Wednesday, 16 August 2017

Beautiful Music

As the band packed up their instruments and began to trundle away in their various cars, I fell into stride beside Karolina. She was beautiful - with the perfect nose, bright blue eyes and golden hair tied into an elegant knot, but still falling down to her shoulders like a waterfall. Like me, she'd just finished university, and like me, she'd discovered this little orchestra who handily rehearsed in the church five minutes' walk from my house. She lived on the other side of town, which was a little bit of a walk away.

We got talking, something we didn't do much during rehearsal, since I sat at the back row of the violins with the ad libitum parts, some of which I'd scored myself, and her fingers danced across the piccolo across the circle. We occasionally shared a smile - sometimes a wink, occasionally a note - but very few words.

We discussed music - what we liked, what we disliked, and what got us into our chosen instruments. I shared stories of the band I was in at university, and the society I helped found in my final year, sketching bass clefs onto whiteboard in meeting rooms and taking minutes in musical shorthand. She told me of the times she had spent in her room in university hall, twittering her way through musical scores which she picked up second-hand from charity shops. Once everyone else was out of sight, we sang the title song from Fiddler on the Roof to each other. I was amazed she knew the words, since they're not sung in the musical.

We harmonised well.

As we were walking in the direction of town, I suggested we get a coffee. Starbucks would still be open; we were young and silly, and although we both had work in the morning, it wasn't that late. So we walked down the tree-lined road, up the alleyways that provide a handy shortcut into town, and perched on stools with vanilla lattes, our instruments making love on the floor beside us. The conversation flowed freely - the laughter too. At this late hour, people were beginning to trickle away, and for a while, we were in our little bubble, the sparkle of her eyes reflecting my nervous brush-back of my hair which, I noticed, I was doing a little too much.

We stayed out far too late and waltzed back to her tiny flat near the train station on the hill. Where once we were waxing lyrical, now we were virtually silent. The door closed; our instruments leaned up against the wall. Our bodies met; her opal kisses tasted like vanilla, strawberry and excitement, with a hint of crescendo. A laugh, a smile, a breath and a tumble, and she fell backwards onto her bed, landing like a soft stick on a timpani. She hitched up her skirt; I tugged at my belt. She bit her lip as I sank my cock into her, her eyelids fluttering closed as her body relaxed around me. I moved inside her, gentle deliberate strokes, her giggles fluttering into my ear as I took breaths as deep and measured as I could.

Moving in rhythm... from the rehearsal room to the bedroom.

We awoke, kissed, dressed, and walked hand-in-hand to the station. I waved her farewell as she joined the stream of commuters heading into London; I turned to make my way to work - on foot, since I'd left my bicycle at home. Violin in hand, I sang softly to myself as I made my way up the hill, a soft glow illuminating my path in the dawn's misty light.

Karolina and I walked around town almost every night - sometimes going for a drink, sometimes just sitting in the park or watching the ducks on the river. We almost always went back to her little flat to make love. Occasionally, we would play music together. We always went to band practice, but this time we talked during the interval. I never told anyone else about her.

I never told anyone else about her, because she didn't exist.

And this time, I didn't want to. She was my secret girlfriend - the one I created. I carried her around like a light in my heart: a secret that I didn't have to feel guilty about. Someone I could talk to, share my stories with, and feel close to. I would walk to band practice every Wednesday, play my part, and then take her hand and walk home.

Say hello to my parents, make a hot chocolate, lie back on my own bed, close my eyes... and walk off into the night with Karolina, always ready to share one more adventure.

Sunday, 13 August 2017

Fair Trade

I was lost.

Through the miasma of backstreets and alleyways with sex shops I didn't recognise, the steady heat beat down upon Soho like a drum. After my relatively unsteady day, I was looking forward to escaping the sun via the Underground and dragging my way home. I didn't know exactly where I was, but was fairly sure I was heading in the right direction.

"Excuse me, sir?"

I froze like a rabbit caught in headlights, the small plastic bag which held my sister's birthday present loosely hanging from my right hand. Turning to the right, from whence the voice had hailed, I saw a blonde woman beckoning me forwards.

"Are you looking for a girl? I have some lovely girls."
"Oh!" I almost laughed, relieved that I wasn't in any particular danger. "No, thank you."
"Are you sure?" she pressed.
"Yes, I'm perfectly sure, thank you," I said politely. "But thank you for asking."

It was only at this point that I realised this was the first time I had ever been in such a situation. I was also slightly bamboozled by our location - the back entrance to Westminster Kingsway College. As the summer holidays are on, this may have been a less active building than usual, but surely there would have been some activities going on? It was an odd place to solicit from, but I suppose if you're going to do it somewhere...

I still wasn't sure how to react.

"I've got some boys too!" she pressed. "Some very nice boys, if you want."
"Oh, no, no," I replied. "No, I'm into girls, but I just don't want to... I mean, you know, I like girls, but I... I have one."

In fact, I'm just coming from dropping her off at work. This morning, as we lay entwined with her hand wrapped around my throbbing penis, I didn't want to ever let her go. 

"Well, what about a nice massage, then? You don't even need to have sex, you can just get a massage from one of the girls..."

However uneasy I felt, I couldn't fault her sales pitch. It was classic patter - get the customer talking, offer something they don't want, and then something they do. And, when it comes down to it, I have nothing at all against prostitution. But I really didn't want to get into a conversation about what I did and didn't want. I'd have been wasting her time, if nothing else.

"No, I'm sorry, but thank you. I'm in a bit of a hurry..."
"You're a bit high?"
"No, I'm in a hurry, a bit of a hurry," I said, beginning to move away. "I'm sorry," I added, even though I wasn't, really. I always feel a little guilty for not buying things.

"OK, well, thanks for stopping!" she said, a little too brightly.

I walked across the street, but just before I turned a corner, I looked back.

"But thank you!" I finished with, unsure as to why I was saying that. "Thank you very much!"

And I scuttled away, emerging onto Regent Street at last.

Friday, 11 August 2017

Life Lessons

"You can be really dirty sometimes."
"Yeah, 'course I can. Everyone can be."
"You've got a long-term boyfriend," I pointed out. "You've probably got a lot more experience than the rest of us."

At which point I stopped saying anything. Lightsinthesky had just walked in and I certainly didn't want to hear about how much experience he had.

"Yeah. I'm probably going to marry him, too."

