Tuesday, 25 April 2017

From The Peak

As I took the biggest gasp of air my wracked body could handle, my hands flew forwards and hit the ground. I kicked my legs, falling forwards, and crawled painfully upwards. Robinson, equally shattered, was right beside me. This was going to take us a while.

"I am never, ever, ever," I lied when we got back to the centre, "doing that again." Picturesque though it may have been, I would have traded the lovely view over the Peak District for a centre on a slightly lower hill. One on a 75% gradient wasn't great for the weary hiker. How they got the minibus up there with all of us on it I'll never know.
"But we have to do another walk tomorrow," Robinson said.
"Apart from tomorrow," I added, holding off from asking what the Romans had ever done for us.

I had, a couple of months back, been almost in a relationship with - and then dumped by - Soldiergirl, and I was still getting over it. All the different factors in my life were starting to combine and I was as stressed out as I could possibly be, but at that point, Woodcraft was - as it always has been - solidly, dependably present. Though I knew my muscles wouldn't thank me for it, I was ready to roam the Peaks for a weekend, even if I did spend some of said weekend shouting "I love you!" at maximum volume in the general direction of Nottinghamshire, even though I knew she was also away that weekend, just in case she heard it, or something.

I returned to the break room after dinner and shouting to find the general mess of people there: Mane explaining for the 4,097,295th time that he wasn't a real porn king, he'd just borrowed Dick's General Erection magazine supplement for a laugh and it had then blown out of the window. Mane Jr. and someone who was, at that point, a very young raver playing table tennis in the corner. Robinson, my friend-who-is-now-a-midwife and the rest reclining on whatever comfortable chairs were available. My sister reading 1984.

A young girl skipped over and asked me to sign cards for everyone. I had no idea this was happening, but I took part, signing everything for everyone, fully aware that my card would have the word "groovy" written in it several hundred times since I'd taken to doing impressions of Ash from Evil Dead 2 and everyone thought this was hilarious. Accordingly, I wrote "groovy!" in everyone else's card.

I got to the final card, which was to someone new. Dick - and his family, who were all there - had invited along a cousin, who was young and pretty, and who seemed to fit the Woodcraft mould like a glove. Feeling that I ought to do something different in her card (since I'd tired of "groovy"), I saw that her cousin had written "love you loads" in it. I put an arrow, wrote "agreed", signed my name, and passed it on.

It was only during the following night that I realised that I'd effectively written "love you loads" to someone I didn't know very well. To make matters worse, I think she may have had a crush on Mane, while my hairy friend had a crush on everyone, possibly if not actually including her. For the rest of the weekend, including the bus ride home (a real treat, considering it didn't involve walking), I avoided her gaze in case she was suddenly under the impression that I was passionately in love with her. She certainly hadn't written anything untoward in my card (among all the "groovy"s, one "funky" because she wanted to be different and "(Porn King)" from Mane), but in the end, Dick's little sister asked me outright if I fancied her cousin.

"No, of course not," I said, truthfully. "Whatever gave you that idea?" And that was that.

Fast-forward a school term and I was standing on the south bank of the River Thames, looking out on the Docklands and attempting to write some poetry. She did whatever the physical equivalent of "sliding into my DMs" might have been in the day and asked what was troubling me. So I told her - a relative stranger - all about everything. About Soldiergirl and school and Woodcraft and walking, and all the other communities I was part of, and all about earlier people like the girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on, and her sister too(!), and all about my worries...

She sympathised, as best she could. And she left me feeling at least a little better.
"Oh, I meant to ask," she said, almost as an afterthought. "Do you fancy anyone else?"
"No," I said, again truthfully. "Why? Did you think it was you?" Although I didn't say that. I did say "no," however.

Soon after that, I had my first sexual experience; soon after that, I had my first girlfriend. In the end, I reasoned, everything kind of moved on.

It's not always been easy since then. But I hope that, at least for a while, everything was - if I may say it one more time - groovy.

