Friday, 20 October 2017

Enlightenment

"What are you doing?" I asked a young client. He looked as if he was writing poetry; this wasn't what he was meant to be doing at the time.
"I'm writing poetry," he answered honestly. "I've finished all my work, so now I'm taking some downtime. I'm writing an acrostic."

I honestly couldn't fault him for that. I remember being his age, when I also used to write poetry in my downtime. Even a couple of years prior, when I was still in year 10, I used to write poetry in the school library at breaktimes. Terrible, heartwrenching, gut-punching, poetry of a lovelorn fashion. The silver girl I was obsessed with never actually got to read it. (Or so I think. It's still around and she may have surfed enough to find it. Who knows?)

In any case, it seemed a fair way to spend your spare time, creating a bit of lexical art. And, on top of it all, an acrostic. He even knew the word, unlike my friend-who-is-a-midwife, who still thought it was "cross sticks" at his age (but at least she knew it was something; I hadn't been taught it!). I've long been an admirer of the art form - more so when they've started appearing with the word IMPEACH down the margin. Rebecca even wrote one about me before we started dating.

I got up from my chair, stretched, and walked across to get a cup of water. On my way back, I chanced a look at my client's poem, on which he was still diligently working. Maybe just a quick glance... but I wanted to see what his acrostic was based on.

His message to the world?

SEND NUDES.

It's good to have priorities.

Monday, 16 October 2017

Me too

I'm nervous about saying "me too".

I've seen conflicting views all over various recesses of social media concerning whether it's appropriate for men to say "me too", considering how it comes out of the recent disturbing (but not unforeseen) revelations about Harvey Weinstein, et al., and (as far as I can tell) it's a useful awareness-raiser regarding sexual assault on women perpetrated by men.

It's a truly vital issue. And should not be ignored.

As a man myself, I strive to be as respectful as I can, and as supportive, towards any and all genders. I've even called out people for sexism, homo- / bi- / trans- / whore-phobia, and SWERFing. As a British person, speaking out is hard to do... but if it's your mother, or sister, or boss...!

That doesn't mean I'm blameless. Just as you can't rightfully damn me for whatever certain people of my gender have done, there's still a lot to do. Outing Weinstein is a step, but the fact that it proves to be the tip of a whole iceberg of sexual abuse just goes to underline how much has happened. I feel guilty, really, for not being able to do more.

Having said all of that, here goes.

When I was 16, I was (almost) sexually assaulted. Without going into the details (because they're a little fuzzy, and it's not fair), I'd gone to my sort-of girlfriend's house to lose my virginity. Attracted to her though I was, when the time came, I realised that I wasn't ready. I didn't feel ready, and when I told her so, she asked again. I refused, a little firmer, and she tried.

Though I did, eventually, manage to talk her out of it, she persuaded me to act as if we did have sex that afternoon, just for me to save face (or so she said). I was reticent to do so, but I did, mostly out of guilt for what I saw, back then, as denying her sex. I "confided" in my token black friend, who told Lightsinthesky, whose mouth went into overdrive. My sixth form was ablaze; when, eventually, I told them the truth, nobody believed me. I'd had sex and nothing else mattered.

Three years later, I had sex with her. In the intervening years, we had both grown up. I had had my first relationship; she had become recklessly promiscuous. We had remained friends, and when we eventually did have sex, this time I felt ready.

This is, more than anything else, the reason why I'm nervous about saying "me too". Part of me feels as if I invalidated what happened by having sex with her (fifteen times...), although, logically, that couldn't be further from the truth: every time is different. The fact remains that she tried to force herself on me... and that she cajoled me into lying to everyone.

Whether or not this all counts as sexual harassment, I don't know. It didn't feel like it at the time, but looking back at it now, I did endure an uncomfortable, anticlimactic few days, followed by a year of rumours (some of them quite nasty) about my sexual habits.

I'm also willing to wager anything that the fact I stayed friends with her - and slept with her too - isn't a unique characteristic.

I genuinely don't know what I'm trying to achieve by sharing all this. Compared to what some people have gone through, it seems trivial. I certainly don't mean to devalue anything that's happened to any of the women (and any/all genders) following the social media trend. This isn't a "what about the men?" post, either. It is, however, something I did have to share.