Unlike some of the other upper-sixth-formers taking more ASs, she was less of an enigma. In bigger AS classes, we usually had one or two - older ones, usually girls, taking on a different subject in order to get another qualification. In our English class, we had one I never really talked to, because I couldn't remember her name. For a while, I thought it might be Urethra. This one, however, was in our Philosophy class, which consisted of five. We were a tight unit - me, Lightsinthesky, two smart girls who we got on well with, and her. She was part of us, and when she'd left in our second year, we generally felt bereft.

She was, of course, incredibly good-looking. Lightsinthesky looked upon her with barely-disguised lust. I just thought she was a nice girl... with her dirty moments.

Lightsinthesky had entered the room with one of the other members of the class - the one who decided she'd evolved from a sheep rather than a hominid, and ended up getting straight As in her A2s.

"No, hang on, it's got to be three."
"Two, surely?"
"I thought it was three."
"My mum told me it was two?"

"Your mum's wrong."
"Mums are never wrong."

"Hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up, hold up," I said, although I probably didn't say that. "What's all this, then?" Only I probably sounded less like a policeman. I think I probably said something like, "Huh?". Or maybe I didn't say anything at all.

"How many holes does a girl have?" he asked. "I thought it was three, but she says it's two."
"I think it's three," I said.
"But she's a girl, so she should know."
"No, it's three," our upper sixth colleague pointed out. One here..." which she pointed...

" here..."

...she demonstrated...

"...and one here."

All with a dazzling smile.

"Hey, guys, what are you talking about?" asked our teacher as she bustled in with what looked like the Dead Sea Scrolls cradled in her arms.
"How many..." started Lightsinthesky, before I trod on his foot and he stopped talking.
"It's fine," I said, "it's a question that's been answered." And I sat down, got out my books, and made a mental note to have a word with the Biology department.

Monday, 7 August 2017


An image came to me last night. Just an image from the past. Dream ILB took to Google, but couldn't find a copy of the picture, and although Real ILB has also just done so, he can't find the picture either. The last time it was available was in 2000, so maybe that goes some way to explaining why.

In 2000 I was young, horny and slightly foolish. But then I expect we all were at 15. I had a rampant imagination and unbridled creativity, which helped in some situations, although not others - especially when an acquaintance on ICQ (yes, really, ICQ) gained a girlfriend, of sorts, and started bragging. Bragging, you know, about the things an imagination doesn't really want to conjure up. At 15, although going through a sexual awakening - albeit slowly - I still thought masturbation was disgusting, found the idea of blowjobs repellent, but was desperate for a girlfriend, although having never kissed a girl.

Into this mass of contradictions, introduce a bundle of acquaintances - friends of a friend - many of whom I ended up meeting, however briefly, at a few student parties years later. They all went to the same school - a selective grammar for boys - which seemed a world away from my mixed-sex, mixed-ability comprehensive. Despite the fact that they all seemed to assume that I'd be doing a lot of rampant shagging due to having girls my age around on a daily basis, this was clearly untrue. Exactly how much the bragging one had actually done was all conjecture.

Humble though I may have been at the time, I wanted to be able to brag too.

In Summer 2000, I chanced upon an opportunity. In the pages of the Telegraph (don't judge me, it was my grandparents' copy) I chanced upon a little article concerning an undergraded A-Level paper and the girl who had almost missed out on a university place as a result. An image accompanied it - the same image I recalled last night - of the girl in question. She was stunning - a remarkably normal-looking girl with a slightly haughty, unimpressed look on her face. Beautiful hair held back by a band, nice stance and figure, and (let's not forget it) incredibly large breasts, under which she had crossed her arms, lending them even more support. Behind her were shelves upon shelves of books.

Which is the best thing about any picture, really.

Taken by her looks, her attitude, and her intelligence - confirmed by the article - I quickly convinced myself that she was my dream girl. Fair enough, she was three years older than me and over one hundred miles away, but none of this mattered. I wasn't going to actually try to meet her.

And so, for the first time in my life, I had an imaginary girlfriend. Her geeky, smart, sexy intelligence was the envy of my ICQ buddies. They were jealous of the fact that my parents let her stay over, that we had kissed, and taken in by the romantic way we met - in a library, because books are sexy. Of course, none of them knew that she was completely invented, but as the days went by, even I was somewhat taken in by whatever glimmered behind the softcore sheen. The bragging guy stopped bragging; the others were all impressed; I was satisfied. I'd managed to get a girlfriend completely out of my imagination.

It all got a little too real when one of them asked if I had a picture.

Of course I had a picture - it was in the newspaper. But, as I let my eye rove from the page I'd kept to my flatbed scanner (yes, flatbed scanner), I shook myself briefly from the anxious excitement I'd found myself in. This is a picture of a real girl, I told myself. All I've done so far is appropriate her name and made up a person. I can't use her picture, surely.

"I bet my girlfriend's better-looking than yours," the bragging guy said.

And so I did a terrible thing.

"Wow, she's a very attractive girl! Why aren't you fucking her?"
"We're both underage," was my honest(ish) reply.

Weeks passed. Now I'd actually got her picture on my computer, things started spiralling out of control. I carried on the story, shared details I made up on the spot with all and sundry, and shared her picture - but, every time I did so, I felt a pang of guilt. This poor girl had a tiny spot in a newspaper for almost failing to get into university because exam boards suck, and here was this 15-year-old kid, using not just her name, but her mugshot... pretending to be with her.

I knew, from the very first moment, that what I was doing was wrong. I was lying, and I generally don't tend to lie. But I'd had enough of everyone else's bragging, the burgeoning sexuality of everyone my age, and the constant crushes I had at school which never came to anything - I wanted to feel the exhilaration of love, so I invented someone to love. I never dreamed that I'd lose control of the situation.

But sometimes things have got to stop.

"I've been forced to break up with her," I said to one of my buddies on ICQ. "I don't want to talk about her again."
"Why? Why 'forced'? But you love her!"

Good question. Think your way out of this one, ILB.

"She's moved to the Isle of Wight," I lied smoothly. "Her dad got a new job and moved there, so she's on the island. I think she has a new boyfriend down there, too." This, too, was based on a real person - a good friend from school, who had been in the very same situation. I had difficulty adjusting to him not being around, but because it had happened, it seemed a plausible enough excuse. The guy who I was talking to swallowed it, and I suppose the (fake) news spread, because people stopped asking me leading questions. I also made sure to delete her picture, and asked everyone else to delete it too.

I'm so relieved that this little venture didn't involve Lightsinthesky.