Sunday, 23 April 2017

Soft Porn Sunday: Mia Zottoli & Bobby Johnston

No change, I can't change, I can't change, I can't change, but I'm here in my mould, I am here in my mould. But I'm a million different people from one day to the next. I can't change my mould, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Ahem. I'm so sorry. I've spent several years with this sex scene lurking around on my HD and every time I watch it, I am turned on, probably orgasm, and then spend the rest of the day singing goddamn Bitter Sweet Symphony. I suppose it's fortunate that I don't have my violin with me (I left it in my parents' attic), otherwise I'd be constantly playing that too. I just can't get rid of it - I need to hear some sounds that recognise the pain in me, yeah.


Appearance: Scandal - sex@students.edu (2001)
Characters: Melissa & Jon Griffith

It took me a long time to actually get around to seeing this one, and in that time, I always assumed that sex@students.edu was a "clever" way to "disguise" the title from being something more than Sex with Students, and that the e-mail address was just a clever way of being down with the kids, yo. Maybe that's the only road they've ever been down. In fact, there's very little of the perceived student/teacher sex dynamic (although that's a plot point, sure...) in this, and the main plot - stay with me here - is mostly to do with cybercrime. The fact that the female lead is a student, and the male lead her teacher, causes a bit of a scene...

...presumably the "Scandal!" of the title...

...for about five minutes; then it's promptly brushed aside in favour of a hilarious caper involving a version of the Internet from about 1985, and some stuff to do with politicians. I don't know; I wasn't paying attention. I was here in my mould.

Anyway. This scene.

Mia Zottoli - who is in this film since she's Mia Zottoli - plays the imaginatively-named Melissa, a hypersexual English Literature student ("I have a big sexual appetite... boys... girls...!") who unwisely lives with Christina (Regina Russell), a webcam girl who spends her time recording EVERYTHING EVER because that's totally what webcam girls do - including herself and Melissa having sex. She's probably just trying to make ends meet. Melissa then, even more unwisely, seduces (although he doesn't take that much persuading) her teacher Jon Griffith, and has sex with him over the back of the sofa.

Jon gets fired, then they all decide to become sex workers (!), blackmail a corrupt politician who's a slave to money then he dies, have a threesome which Christina records (!!), have some escapades, go to Hawaii for some reason, and then get Jon his job back (!!!) and everyone goes back to Hawaii, where Jason Schnuit plays the hotel porter. Through this confusing fuzz of sex and violence, melody and silence, come the usual crowd - Robert Donavan, Brad Bartram, Kim Dawson, Micah Bradshaw and "good ol' Jason Schnuit", who's a million different people from one day to the next.

Although somebody forgot to pack the clothes, so you'd better like skin if you're going to watch this.

This is the final sex scene, and it features Jon and Melissa because I'm a predictable twat.

No change.
What you can't see (or, more accurately, hear) during this scene is that, during the first half, a scarily familiar yet slightly dischordant strings section is playing the violin part from Bitter Sweet Symphony with a few wrong notes. It's played over something which would be quite sweet if Bobby Johnson wasn't so creepy - Melissa and Jon are kissing passionately in Jon's kitchen (because he's a teacher, of course he can afford these things, while she disrobes in the "wheeee, soft porn, clothes are so irrelevant, I threw it on the ground!" way. 

This is quite speedy, and at least they're using the set to their
I can't change.
advantage - putting stuff on the kitchen table, sweeping it off for no real reason but hey ho, and leaning against it when they need something to lean against. It's a nice touch for sure and there are some technically pleasing cuts, mixes and top shots which make this quite a nice piece of cinematography. If only I wasn't listening to the music so much I'd be paying slightly more attention.

Tonight I'm on my knees, yeah.
At 01:11 there's the odd choice of a 'fridge as a sex prop. Mia Zottoli is giving a soft porn blowjob (ever been down, Melissa?) while Bobby Johnston is leaning against an open 'fridge - why, but then again, why not? - and he mugs for a few seconds before the sex starts and...