So now I have.

With apologies, and no lack of anxiety...

Me too.

Monday, 9 October 2017

When I think about it, I touch myself

Why do we masturbate?

Okay, yes, it's a very loaded question. And it's one to which I doubt I could append a particularly comprehensive answer. There are many reasons to masturbate and I'm not going to interview all 7.2 billion people on the planet to find them all out. And that's not counting all the people who don't.

Over time, I've been through a lot. I didn't start masturbating until I'd had my first sexual experience, and even then, it wasn't for any particular reason other than the fact that I was enjoying orgasms too much to stop. Throughout university, I was getting back in touch with my sexuality - particularly in my first year when I'd just come off SSRIs - and, being free to do what I wanted in my little room, masturbation became a big part of that... both reclaiming an identity and starting to amass my porn collection.

For the last decade, my reasons for masturbation have been as varied as one would expect. Usually it's just to gain pleasure. Sometimes it's an experiment. Or an emergency. Or a way to pass the time. Maybe I'm just horny. I've also masturbated for people. Over people. On people. And sometimes, even though I doubted Esque when she originally told me, it does help me sleep.

But for the past month or so, there's no doubt as to why I've been masturbating.

I've been under an incredible amount of stress. I won't go into the details, because there are far too many (and too varied, and too identifiable...) to mention. Living in the capitalist world as I do, most of the stress is to do with money, but then there's also time and self-image and confidence, and the lack of the same. Work is a slog and seeming like it's too much, even though I was missing it when I wasn't there. There are so many unexpected outside sources that have come from outside - all of them at approximately the same time. Frankly, I'm a bit of a wreck.

It all seems too much. And that's why I masturbate.

As a result of stress, one of the things I've lost is control. I'm not a very driven person, but at least I like to have an idea of what the next short-term goal is. In these situations, it's hardly even possible. I can break things into small chunks, but every time I do, the end goal gets changed and I have to start again from scratch.

But when I masturbate, I take control. It's something I know how to do. It's fun, it feels good, it's healthy, and it's free. Sometimes, it's the only thing I can do, because I have no time, wherewithal, or resources to do anything else.

I know it's silly. I know it's temporary. People say it's not good to run away from your problems. They say it's better to light one candle than curse the darkness. I'm aware of all that, and I know that if I do one thing that I can (and there aren't many that I can do; I am limited where I am right now), that's on thing off the list. But I need it. I need that sweet release; I need to trick myself into believing that everything's all right.

In those few moments, orgasm helps me achieve that state.

Why do I masturbate? Because I need to. Because I need to escape. It's the only way out.

Friday, 6 October 2017

Mikado

"We should go out," she says, "and get a lot to eat. Then we won't need to graze when we get back."
"What are we going to do when we get back?" I say, although I know the answer.
"Let's watch a DVD."

Okay, that's not the answer I'm expecting.

The lovely couple who have set up this four-star B&B have themed all the rooms. This one's called "Mikado", leaving very few doubts as to what the theme is. It's actually quite restrained - it could have bordered on the offensive - but is isn't. Anyway, I negotiated this room. I suppose the "Camelot" room wouldn't have been so bad, but I wanted this one.

I browse the DVD library that they have also provided, perhaps trusting that those who visit Brighton and are comfortable enough with staying in loosely themed rooms managed entirely by a gay couple won't start stealing things. It's a safe assumption, since all the DVDs are still there. We look for something sexy, or at least something with sexy people in it. I eventually choose Chicago, partially on the grounds that I've never seen it, but mostly because she says the costumes are hot.

"Okay," she says. "Maybe later we can... because the... and we'll want to..."

The rest of her sentence is cut off. Maybe she didn't know what to say, or maybe she was being coy. I don't know. It's my fault. I've pressed my lips to hers.

She responds, wrapping her arms around me and holding me in a kind of semi-aroused, semi-surprised hug. I'm still not sure why she was so taken aback that I was so keen to kiss her. I like to kiss.

I lift her up just a little and put her down onto the bed with a soft flump. We kiss again; I gently lie her back. Looking down at her from my standing position, with her hair a mess against the bedclothes and her breasts straining against the fabric of my favourite blouse, she is impossible to resist. She's always been. I'd be thinking about this, but in the moment, I'm not really thinking much at all.