About a month later and things were continuing as normal. I had another crush at school, the usual ICQ talk had reverted back to bragging and hackery, and my ruse of an imaginary girlfriend had been all but forgotten. I still felt guilty about it - I hadn't intended to deceive anyone; I just got carried away - but I supposed that, in time, people would forget.

"Hey, have you heard from [her name] recently?" asked one of my friends on ICQ, two months later.
"She doesn't exist," I admitted.
"Oh. Okay."

Really? It was that easy?!

And so ends the tale of my first, completely fictional, girlfriend. It began with a name, continued with an image, and ended with a guilt-ridden exorcism and an admission of sin. Even now, I still visualise her picture in my head - long deleted, of course - and feel the guilt and the glee come back in one huge rush.

One year passed as I knew it would... and then, of course, I invented another one.

Sunday, 6 August 2017


"So what did you do to get past that firewall?"
"Eventually? I used a VPN, which took some doing, as all the VPN sites were blocked too."
"Why did you need to get past it anyway, if Google and Wikipedia were open?"
"First of all, half of Wikipedia was blocked. Google was also blocked, and I couldn't read any blogs, or update my own. It was written well in advance - I just couldn't update."

"Oh, you blog?"
"What do you blog about?"


"Can I read anything you've written? Maybe I've already read you, I read a lot of blogs."
"Oh, maybe you have. Uhm... do you read Girl on the Net?"
"What? No. I don't know who she is."
"Then you probably won't have read me."
"Oh, is she your boss?"
"What? No! She's just a friend."

"Then why do you say that?"


"Am I on your blog?"
"No, not really."
"Is anyone here on it?"
[ILB scans the room, taking in Einstein, the young raver, friends-who-are-teachers-midwives-and-nurses, Mane, Mane Jr., scene girl, and all their relevant significant others...]
"A couple of people, yeah."
"Can you read me something from it, at least?"
[ILB does so. It's relatively clean.]
*Laughter* "Are you going to write anything about tonight?"
"Of course not."

Tuesday, 1 August 2017

Change of Heart

"Are you going to Michelle's party?" asked Blaine, relatively innocently considering Blaine's usual demeanour. Friends though we may have been, I was surprised he was talking to me at all; he usually spent 23 out of his 24 hours per day playing Counter-Strike, the remaining one devoted mostly to sleeping. How he managed to stay enrolled at university, much less get a hot girlfriend, I've no idea. Good genes, or a lot of luck, or something.

I had my soft porn; I'm not complaining (much).

Was I going to Michelle's party? I had been invited, although not officially. But then, this was a party organised by a university student, so it wasn't overly likely to have had any sort of official invite. It was her 21st - she'd probably been inviting everyone.

"I'm not sure," I said, truthfully. I hadn't given it a lot of thought. "I might be away or something, let me check. Are you going?"
"I'm not sure," he replied. "I'll go if you'll go."

I checked.

"I'm not doing anything," I said. "I'll fortunately be able to go. Will you come along?"
"Fortunately, eh?"
"Yeah... why...?"
"Hey, ILB. You don't fancy Michelle, do you?"

At which I was more than a little blindsided. Did I fancy Michelle? I'd been sitting next to her in lectures, sure, but only because I knew her a little, and moreso than others. But then, I reasoned, I sat next to Claire, and I fancied her, and to Kat, and I fancied her too. And Caroline, who I also fancied, and occasionally Sarah. Who I fancied. I didn't fancy Lisa, however, which was odd, because everyone else did.

Michelle...? Again, I'd never given it much thought. Michelle was a nice girl. Quiet, but perceptive and very good at her chosen subject. She'd always been nice to me, and I'd been polite and pleasant in turn, discussing history with her and not turning away when she sneezed all over her hands and didn't have a tissue to spare. But I'd never considered the idea of having a crush on her before. I certainly didn't.

Before I opened my mouth, my mind spun an intricate fantasy in which I did fancy Michelle. In an instant, it seemed less like an impossibility, and more like an opportunity. 

"Okay! Maybe I do fancy Michelle! And maybe I'll go to her party and I'll pull her, and then I'll finally have my first kiss in years, and a girlfriend afterwards! And maybe this is my chance, and maybe she fancies me too, and this is why she invited me to her party!" I didn't say. It was part of my thought process, perhaps, but it didn't come out of my mouth. I was, however, vaguely aware of the fact that Blaine was still standing there, waiting for an answer.

"I'm not sure," I said, truthfully. "Do I fancy Michelle?" Which was, perhaps, the worst possible thing to say, as I'd just invited Blaine, my friend in a relationship with Sarah, who was friends with Michelle, to pass on the idea that I had a crush on someone who, up until a few seconds ago, I didn't have a crush on. It wouldn't be the first time that Blaine had shared such information.
"Do you?"
"Maybe! I guess, perhaps, I don't really know if..."
"Okay, so I'm going to the party!"

I didn't go. Neither, in fact, did Blaine. I went to Canterbury to see 47; he spent his evening playing Counter-Strike.

I got a first in the module, but after that, I never saw Michelle again.

Tuesday, 25 July 2017

Swing when you're winning

For a relatively long time - at least, relatively long by his terms - Lightsinthesky was in a relationship with an inexplicably hot girl named Jazz. She was a beauty - olive skin; long, dark, shiny hair; lovely white smile. In fact, I never saw her do anything but smile; she didn't appear to have a voice, other than the occasional nervous giggle. But then, hang around with my school friends, and you'd be nervous too.

She was also, apparently, very good in bed, although I only have Lightsinthesky's word on that, which may be unreliable (he'd spent the last seven years of his life trying to get laid; the fact that he'd recently started having sex was nothing short of a miracle for him); he did, however, manage to make it apparent to the rest of us.

"I hope she gets pregnant," muttered my token black friend resentfully after the four-thousandth "JUST HAD SEX!" text pinged through onto his 'phone.

As the upper sixth rolled around, my token black friend started to get a little more depressed about not being in a relationship himself. Lightsinthesky still had Jazz, as he'd tell anyone who listened, and I had Rebecca. Music Man, always an attractive lad, had girls swarming around him like bees around a honeypot, and despite my thinking it was never going to happen, it certainly did seem like more and more of us were courting.

"Despite being the first of us here to lose my virginity," my friend sulked, "I'm not getting any sex right now. The rest of you -" (I suspect this was a paraphrase, as Einstein certainly wasn't, and Man o' War also wasn't, although not for lack of trying) "- are. Not that I begrudge you or anything, but..."