Did their royalties run out at this point? Because, at this very moment (and I suppose it's deliberate, to indicate that there's meant to be penetration happening or something), the music insta-fades to be replaced by some twat hitting drums frenetically, followed by a completely different piece of music, which sounds more like a timed bonus level from a SNES game than a classic British indie rip-off. Maybe they didn't want to get sued, but whatever the reason, the airwaves are clean and there's nobody singing to me now.

Oh right, the sex. Yeah, this is hot. Jon has sex with Melissa on top of a kitchen counter, with a
Well, I never pray...
spirited performance from Mia Zottoli (who's always good value even when she's playing someone half her age) and the right amount of movement from Bobby Johnston. At least they both look like they're enjoying themselves, and they've gone for the trope of her not taking her shoes off at any point, which I've always liked 'cause I'm weird like that. We also get sex on a desk, with Melissa on her back and Jon seemingly having joined the Team USA gymnastics squad, followed by what is (I presume) the kitchen table (although you can't really see because this bit's in X-TREME CLOSE-UP!, all of which is overlaid by occasional very soft female moans, presumably provided by Melissa even though she has her mouth closed for most of this.

Glod, I notice the stupidest details.

No no, no no, no, no, no no no.
For whatever reason, I really like this scene. It's one of my favourites, actually. Because Mia Zottoli is hot, and I like the characters (and, having seen it, I quite like the plot; it's not the generic student/teacher forbidden love thing I was expecting á la The Sex Files: Creating the Perfect Man, which is), and I really like the way this is filmed, using the set (and its accoutrements) to their full advantage. It's clever, it's sexy, it's really stupid, and it always, always gets me hard - in that place where all the veins meet, yeah?

But it wouldn't be anything like as good without the music - the strings section which plays at the start with unmistakeable verve, or the token-collecting anthem at the end. They both work, although in odd ways, and they are - genuinely - instantly recognisable in my brain, which is wired to get ready for MASSIVE MASSIVE SEX by the very presence of those few notes... which is what soft porn music should do. It should turn you on. I've been writing this entire review with noise-cancelling headphones on, shutting out the world outside my little softcore bubble, which probably tells you more about me than it does about sex@students.edu.

What can I say? I let the melody shine. It clears my mind. I feel free now.

Tuesday, 18 April 2017

Addiction XXI: Fantasies

I've said for years, and will continue to say (one supposes...), that I don't really have "fantasies" - not as such.

That is to say, I don't have "fantasies" inasmuch as British TV described them during my formative years, or people in sex chatrooms describe(d) them. Active and creative as my imagination is, I don't tend to construct improbable, or impossible, idealistic sexual situations in my head with the tentative aim of getting me off. I've heard, in great detail, about some people's sexual wishlist - from a married man who wishes to be tied down and taken advantage of by two much younger girls to an older woman who is attracted to muscular construction workers. Even a former partner of mine who had the "uncle" fantasy.

These are things I don't have. I spent a long time in my late teens worrying that I didn't have a fetish. I don't do the celebrity crush thing out of moral value, so the associated fantasies there were out, and essentially all I wanted to do was have sex - which I have, since, done.

However, this doesn't seem to make much of a difference in those sleepy early hours of the morning - those where I'm sort of awake, but not really. In those, I do have fantasies. They are - for want of a better phrase - admittedly vague.

The other night, I was seized by a desire - halfway through yet another sleepless night - to have someone ride me. It hasn't happened for a while, although I quite like said position and think it's fairly hot to be able to see and touch the person you are making love to. I thought about how nice it would be to have sex with a girl while she sat astride, and how deep I would be inside her, and how I'd feel with my thick, firm cock caressed by her soft folds... you know, the usual stuff... and that's where it ended. It wasn't a story or a situation. It wasn't even a specific girl. It was just a concept.

As are they all. All the "what-if?" scenarios where I've been in some situation and inches from getting somewhere play out exactly as they did in real life. All the "if only..."s where I remember a word or phrase that got me suitably aroused but would remain an impossibility. Most of the YouPorn-in-my-head that ends up working is merely sex that I've actually had. A wistful recollection of things I've actually done (some of which you will, no doubt, have read about here) is almost always effective. It was this morning, at least. But is that a fantasy? It seems to me like a memory.