I hitch up her skirt and tug at her pants. They slide off. Easily. Slick with lust, she spreads her legs for me, grabbing her skirt to stop it slipping back down. I'm growing harder and bigger by the moment. (Now, it looks a little passé. Back then, it was real, and adult, and exciting.) I'm not wearing a belt, so my trousers practically fall off my legs with the lightest of touches. I take her sides, lean forwards just a little, and slide into her.

Her sex contracts around my shaft, fitting around it as neatly as the rest of the puzzle around a missing piece. Standing, I'm unable to thrust as effectively as I would while on top of her; I steady myself as best I can and push my hips forwards. She makes a sound - a positive one, impossible for me to transcribe here - so I do so again.

And again.
And again.
And again.

I stop, hold it for a second, and pull back out. Both our faces flushed, I help her sit up. We swiftly re-dress; she readjusts her skirt, brushes her hair back into place, and takes my hand. We haven't yet explored Brighton; we haven't eaten anything yet. But we have just had sex - at least for the first time this weekend. It'll probably end up numbering about three or so times. At that moment, it's the excitement of not knowing that makes it fun.

We end up in a trattoria. The waiter shows us to a table. I'm still flushed, a little; I've never had sex standing up before. It's a new venture for me. She has a little more decorum.

Lights go down across the seaside town. We go back to the room and watch Chicago. The costumes are hot. I return the DVD to the library, turn, and go back to the Mikado room. By this point, she's already naked. Naked, and ready to finish what I started.

Wednesday, 4 October 2017

PMS

Of all the phenomena that have a tendency to occur immediately following sexual activity, one of the more frequent - and, as an insomniac, can be one of the most useful, is that of post-masturbation sleepiness. Your body needs to recharge after orgasm; the longer it takes before you do, the more you will feel tired afterwards. It usually takes me a while to orgasm, especially when I'm bringing myself off, so I sometimes slip into a semi-dreamlike state immediately afterwards.

It's inconvenient that I then have to get up and clean myself. I'd gladly fall fast asleep while still covered in my own cum - I'm just not sure the person with whom I share my bed would take the same view. I may also end up making a mess of the bedsheets, but I guess that's what a washing machine's for...

I had a few hours off work this afternoon. Finishing at 2pm (well, running an errand for work, but I left at 2:30); back in at 6. With a couple of hours to kill, I headed for home. When I got there, I found my room empty, and bed practically begging to be lay upon. Off went my socks, broken shoes, jumper... and then my shirt, my trousers and my new(ish) pair of pants (although I kept my socks on [yes, I am that classy]). I settled back, stretched out all the tension in my limbs...

Thirty minutes later and my shaft was pulsing a steady beat against my palm, my thumb and index finger still wrapped tightly around the head. I'd come so hard that some of it had managed to hit my chest. I got my neck once, but this wasn't so bad either. Mindful of the time, I sat up, grabbed some serviettes that I'd picked up from Costa this morning (yes...), wiped myself down (including my chest), and rolled over onto my side, breathing heavily.

I wasn't sleepy.

Yes, I'd had an orgasm - and yes, a very potent one. Yet I just wasn't tired. I'd missed that little window of opportunity, using it to clean up. I was aware, yes, that I needed to get back to work at six, but nevertheless, I was surprised at how quickly the soporific effect of orgasmic release had vanished. It was almost as if it hadn't happened at all.

I was right, of course. It just hadn't happened... yet.


Back up. Pants on. Trousers. Shirt. Jumper. Shoes (the ones that aren't broken this time). Sling bag over shoulder. Brisk walk to the bus stop. It was colder, and darker, by this point. What happened to summer? I tend to forget.

The bus came along and I went to sit down (a little gingerly, truth be told, as my cock was still feeling the after-effects...). This was relaxing, I decided. Very relaxing. In fact, it was the comfiest I'd felt all day...

...

I awoke just in time to stagger off the bus and down the road to work. I sat through the staff meeting with huge bags under my eyes and a haze of tiredness creeping from every pore. But at least I wasn't still covered in cum. I hope.