"Fancy a bit of Jazz?" interjected Lightsinthesky blithely.
"Yeah, all right!"
Lightsinthesky raised a hand to his lips and air-trumpeted When The Saints Go Marching In.

Or so the story goes. You see, that final bit of wondrous wit and ready repartée is apocryphal. I wasn't actually there.

I just heard about it. Several hundred times.

Sunday, 23 July 2017


For two weeks, I am silent.

It's an odd feeling. I've been writing this blog for nine and a half years. At Eroticon this year I ran a session about how to keep writing blog posts. I have been trying, using each one of my methods, to keep writing at least one a week during the months afterwards - ideally more than one. Two. Three. I'd post every day if I could. I should.

And then I come here and I sit behind a firewall which blocks everything. Not just Blogger - but Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, Skype, IRC, and so many others. I have no idea how the staff cope. I'm only here for a month.

So I open Notepad. I write a couple of blog posts. I'll post them, I tell myself, when I get around this block. There's a way around it - there's always a way around it. Well-meaning people tell me of VPNs, or proxy bypassing sites, or tunnels. They are all blocked. I cannot view them; I cannot download anything. My usual tunnel - through 47's server - is not available, even if through some miracle I remember to have PuTTY here (whether it can connect, however...).

Two increasingly desperate weeks pass and I manage to get around the block. It's a fluke, and it's unstable, but I don't care. This is my dad's old laptop; mine is safe back home. I can read sex blogs; I can download porn if I want to. I can post my blog. I can go on IRC. I can even browse Tumblr - not that I do that very often, but still.

My fingers hover over the keys. What do I blog about? The sex I've been having? No, I haven't been having any. Recent sexual happenings? I'm not sure there have been any. Sex news? I haven't read any - I've been blocked. Shock revelations? I don't know. There's been a game of I Have Never recently, but there's nothing new there. It's hardly a surprise, really, for a sex blogger to say that he's had sex in a stationary car, or a disabled toilet, or by the side of a swimming pool. Not that anyone here knows I'm a sex blogger, of course.

So what do I say? What do I do? I want to blog... but how?

Paper. Pencil. Get some ideas down, ILB. Sort through your dickbrain and your Rolodex of memories. There's got to be something. Something. Anything.

Halfway through a morning of work I start jotting down some ideas for tweets. It's a start. Later in the day, I get a cup of tea and a biscuit, I sit down and I start to write. It's far from perfect... but I am writing.

I am very tired this month. I am working hard. Too hard. Everyone here is - with no space to breathe or time to spare. I'm not horny, or excited, or enthused. I am burning out. Yes, yes I am.

But if I can write... then that's one thing to which I can cling.

Thursday, 20 July 2017


"Okay, so this is the sign we're going to hold up," said the 15-year-old set artist, "during the sex scene. Obviously, we can't show them going to bed, because..."
"...because everyone's going to be underage?" I offered.
"Oh, yeah..." he said, as if he hadn't considered that possibility. "We're going to show a kiss - a real one - and then hold this sign in front of the actors."

He held up a piece of sugar paper on which he'd written "CENSORED" in huge letters, covered in smiling hearts and with a loading bar at the bottom captioned BABY LOADING: 30%. Once I got over the impact of the thing, it was genuinely amusing.

"All right, show me what you've got."

Two 16-year-old actors took their place on stage while the Joker and Harley Quinn watched from the wings. Strange times indeed.

"Maybe one of you should put your feet up on another chair?" I proferred. "Look more relaxed, since you're waiting for your lover to come in."

The girl playing the sexy temptress attempted to do so and immediately looked like she was in a lot of pain. I dithered for a while, wondering whether to call someone from the medical team, when one of the writers - a queer femme visionary with the "Coexist" tattoo and a penchant for attacking people with felt tips - walked on and casually adjusted her legs.

"That's much better," she said. "Thank you."
"No problem," said the writer. And took a bow as the other actor walked back on and nearly collided with her.

I have no idea whose pocket the condom fell out of, but everyone looked at me with barely-disguised horror.

"No, no, it's fine," I said coolly, as somebody opened their mouth to probably give some sort of explanation. (It's only right to take condoms with you when travelling, anyway.) "It's always good to be prepared. Better put that back into your pocket, though, before the director comes along."

"What's this?" said the director, coming along.
"Rehearsal," I shrugged, truthfully.
"Can I see it?"

There was a very long pause during which everyone on stage - actors, writers, co-directors, set designers and the one girl who didn't appear to have any set role - looked at me.

"...No," I answered.

Tuesday, 18 July 2017

Sounds of our Lives


It's most definitely coming from the flat with the light on and the open window. There's nowhere else it could be coming from. Even if the direction wasn't clear enough, you could tell. Everyone can hear it, from those waiting with me at the bus stop to the shopkeepers and curious patrons in the little parade directly below said flat (and those adjoining it).

Last week. I'm visiting home for the weekend to collect some cuddles from my girlfriend, sort out some stuff I forgot to the first time around and say general hellos... but, if I'm being honest, mostly in order to see Spider-Man: Homecoming. We meet, we dine, we see said arachnid-based film, and we stop at the little supermarket to get some incredibly sinful food. Back to the bus stop outside, silence falls, and...


Everyone looks uncertain. But, to be fair, it's almost midnight. People in flats are allowed to have sex, I'm sure. And people having sex are allowed to be loud. It's basically the only time one is. And it's summer, so of course the windows are open. Of course they are.

I glance at her. I'm about to say something, although I'm not sure what yet. She places a finger to her lips to shush me. Like me, I'm assuming, she wants to hear more. The older people around us look uncomfortable; a little grin is unfurling on my own face. I know what this sounds like. And I know what the increase in volume, pitch, and frequency means. I'm even trying to visualise the scene, even if that makes me feel a little too sordid.

Fuck it, I'm on holiday. You go, girl.

Swish! Thwack!

At this we shoot a look at each other. A knowing, familiar look. "Was that a spank?" I mouthed at her, still not daring to make a sound, lest I should be heard... or my voice drowns out the next sound.


There's a pause, heavy in the summer night air. A cricket chirps somewhere. I am still.


Okay, now I certainly don't want my bus to come. Unintentional or not, I have become an auditory observer. If there's going to be a grand finale, I want to be there for it. wrong as that may seem. It's not me who left the window open, after all.

There follows about a minute of gleefully uncomfortable silence. The shoppers opposite us are still going about their business; the guy smoking directly below The Flat Of Sex takes a drag on his cigarette and exhales. I'm listening intently, grasping my girlfriend's hand. I take a glance at the little LED display that tells me our bus is one minute away. For a moment, I think it has all finished, without me realising.