But the rest of them, as I say, are just concepts. All relatively chaste, as well - such things as "have sex in this position" or "in this place" or "while doing this". Fleeting glances of such possibilities that blindside me, often while asleep while meant to be awake, or vice-versa.

So... yes. I don't really have fantasies. Not as such. I'd be much more interested in any fantasies that have me. If you catch my drift.

Friday, 14 April 2017


(or: "Now There's a Kink I Never Thought of Owning Up To...")

A few years ago, I stood as a candidate in a local by-election, called as one of our local councillors absconded with a large amount of money and was last seen in Cyprus. Being a safe Labour seat and with no viable other candidates available, I didn't think I stood much of a chance, not campaigning for Labour. The Tories I bumped into were vile, the 'kippers even more so (one pushed me aside outside a polling station), and TUSC got a derisory vote. I'm surprised the Lib Dems even stood - but they did.

On the day of the election, I went to work in a suit, then pinned on my rosette and went out campaigning. I got a few odd looks - some schoolgirls bowed to me ironically as I passed by; a guy yelled out of his car that he'd voted for me and thought I'd do well; somebody asked me what party I was standing for while I bought a sandwich at Subway (it's on the rosette, genius); I even had a young man on a bicycle tell me that he'd vote for my party when he was 18.

Halfway through the afternoon, I realised that I was actually incredibly horny.

Aware that I wasn't going to get elected, I nevertheless felt at least a little influential. The ballot paper had my name on it, and people were putting little crosses next to it for whatever ungodly reason. People were stopping me in the street to ask me things. And yet, this heady mix of an inkling of power, the dispensing of knowledge and the sheer amount of physical energy I was putting into my actions - politicians do that, apparently - was all combining into a mass effect of arousal.

"I don't know what it is," I remember tweeting at that time, "but I've been busy all day, and now I suddenly want to have sex with everyone."

Possibly a bit of an overstatement, but that was more or less how I felt. I considered, fairly heavily, skipping out on the evening class I was meant to be attending to go home and fervently make love to my girlfriend until the results came in. I also, more realistically, considered going to college and having a cheeky wank in the toilets before class. I even, briefly, pictured myself in an office, having sex with somebody bent over the desk... before remembering that I wasn't going to win this election. I've never even had a desk in an office.

I practically floated to the train at the end of the day, still shaking hands here and there but by now more a being of phosphorescent sexual energy than a human. Every step I took sent a jolt through my crotch, which shot through my body; every time I moved, the soft fabric of my suit against my skin sent a shiver down my spine. Every word I said was heavy with passion; every breath a gasp, waiting for release. I was electric, ready to detonate in the atmosphere, covering the world in my light.

Finishing my evening class, I limped home, my face flushed with the deepest red - the evening commuters having all voted and ready to ignore the guy with the rosette. Got in, shed my jacket, sat down on the sofa with a crackle as my family turned on the TV.

The first thing I saw was Nigel Farage's face. And after that I wasn't horny any more.

Wednesday, 12 April 2017

How it all began, and how it will begin again...

Disturb not the harmony of fire, ice and lightning
Lest these titans wreak destruction on the Earth on which they clash
Though the water's great guardian shall arise to quell the fighting
Alone its song shall fail, thus the Earth shall turn to ash

Oh, chosen one, bring together these treasures three
Their power combined tames the beast of the sea

July 2003. I was 16, having taken eight out of my nine GCSEs and yet already Done With This Shit. I had one more to take - ICT, paper two - on which I knew I couldn't get an A*. I hadn't really tried particularly hard on the ICT coursework, knowing that none of what I was doing would be pertinent to real-life ICT. Having breezed through year 10, I hadn't put a lot of work into year 11. If I did well on the ICT paper, I'd get a B.

And I did.

