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

Hookworm

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

Cut!

"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

"Aaaaaaaah!"

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...

"Ooooooooh!"

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.

"Unnnnnnnh!"

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

Thwack!

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.

"Eeeeeeeeh!"

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.
"Maybe..."
"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.

Genius.

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?"
"Nuffin'..."

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!"
"I..."
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

Lost

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

Holes

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

Intruder

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.
"Yeah?"
"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!"