And a most curious sound rings out from the open window. A heavy, soft swoosh followed by a firm, wet thud.


Leather flogger? No. Riding crop? No, that's not the right sound. Palm of a hand? No - I've just heard that and it makes a different noise. Cat-o'-nine-tails? I'm not sure I even know what that one sounds like.

Rubber paddle?

Immediately before I can offer this assumption, our bus pulls up. I get on - running the gauntlet between anxiety and amusement. With the tiniest dash of admiration, of course. Unsteadily I weave my way to the back of the bus, and flop down onto one of the worn seats. I'm giggling like James from Team Rocket.

"Rubber paddle?" I finally venture.
"I was more that a little tempted to applaud," I wheeze, and then settle back, trying to bring myself back from the brink of rêverie.
"You applaud and you're not allowed to write about this."

Which is a joke, of course. We all know I'm going to write about this.

Saturday, 8 July 2017

If, indeed, you still are...

"I wanted to say goodbye," said Seven.

He'd interrupted my viewing of The Crystal Maze by the simple expedient of knocking on my door. Knowing Seven, I was fully expecting him to be watching The Crystal Maze as well. Mind you, he'd probably packed his TV.

"How did you know I was going away?" I asked, nonplussed.

I can't recall telling him I was going away for a month. I may have told Six, at some point, but I can't imagine she'd have relayed the information to him. I didn't tell him where I was going, or why, or how long for. I also didn't tell him that there's an impenetrable firewall surrounding the place which makes it impossible to write my blog... but then I didn't know that at the time. (I'm not sure why I'd have told him even if I did know. He doesn't read my blog... I hope.)

There are a lot of things I didn't tell him, either. I didn't tell him that I overheard Six shouting at him almost every night. I didn't tell him that I knew he'd been unfaithful, or that Six thought he masturbated too much. I certainly didn't tell him that the only thing louder than their fights was their sex, and that by proxy I knew the raw, bestial sound that Six made. I didn't know much about him at all, other than the fact that he was easily beatable at Smash Bros., but I certainly knew too much about their relationship. 

"I'm not talking about you. We're moving out, remember?"
"Oh! Yes, of course!"
"You've been my favourite housemate ever," he said. "I'll miss you, and wish we had more time together, and..."

He held out a skinny hand, and I took it.

"I'm very flattered. What about Six? Don't you prefer her?"
"Nah," he said cheerily. "I've got to live with her."

I wasn't sure whether to laugh at this or not.
"Hey! It's that guy from The IT Crowd!" he said, indicating my TV.

He walked off into the darkness. I retreated into my room, watched the last few seconds of The Crystal Maze, and sat on the edge of my bed, deep in thought.

I opened my wallet, fingering the business cards with my blog's URL and Twitter handle... before deciding against it, tucking the cards back in, and stowing my wallet somewhere safe.

I was going away for a month. I have yet to realise how quiet it is at home.

But I expect I shall.

Sunday, 25 June 2017

Soft Porn Sunday: Kira Reed & Dion Scott

Anyone fancy some Vienetta?
Back in my downloadin' days, when I used KaZaA and a 36K modem to find individual sex scenes (which were, it has to be said, fairly copious online in those days - this is before tube sites, though, obviously...), there were a few that were everywhere (Lisa Boyle in Friend of the Family; Krista Allen in Emmanuelle; Shannon Whirry in everything), and some that were incredibly difficult to find, often split into individual sections, only one of which could be downloaded. This was one of those scenes - something made complicated through the fact that it's intercut with Captain Exposition and his friend helpfully explaining the plot.

What I may have downloaded, effectively, was the whole scene. I just didn't realise it.

Appearance: The Sex Files - Alien Erotica (1998)
Characters: Agent Forrest & The Cook

Admit it, you've probably heard of at least one thing called The Sex Files, haven't you? It's so painfully obvious a title for anything that even looks at The X-Files (which I will admit to having never seen a second of, but I'm aware of the concept) - and it probably can't be copyrighted, either, which made ploughing through IMDb to find the cast list for this an arduous task as about 4,095,871,581 writer/director types all thought they were the only one to make such a hilarious joke. Having said that, I've probably seen all of them too, and this is one of the best, so there's that.

It's behind you!
Notice how I said "one of the best," which doesn't actually mean it's any good. But this is soft porn, so let's give it some grace for the fact that it does, in fact, have a traceable plot. The plot does involve alien fungus, cloned sexy women, psychokinetic links, interactive dreams, Adam and Eve, gas station attendants and Evil Dead-style plant rape... but at least it's there.

The fact that the main antagonist is a mutable alien fungus that feeds off sexual energy by transforming into the image of any woman unfortunate enough to come across its path is an odd one... but it does go some way (in fact, realistically all the way) to explain why Kira Reed (credited here as Kira Lee) - ostensibly the lead, playing one of the FBI agents tracking down the thing - has energetic, dirty sex with an unnamed (seriously, he has no name) cook in a kitchen, apropos of nothing.

Spoiler: This isn't Agent Forrest. It's the alien.

Okay, so. Agent Forrest is asleep in a hotel room and Agent Preston (Mark "I''ve never seen this actor before" Collver) is watching her because he's a creepy creepy creep concerned co-worker. He's waiting for his superior, Colonel Parks (William "I'm too old for this shit" Knight), to turn up because he's noticed Forrest is acting orgasmically strangely, and wants to show the Colonel, and I'm going to stop thinking about this as it's making me feel slightly sick.

What do you mean, you've never sung topless opera in your sleep?

Forrest is acting as if she's having the biggest orgasm of her life in her sleep due to the fact that her alien clone, with whom she has a psychic link because YOLO!, has stopped off an an American diner because why not? and decided to have sex with the cook (Dion "I'm only here to have sex" Scott). In the form of Kira Reed, the alien approaches to some spooky Resident Evil-type music and startles him.

"Look, we don't do handouts 'round here, why don'tcha go try the Chinese place?" says the cook (rather incongruously, I feel, as there's nothing to suggest she was looking for a handout), which allows her a silly line about not being interested in his hand. Let the ravishing commence.

The rest of the scene takes place thus. To a stabby, electric-guitar-driven tune familiar to anyone who downloaded a bit of the scene via KaZaA, Forrest and the cook have messy, dirty sex all over the kitchen. They disrobe on the table (HACCP-trained people would have a fit), engage in oral sex standing up, do it in the missionary position on said table, up against a water tank which splashes all over the floor, then in a 71 position against the handy table... and then against the wall, banging thrustily away while Kira grabs at a hand towel dispenser and pumps it energetically.