For a while, being 16, I'd badgered my parents for a present - something to celebrate getting through the GCSEs and not killing myself through stress (although I came close a couple of times). I'd lost my auntie, and been turned down by the girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on; these were bad times, all told. Einstein was getting an electric guitar (even though he doesn't play the guitar). Lightsinthesky was getting a new bass (he did play). My less intelligent, but well-meaning, friend got £50 from her parents for every A (she got 8 As, which probably explains why she's got a house now and everything). My parents relented, settling for getting me a meal and one small present of my choice.

I asked for a VHS of Pokémon: The Power of One.

It wasn't a random choice. Through my difficult teenage years, very little had stayed constant. I was in a continuous state of flux and had no distant goal to approach, no direction to proceed in. Sure, I was horny, but I didn't express my sexual desires beyond getting erections and enjoying the sensation (I didn't go any further than that). I was certainly drifting towards better things, but that was mostly through happenstance. Exactly where I was going, I wasn't sure. But I always had Pokémon.

I love Pokémon. I always have and I always will. I watched it every morning before school, and I was one of the first to see Mewtwo Strikes Back at the local cinema - I went with Music Man and another friend (incidentally, for the second movie, Lightsinthesky joined us, and for the third, a full consignment of myself, Lightsinthesky, Einstein and Music Man went) and, while it wasn't everything I'd hoped for, I was impressed. The Power of One, however, was something else. The plot, animation, and characterisations were all on point; it wasn't trying to sell anything, so it had more emphasis on making a movie; and the music blew me away. It still does - Seven's alarm clock plays The Legend Comes To Life to wake him up, and I openly wept the first time I heard it in the kitchen.

We passed a VHS in the supermarket and I asked my dad to buy it for me due to the fact that I only had one more exam to take. I even promised not to watch it until I'd taken said exam - and didn't - but I wanted to hold it in my hands. I wanted to have a physical copy of this, the film I loved. The film whose song I carried in my heart, never mind all the talking animals and irritating protagonist.

And I watched it, and I watched it, and I watched it again until our VCR stopped working and all our VHSs were consigned to a box in the attic (although they all still work, I'm sure - I watched all six Star Wars films on VHS a couple of years back after The Force Awakens was announced and they all worked).

It still brings a tear to my eye when I think about it.

For the first time in many years, I have a little money to spend - I've been earning some more than usual. Maybe I can save some; maybe I can put some aside. At one point I'll have to buy a ticket to Eroticon (even if I'll never stretch to Woodhull).

But I can afford a DVD.

So I'll buy one. And I'll watch it. And I'll cry. And I'll feel, for a moment, like I'm 16 again.

And, for those moments, I can escape.

Wednesday, 5 April 2017

Yes, That's The Joke

I'm not gay, but if I was, I would want equal rights
I'm not gay, but if I were, I would marry who I like
It's not fair (I'm not gay) if the government has the say
About who can love who (not gay) 
Or to which God you can pray (not a gay)

Anyone under the age of 35 who ever used e-mail and had any friends (and me - I'm not sure if I fall into that last category...) will probably recognise a phenomenon known variously as "Q&A", "The Q Thing", or more accurately, "fuck me, yet another stupid fucking quiz; what the fuck?". I remember forwarding it once with "Oh Dear Lord It's The Q Thing Again!" in the subject line.

Just in case you're pretending to now know what this was, it was effectively a chain letter sent by e-mail, consisting of "this or that"-type questions, and a few open ones, including hilarious enquiries like: "Name?", and riotous scandalous ones like "No, your full name?". Girls, I noticed, tended to be more forward with their answers, although boys sent them on too, mostly with answers like "Am I in love? Yes, with Britney!".

I, of course, didn't hold back.

At 16, the Q Thing That Wouldn't Die reared its ugly head again, tearing through my school year like a ravenous beast of ASCII, and of course, everyone took part. I myself actually had something new to add.

Do you have a crush?

What's his/her name?
[Here I put the name of the girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on. She didn't go to my school and wasn't going to be reading this, so I felt safe doing so. Everyone knew, anyway, including her, that I had a crush.]

