debating with myself about wanking. What a wanker.

    As I made my way back to the room to finish setting up, still sporting a semi which I'd managed to tuck into my stretchy pants, the residual dirty thoughts were nevertheless continuing to make their presence felt. A miasma of pictures, sounds, music and words is something I'm usually pleased to get lost in when orgasm is on the horizon, but due to my unfinished orgasm and the unexpected throwback into reality that accompanied it, clearly my brain had no idea what to do with it.

    So it just hung there, like the faint, uneasy smudge of a mistake. And, in a way, it's been there ever since; the lure of a satisfying orgasm and all that it entails, against the backdrop that usually accompanies it. Waiting, waiting for me to jump back in, to fall forwards and tumble into the depths. The rage that it felt last night when I denied myself access, went off to work and then home on the bus to flop into bed and pretend nothing had happened, must have been immense, I'm sure.

    And still I see its sparkle in the distance.

    So take a deep breath, and dive...

    Tuesday, 8 November 2016

    Vacuum

    My Visa card screamed in agony, albeit not for the first time that day, as I slammed it against the contactless machine. I put it, sobbing, back into my wallet - mindful that I'd been paid earlier on that day. I can't do so again; there's likely to be a lot of outgoing expenditure this month.

    The waitress that held the machine smiled benignly - but in a tired fashion - as she waited for my receipt of doom to print out. For want of something to do, I glanced at the initial notification.

    "Ludmilla," I said, pointing out her name. "That's a nice name."
    "Thank you. I'm from Slovakia," she responded, "but it's a Russian name originally."
    "Did you know there's an actress called Ludmilla Ferraz?"

    Fuck!

    "There is?" she said curiously. "I've never heard of her."
    "Oh, well," I freewheeled, "she's only ever been in one film, but I've seen it..."

    Fuck!

    "...so that's where I know the name from."
    "Which film..."

    I've never been as grateful to see anyone turn up as I was for the fact that, at that very moment, my girlfriend returned from the bathroom.

    "OK, well, thanks, bye!" I said, at top speed, as we finally made our way out of Prezzo.

    I was, at several points, quite giggly during the walk back home. To the untutored mind, of course, one may assume I was high from the large amounts of cheese-encrusted pasta and salted caramel cream I'd just been consuming.

    But I was just ruminating on the question that I may have asked had I not been so thankfully interrupted. And I don't really need to know if our waitress had ever actually been to Rio.

    Saturday, 5 November 2016

    Enough

    Yesterday morning I woke up, shivering and chesty, emitting a hideous, rasping cough every time I tried to speak. With some (minimal, but necessary) prompting, I called my workplace and wheezily explained that, since I'd worked from 9:30 to 8:30 the previous day with a bad cold, I had exhausted myself and couldn't...

    [at this point my BlackBerry ran out of battery and I had to get up, trudge across the room and plug it in to charge; then I called back]

    ...bring myself to walk, never mind work, and could I please take the day off, yes, thank you very much.

    And I got back into bed and continued to quietly suffer, alleviated somewhat by the fact that I didn't have to make the bus journey across town and speak for several hours before making the journey homewards.

    I was horny.

    The previous few days, I'd been too sick, too busy, too distracted, to be horny. Aroused, yes, occasional periods of being switched on - the occasional stiffening sensation, balls tingling every now and again, the adoration of touch and appreciation of the aesthetic beauty of cock - but never horny horny. Not bring-myself-off horny. Not the kind of horny where you want to have sex. Just the kind of horny when your body is trying to remind you that, should the opportunity arrive, you could.

    Lying on my back, taking deep, gasping breaths, I had started to sink back towards sleep. Whether I could have slept with my lungs turning themselves inside out is, so far, conjecture - I didn't end up really asleep - but my body was doing a very good impression thereof.

    Just below my waistline, exposed to the elements but warmed by a duvet, lay my penis. My solid, warm, throbbing penis. For whatever reason, I had the biggest erection I'd had in a good few days. I wasn't even particularly aroused (in the traditional sense) - there was no specific stimulus. I wasn't craving sex and, besides, I may have died if I had tried at all (if my girlfriend didn't kill me first - she has my cold too). But I was certainly hard. Very much so.

    As if my libido had gotten tired of not being functional and decided to try for an erection in case I wanted to use one.

    Around my engorged shaft were my fingers. I wasn't pleasuring myself, but I had - by this point - noticed that I was hard and, after an experimental feel, had decided to keep my hand there, the steady throb against my palm and the gentle tickle of my pubic hair brushing against my knuckles a gentle, welcoming distraction from all the pain I was experiencing in my top half. Huddling into the soft, conserving as best I could all the warm, a the gentle caress of my erection was all I needed at that moment.

    Because sometimes I don't need to orgasm. Sometimes I don't need to touch. Sometimes I don't need to stimulate.

    Sometimes it's simply being horny that is enough.