Born to hand towel, baby.
This is the bit I remember. I have no idea if it's a euphemism or symbolism or just something to do with her hand (or something director Rolfe Kanefsky came up with out of nowhere)... but it's memorable. It's clever. And the fact that we get shots of the ever-increasing tissue piling up on the floor is a little tick that most film-makers wouldn't think of. Of course, it doesn't affect the plot or the sex one iota... but then again, neither do the splash of water, clothes on the floor, casual clattering of cans as the cook does Forrest from behind up against a supplies shelf, or toast symbolically catching fire (synced up nicely with an "aah!" from Kira).

All of this, of course, is intercut with the plot, which involves Kira - as the real Agent Forrest - appearing to experience a very erotic dream (to the point of losing most of her clothes and making a hell of a racket) while perhaps the two dumbest FBI agents since Matilda attempt to divine what's going on. Even after Preston manages to suggest that Forrest is experiencing what the female alien is, the Colonel wonders out loud what it's doing.

Seriously, Colonel? Go and stand by the window and think about your life choices!

Splash! (The sound, not the ITV show.)
The scene ends (to a point) with the cook lying flat under a lust-driven alien Forrest as she rides him (with increasing speed, gusto and volume) and ends with the relatively confusing plot twist of having the cook fall unconscious, at which point Forrest decides to try and seduce a commis waiter ("busboy" - I had to look that phrase up) played by Sean Broderick instead. The music swells to a climax as the real Forrest does just that. Which we can tell, because Kira's just stopped writhing and moaning, earning a perfunctory "morning!" from her idiot colleague.


Given that I like the music and the cinematography, the tissue reaching the floor and Kira Reed's body, I think it's fairly obvious why I like this scene. It could be a little brighter (sometimes it's too dark to see properly), but overall I think it's good. This is, however, archetypal of The Sex Files as a whole. Plot aside, I find this film pretty episodic - a serious of off-the-cuff sexual vignettes strung together with the overall story arc. It has more cohesion than, say, Emmanuelle's Private Collection, which hinges entirely on shoehorned-in sex scenes with no relevance, however hot they may be. The Sex Files manages to get some genuinely enjoyable humping in with a lot of variety - Gabriella Hall, Lauren Hays, Petra Sexton and Kim Yates are all in this too - and keep it relevant, even if every sex scene is tied in by cutaways to a moaning half-naked woman!

Not that there's anything wrong with that either...

Wednesday, 21 June 2017

World 2

I was under the cover.

All of me. The duvet, soft as was possible for a collapsible sofa bed, was lying heavily upon me. I knew what to do - I'd done it so many times before; it was a routine, almost. Hold up what I could with one hand; keep a steady rhythm going with my tongue. Circle her clit with the tip; feel its pulse. Run the flat all the way down the slit, then greedily lick all the way back up - small laps - savouring every moment.

All while my finger steadily moved inside her. Fingers. Two inside her pussy, her walls contracting, tight around them, holding them in position. I felt for her g-spot, my little finger - free from all such occupations - was busying itself with what it could. Stroking her perineum, pressing steadily against her anus. It would probably end up inside - it usually did. That brought her to orgasm.

It was a reward I was happy to work for.

The difference being that this was the height of summer, and I was getting hot. Well... hotter.

The fact that the window was open doesn't really make much of a difference - if anything, it was letting in more warm air. Under the oppressive summer heat, and in a small room, underneath a duvet (not to mention, of course, between a pair of legs...), made my head fuzzy and my body bead with sweat. Less aware of her moans of lust and more so that I was running out of air, I tried - briefly - to kick with my legs, open up a small hole to let some fresh air in.

"What are you doing?"

Get it together, ILB. You're here to do a job, so do it, superstar.

More licks.
More sucks.
More fingering.
More stroking.
More probing.

More heat. Much more heat. I was aware, then, of how hot she was, and how much having her lower half wrapped around my head couldn't be helping much with the dehydration demoisturisation dessication desperation situation. I was trying my hardest - believe me, trying - to bring her to orgasm, and what's worse, I could practically feel her teetering on the brink. If I stopped then, all my effort would have been largely pointless... but if I didn't, I was in serious danger of getting heatstroke.

It was her or me...

And I threw the covers off, taking in huge gasps of air as I fought for breath.

"What's wr...? You're red! You've turned red!"
And she left to get me some water.

Today, gentle readers, is a much hotter experience than that, which gives you an idea of exactly how uncomfortable this day has been. Fuck you, global warming.

Tuesday, 13 June 2017


Arching my back, my eyes fluttering closed and biting my lip, I lifted my backside off the bed and let out a noise somewhere between a squeal and a growl. It was the best I could manage, really, having abandoned all intuitive reasoning a while beforehand. With the first pulsation, I collapsed back onto the mattress, gasping for air, as I felt myself shoot once, twice, three times, four... a warm, sticky load of cum coating my stomach, making me forget, leaving me breathless.

I got up, picked up a cloth that hadn't been there before, cleaned up with one wipe, walked out of the room and asked the pretty girl behind the reception desk for the key. She gave it to me; I turned back to the door to my bedroom, which was still open, so I sat on the bed and put the key aside. I noticed that my cock was still hard, so I tried to ignore it because I'd just realised I was due at work. I called my dad to tell him so, but he didn't answer...

The world slowly came back into focus. I was still on my back, cum trickling down my sides, my hand still wrapped around my cock, which was still hard. My entire body was radiating warmth.

I'd fallen asleep. Briefly. I've mentioned the haze that's descended after a particularly luxurious orgasm before, but it's only rarely that I've succumbed to its thrall. I'm well aware that it makes me sleepy, but loath to fall into rest still covered in my own mess (although a lot of people seem to find that image sexy...), I generally have a tendency to clean up and then find that I'm not sleepy any more. This time, not being so fussy (and after having been wanting an orgasm for a fair few days), I'd just let it take me.

I still wonder how far I'd have sunk, had the trickle down my sides not woken me.

I made a vague gesticulation with my left hand and dragged over a tissue I'd had the foresight to leave nearby. I probably didn't do a very good job of cleaning up... but, by this point, I didn't care.

I rolled over onto my front, closed my eyes, exhaled...

...and was content.