Do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend?

What's his/her name?
[Here I put Louise's real name - or, at least, the nickname I gave her at the time. Realistically, we weren't actually a couple, but we'd been on a couple of dates, so I put her down.]

The next question threw me a bit, since I hadn't seen it on any of these yet.

Are you gay?

I was a little disappointed, but not surprised, at the closed nature of this question. Even at 16, I wasn't unaware that "gay" and "straight" were the binary options. I knew of "bisexual", "celibate", "asexual" and "self-sexual" (although I made that last one up at one point; I was sure it meant something at one point. Lightsinthesky was probably a good example.), so I was a little uncertain about this question.

I've never been uncertain about my sexuality. I'm heterosexual; I always have been. So, were I to answer this question truthfully, I could just put "no". Maybe even go on a bit of a rant about the presumed binary switch and talk about the fluidity of sexual orientation... but not in the middle of an e-mail. I wrote longer e-mails about that sort of stuff.

In any case, I'd already admitted to being attracted to one person and in a relationship with another person (although, in reality, I was in love with one and merely dating the other, but that's splitting too many hairs...), so I had a "what the hell, let's make this interesting" moment.

Are you gay?

The scene I imagined was some friend from school getting this, scrolling through the e-mail, seeing the fact that I fancied the girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on, followed shortly by the fact that I was dating Louise, then that I was gay, doing a "WTF?" double-take, and realising that I'd put this ironically, laughing once or twice at my ballsy move, and then just continuing on, and maybe even answering the questions themselves. That's how this proto-meme worked, right?

One person got the joke.

What I wasn't expecting, however, was an influx of e-mails. "I didn't know you were Gay," read one. "I always thought you were gay," said another, "everyone thinks you are." "I don't want to be your friend," said a third, "if you're going to be gay."

"I think you're confused about your sexuality," said a more astute commenter. "You claim to be in love with X, but you're going out with Y, and in Z, you claim that you're gay! Have you thought about talking to a psychologist about this?"

(Of course I was talking to a psychologist; where did they think I was going on Wednesday afternoons, skipping the final lesson of RS to do so?)

I told Robinson, and he laughed appreciatively. So at least he got it. But, for the rest of the weekend, I feared going back to school, wondering if my little ironic quip had backfired, and that I'd unofficially come out as gay to a whole school, making the whole thing more complicated by virtue of being straight (and having a kind of girlfriend, who the rest of the school had never seen; the fact that we met through a mutual appreciation of Knightmare may not have helped). What if, somehow, this got out to one of the teachers? Would they ask me if I wanted to have extra counselling (which wasn't possible, as I was already seeing the school counsellor in addition to my psychologist and my sixth-form mentor)? How many people would ask me if I was really gay?

I readied my "no, I'm not ... yes, two different girls ... yes, that's the joke" response.

On Monday, nobody asked me a thing, partially because very few people read these things; moreover because nobody cared very much; but mostly because another-girl-I-had-a-crush-on caused a bit of a scene by being asked out by someone and saying yes. I watched her, from afar, getting her first kiss and arranging a date with a guy I knew from primary school... but was very glad, after all, to be consoled by a couple of friends, one of whom I also fancied, who knew I had a crush on her too.

Not gay. Just maybe a little confused.

Tuesday, 4 April 2017

Clean as a whistle!

I take very good care of my private parts, by which I mean I endeavour - as much as possible - to keep them clean. In the shower, I douche thoroughly. In between my thighs, all over my perineum, down my arse crack and over (but not into, because that's weird) my anus. All over my balls; all over my shaft. I even roll back my foreskin to wash the head of my cock. All of this with the application of some sort of vegan shower gel, so I have a chemical-free, carefully cleaned, fresh genital area.

I even shampoo my pubic hair. And condition it. And blow dry. But that's probably just me. I said I was careful; I didn't say I wasn't weird.

To me, this is normal; it's part of my routine. It makes me feel better. I can't speak for those who don't have the same genitals as me - or even those who have a penis and testes but don't slather them all over with something from Lush with the expectation that this will, eventually, confer MAGICAL POWERS.

My second girlfriend used to do pretty much the same thing. The drinking girl was completely unashamed of her body and all the functions that came with it - she was okay with using the toilet while I was in the same room; she would trim her pubic hair (and, at one point, shave it all off - "okay, that's enough, I'm going to shave my snatch...") with my assistance; we would shower together and then have sex on the bathroom floor. She also used to, I notice, wash as carefully as I did - including her genitals and pubic hair.

So ends the "feminine mystique", I suppose: when you're in constant contact with it on full display (and explained to at length about what it is; sex ed didn't tell us boys about periods because... I don't know, they just didn't tell us), it's less of a mystique and more of a function. It's biology. I like that. I like sex and I like the bodies that can have sex and I appreciate the way they work. I think it's hot.

Last week, I was told by my current girlfriend that, although I'd like to lick her out, she thinks that I'd be put off by her vagina. I wouldn't, of course; Heaven knows I've been inside her vagina long enough to think that I'm perfectly okay with it. But I didn't press the matter; it's her anxiety that's making her think that (my anxiety doesn't extend as far as my naked body - it's more focused around my complete lack of talent, odd shoe size and the fact that I don't have a cat), with which I sympathise. There was even one memorable moment where I cleaned her vulva with one of those "intimate area cleaning wipes" we got from some event or other.

I've even offered to help her wash her own privates out if she's skittish about doing so.

I'm aware that it's not so much of a physical necessity than it is a psychosomatic thing. Genitals even clean themselves during sexual arousal: the Cowper's gland fluid that beads at the tip of the penis, and that trickles off as precum, is released by the gland to help clear the urethra from anything left after urination of ejaculation (so it may contain elements of urea and inactive sperm - sexy!). The "wetness" that begins to come from the vagina (and the girlcum too, in a way) are there to lubricate the vagina to allow easier penetration and therefore increase the chances of baby-makin'. Neither of these things, I think, are particularly dirty.

But then, I don't think that way. Period blood can stain, but I know how it can wash out. Semen leaves a mark which initially may seem semi-translucent but turns opaque over time, but I used to sponge my computer chair or put a towel over it. Yes, sexual functions can be messy - sex is a messy business in general; it's not as clean and clinical as softcore would have you believe - but that's what a washing machine's for.

And that's what washing yourself is for. If you're absolutely sure that your partner isn't going to be happy with the condition of your privates (and, you know, if you want to have sex with them - which is always something you have to consider too...), then maybe you ought to make sure that you are happy with them too? And, if you think they are dirty (even though they really, really aren't), then maybe clean them a little? I genuinely don't think this should be a problem.

I think it's very intimate to do it together.

Please tell me I'm not alone in thinking this.

Tuesday, 28 March 2017

Gladly do they teach, and gladly do they learn...

Tweet this morning, as retweeted by the wonderful @luciebeexxx:

My response:

While I'll agree to my response being a little pithy (not to mention unrealistic, and uncharacteristically doomy), there's a point to be made here which I can explain a lot better in a blog post that via the limited medium of a tweet.

My first argument is to do with semantics, so excuse my impertinence, but I think - logically - it works like this.

The analogy used is slightly flawed. In answer to the (presumably rhetorical) question - yes, I would be happy with a surgeon performing first-time surgery on me, providing that they have had the proper training and gone through the rigours of medical school first. Similarly, I'd expect a doctor to prescribe me the correct medicine, even if they'd never done so before, or a teacher to give me information on their first day of teaching, or a taxi driver to take me where I want to go, despite not having done so before. Everyone has to start somewhere - otherwise there would be no jobs!

If everyone refused surgery because the surgeon is inexperienced (and I don't mean 'bad' - the terms are not interchangeable), then there wouldn't be any surgery. We'd have died out (or been severely depleted in number) due to the advancement of surgical medicine used since the Roman era and its importance in keeping humanity strong.