Sunday, 11 June 2017


Some people turn to drink, or smoking, or drugs. Lots of children these days fiddle with those pointless fidget spinner thingies; executives have Newton's Cradles on their desks. Teachers fiddle with Blu-Tac; sports people throw their balls around. Nearly everyone wanks; some people, if they are lucky, fuck.

I fiddle with the holes in my body.

I am fascinated by skin. Mine has been tattered and torn more times than I'd care to remember, yet it heals. Wounds knit, scabs form and come off. Hairs grow and, whether they've been shaved off, plucked out by The Oxford Seamstress (who was dangerous in possession of tweezers) or, in the case of my head hair, just fallen out, they grow back. Keratin forms and my nails grow long; my skin stretches when I yawn. I scratch; I stroke myself. At night, when I sleep naked, my skin warms me.

And yet, for all this, I am more than a little fascinated by the holes.

My left arm, decorated as it is by the healed scars of self-harm scratches and falling on a very sharp rock, hides a number of little dips in the crook formed by my elbow. These, when I was 11, used to be warts which, again, I fiddled with - batted them back and forth, gently, with the fingers of my right hand - picked up, I imagine, from my weekly Tuesday swimming lessons. Further up, there is another, near my armpit: my BCG scar, a little depression in my body covered by a thin, stretchy layer of skin; almost exactly opposite, on the crook of my right arm in approximately the same place, is another - the remnant of a boil fixed by antibiotics when the pain landed me in A&E.

Run fingers through my hair and I feel the bump from my recent head surgery, or the one formed when I fell back onto concrete while acting (the scene looks amazing, though). Rub my eyes and feel what's left of the chalazion that troubled me before Eroticon; a nail along my lower lip and feel the rough edge of a spot that used to be there. On my foot there was a corn, which I removed with gel, waiting for it to dry while reading Tamora Pierce on top of my bed. Trace down my neck, my back, and my arse, and they're there. Flecks of skin covering wounds of the past.

I am fascinated. In awe. And yet, when I'm in my most mindless of moments - when distracted and I need something to touch - that's when I come to them the most. In summer, with bare arms, I often catch myself stroking my own skin, running the rough against the smooth, not happy with my own body but comfortable with what my skin provides.

So if you ever see me sitting with my arms crossed, twitching a little, inspecting my elbow or hugging myself with my head bowed, don't be alarmed. I may not even be too defensive, after all. Maybe I'm just being guided, unconsciously, towards the holes.

Tuesday, 6 June 2017


For a long time, I was the only single one in the house. The guy in the room next to me may have had periods of being officially single, but continued shagging his ex (loudly, as well - at least, she was loud, and he was hot, so it was a good combo); the French girl downstairs had a boyfriend but she never seemed to know where he was - we never met him, and she kept having to find him, so maybe that wasn't going well; my mate, who lived in the smallest room, was almost going out with a pretty girl from our year. When he told me they were official, it wasn't a big surprise. I followed them to the shops at one point. I've still no idea why.

I was single, although that's also not a surprise. I was single all the way through university and for years beyond. I knew most of the girls in the year by virtue of drifting through the humanities department and being unique enough not to be noticed - I also lived on campus during my first year, which helped. I even fancied a few of them - well, it's me; of course I did - at various points. My mate  Blaine, who I now lived with, liked to tease me about it a bit.

And then Sarah walked into my room.


I knew Sarah. I knew her from one of my classes and also somewhat from the time she shouted "Don't look at the light!" at maximum volume in the library. I remember her categorically telling me that she wasn't strange - just uniquely different.

But I didn't know Blaine knew Sarah. I certainly didn't know he was going to bring her to the house. I figured that his girlfriend, also named Sarah, knew her well enough; whether they were close enough to have a sleepover, I had no idea. But Sarah walked into my room... and I had no idea why at first.

"See, what Sarah didn't tell you," said Blaine, "is that she's had half a bottle of Sambucca and probably doesn't really know whose room she's going into," which translates - possibly - as, "there's a hot drunk girl in your room."

Not that I was going to try to take advantage of her. Of course not - it's not in my nature to do something to uncouth, and besides, I had no idea how. But I thought I'd make myself more sexually appealing, in case she suddenly decided she really wanted to have sex with the only single person in the house and knew that was me or something.

I changed into my pyjamas, sat cross-legged on my bed with my little soft rabbit and a copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and sat there reading with my door open. Once or twice, Blaine and one or two Sarahs went past my door. Every time, they looked in, to see me sitting there like a lemon, reading a book with a toy rabbit on my lap. Nobody said anything, nobody did anything, and Sarah certainly didn't come back into my room to randomly make love to me in a slightly drunken haze. Even if she had, I probably wouldn't have known what to say. Or what to do.

Two chapters in and I heard a bump. Sarah was back, standing on the threshold without actually entering.
"What's that?", she asked, pointing indiscriminately into my room.
"Uhm..." I selected something at random. "It's my guitar."
"Cool," she said.

There was a pause.

"Hey, ILB..." said Blaine, appearing around the corner.
"Good night," he finished, shepherding Sarah (and Sarah) towards his own small room.

"Good night," I said cheerfully, before returning to my book.


"Hey, I think I came into your room the other night," said Sarah. "I'm sorry about that."
"No, it's no problem," I said.
"I really didn't know what I was doing."
"Neither did I," I admitted. "I didn't even know you were coming round."

"Your room's much bigger then Blaine's," she said. "Big and light."
"You can come into my room any time to stand in the light," I said. Only I didn't say that. I got about as far as, "...look at the light?"

"I can't help it!" yelled Rachel, from the bench behind us. "It's so beautiful!"

Friday, 2 June 2017

You give me fever...

I was awake last Saturday morning for just about long enough to decide that, yes, I was decidedly ill. It had been a bad night - not just because of the heat, but because I couldn't drop off to sleep at all - and then, when I started to feel tired towards daybreak, my IBS decided that this was a really good time to flare up and keep me awake for a few more hours. I called my Saturday job to tell them that I wasn't coming in (and got complained at because it was 'very short notice'), lay down in a pool of sweat and cloud of malaise... and then I fell asleep.

In my fever and semi-comatose state, I wasn't certain about anything, much. I remember snatches of things - a persistent buzz which I thought was in my head, but it turned out there was a bee in the room; occasional commentary and loud bangs which were a result of my girlfriend having the TV on and watching Gladiators on Challenge?; split-seconds of intense lucidity wherein I suddenly felt awake, alert and focused, only to instantly slide back into my daze. At some points between then and about 3pm (when, I am reliably informed, I woke up), I was genuinely asleep.

This I know because I had one of the most explicit fever-dreams I've ever had.

I don't often dream about sex (although when I do, I usually find a place to write about it...) and, when I do, it's usually in softcore - or, more often, I don't get to have sex after all. If I do, then it's usually with the wrong person. Nevertheless, if sex does happen, there's usually someone I know involved.

In my fever-dream, a whole new cast of characters was invented, who all seemed to instantly click as a group at the drop of a hat (basically like every single series of Co-Ed Confidential - also similar in that some of those characters don't appear to have names...). Nobody real was there, and yet they all seemed relatively sexually keen. The action took place in my local market town, on the street next to the market. And, yes, two of my brand new team were having sex. Like, a lot of sex.

That's basically it. That's the dream. I was standing watching two people have sex. I may have even shouted "Awooga!" at one point, but that probably wasn't me.

What I remember as being so unusual was how explicit this actually was. There was a full view of a flushing, glistening vagina - much bigger than one should be - and there was a gargantuan, incredibly thick cock that slid effortlessly into it. There was speed, there was strength and there was a lot of mess on the ground (that'll cost the Council a lot, cleaning up the pavement) and, at the end of it all, there was some globular, bubbly white stuff, which I'm assuming was meant to be cum, but looked nothing at all like it (colour notwithstanding). Repeat.

If any of you have seen the Flash animation called Diva Mizuki, it was kind of like that - although it looked real. I was certainly unconcerned about the fact that two friends I don't know were having incredibly close-up sex in public (and on market day, no less). As far as I was concerned, that was pretty much meant to be happening.

So that's my fever dream. I can't say it made me horny, particularly. It didn't even make me too confused. Maybe it was just a result of my brain taking advantage of me finally getting a small amount of genuine sleep, throwing everything into a blender and then projecting that at me in case any of it made sense. I certainly felt a little refreshed when I woke up, and it was a lot less upsetting than the one I had the other night, which involved being in the cast of Hamilton and having to watch my girlfriend kissing Brody from Glee while rehearsing.

What's bugging me about this, however, and the reason I remember it so vividly (UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS notwithstanding), is the fact that the male participant - whoever he was meant to be - was scarily familiar. He certainly wasn't anyone I know, but he wasn't generic enough to be Joe Public. He had defined features, olive skin and shiny dark hair (and a huge penis) and I have, genuinely, no idea who he was. All I can remember was that, in the dream, I knew him.

My brain can invent some crazy things sometimes. Unnamed crazy things. Either that, or he was Beau in Seattle...

Sunday, 28 May 2017

Soft Porn Sunday: Kobé Tai & Jeremy Piven

With a few exceptions, most of the things I've reviewed for this here meme have been from relatively low-budget features. If you'll forgive me for making assumptions, I'm fairly confident that the American soft porn industry (or the British one? is there a British one?) hasn't spent the last half-century having millions of dollars thrown at it. There's certainly a lot of money in porn, and in Europe it's different, with arty Italian softcore having more of a budget. Nevertheless, sometimes it's difficult to tell if something has been made on a shoestring or not. And sometimes it's easy, if you're also to see through the softcore sheen.

This, however, is a big-budget Hollywood film, so there's really no excuse.

Appearance: Very Bad Things (1998)
Characters: Tina & Michael

For those of you who don't know this film, seek it out. It's filthy, hilarious and shocking in equal measure. Admittedly, I've only seen it once, but I loved it... for reasons that I genuinely don't understand.

Very Bad Things is a dark comedy in which a bachelor party in Las Vegas takes a dark turn when a
Kobé Tai's face is a Very Good Thing.
hooker named Tina (Kobé Tai, who I've also seen in hardcore porn, so I know by association) accidentally ends up dead, after which the stag and his friends start to turn on each other. Control is lost and the body count increases, all because of the consequences of one dead prostitute. Like all great films, of course, there's a sex scene to start off the madcap antics.

Much as I like Kobé Tai (and I also like Jeremy Piven, who plays Michael) - and I like smart, sassy Tina - it's a bit of a challenge to fully enjoy this scene with the prior knowledge that her character ends up dead. Nevertheless...

Okay, so this scene takes place in an unfeasibly large bathroom, music with loud bass thudding through the walls and the characters bouncing dialogue back and forth. Michael - possibly a little drunk and certainly more than a little horny - crashes into the bathroom, pulling Tina along with him, and tries to explain what he's doing, disrobing as he does so; Tina, already topless, asks him is he wants anything (which could mean anything, one supposes)... and he continues to take his clothes off.

"Not quite what you expected, huh?"

There's quite a lot of play here, for what it's worth. Michael and Tina are having a lot of fun; there's a bit where he's attempting a sexy dance but slips over and falls (I'm not sure if that's scripted - maybe Piven just lost his footing), and some cleverly scripted dialogue ("I just wanna make sweet love to you, because you have no idea what you have gotten into!"), even though I get the feeling that Tina is just going along with things.

It's part of her job, I suppose.

Mirror, mirror on the wall - who will live, and who will fall?

The sex, when it starts, is quick and dirty. They have sex on the bathroom counter next to the sink; up against the wall with Tina's legs wrapped around Michael's back; while spinning around in the middle of the room (yes, really); Michael asking for reassurances ("You thought I was just some punk, didn't you? Thought I was a punk?" / "This isn't work, is it? This is not work!"); roughly against the glass of a mirror; again, against a shower; and it all culminates in a huge, screaming orgasm.

He's the one doing most of the screaming. She even puts her hand over his mouth to quieten him down - a nice touch, and fairly wise!

I like this. I think it's hot, and it's funny, and playful. And the fact that it's a professional Hollywood
Hush. It's quiet time now.
film means that it looks, when compared to anything else I've reviewed, absolutely gorgeous - the lighting is good, the staging is great, the script is sharp and the camera work is fantastic.

The entire scene is intercut with what's going on next door, which is something approximating a full-on brawl: it's a of thrown punches, being thrown against walls and tumbling over sofas, complete with something at the end which almost looks like the start of a Doctor Who regeneration sequence. The cinematography has the mêlée flicking back and forth with the sex, which also has a lot of energy and some pretty violent overtones (although with more nudity) - a marvellous dichotomy matching the scrap in a small, crowded room with the sex in a large, empty one, the same thuddy music throughout. It's a wonderful piece of cinema, never mind what happens next.

But since what happens next is the rest of Very Bad Things, I don't think I mind that at all.