I used to work in healthcare, and the first time I gave an injection, the patient didn't question me. They knew I'd been trained to do so.

However, the second point I'd like to make is a more pressing one, and it's to do with the content of the tweet... basically, I don't agree with it.

The first time I had sex, I was a virgin. I'm assuming everyone else is in the same boat here. I knew, due to Year 7 biology and porn, what went into where; I also knew, due to cucumbers in Year 9 PSHE, how to put a condom on; while my first sexual experience wasn't stellar (well, it was good, but it wasn't as good as subsequent ones), it wouldn't have been any different had I had sex beforehand. Specifically, it wouldn't be my first time.

Sex is a fluid, amorphous concept that is like a many-headed beast, a Hydra that grows two new heads when you cut one off. Having had sex doesn't make you an expert any more than having been bitten by a dog makes you an experienced dog breeder. I didn't know very much about the world of sex even after I'd had sex for the first time. I don't imagine you do either.

I know a lot about sex now, but that's after years of study, fascination and experimentation - both good and bad - and ten years of sex blogging. Yes, I would feel confident in "teaching about sex" after all that. I would, however, have felt similarly confident about doing so even before I had sex. I knew the basics, and the responsibility, and how to put a condom on a cucumber. I was familiar with my own body and knew how it worked, and was reasonably clued-up on the issues surrounding sex. I would, I think, have been able to lead a reasonable discussion, even without having done it myself.

I mean, I can't shoot a gun, but I can appear on a film to be doing so (and have).

I think the real issue here is exactly what and how you teach. "Sex" is a very ambiguous word, and the teachers at my secondary school taught it in a very different way from the sex educators primary schools now get in to do so. (Being a form teacher during PSHE must be difficult, especially during SRE where it's usually apparent you know too much or too little about the subject, so big respect is due to everyone who manages that!)

And, while I've been writing this...

What if someone is a virgin by choice but has masturbated so much they are knowledgeable about their own body parts and how they function during orgasm?

What if someone's only sexual experience is rape? They've had sex.

What if you've only had sex with someone of the same gender? Do you count that as sex? I do, but does everyone?

What if you identify as genderqueer, genderfluid, or a third gender, or agendered? What do you have to do to qualify as having had sex and thus appropriate to teach it?

What if you've only ever had non-penetrative sex?

What about anal sex? Does that count?

This is why I said that, by the same token, nobody would have sex to start with, because it's so complicated, and the human race would have died out. I'd even go so far as to say that sex is much more complicated than performing surgery - theoretically, at least - because, with surgery, you can get it right or wrong! Can you do so with sex?

Ask a group of people who have never had sex that and you'd get some very different answers. Are you learning anything from that? Then you're being taught.

Surgery and sex are incomparable. Both can be studied, both can be taught, both can be practised. But if you want to teach, do so. If you want to learn, do so. The sharing of knowledge isn't regulated... and not always kinaesthetic.

Sunday, 26 March 2017

Secret Agent

2:30am. I'm up and watching something smutty on the TV. It's probably not anything particularly good; the regular soft stuff I tend to watch starts at 10. It's finished by midnight. Anything else is just killing time, really.

Then I hear the mechanical threat of the mindless Automatum.

Except it isn't the Automatum. It's Gran's electric wheelchair. She's noticed the light's on in her lounge while going to the bathroom, and is coming through to check. What's more, she's getting closer. What will she say if she discovers her only grandson sitting cross-legged in her lounge watching something he probably shouldn't? Will she tell my parents? What will they say? My usual excuse of watching music videos probably wouldn't cover being up at 2:30...

Action stations, ILB! You have a contingency plan for something like this, remember?

I snap off the TV, throw the remote onto Gran's armchair and scuttle as soundlessly as I can to the corner of the room, where there's another armchair. I struggle under said chair, curl myself up into the foetal position and lie there, on my side, trying to mask my breathing as best I can. The slightest movement could give me away.

The door opens and Gran whirrs in, bumping the skirting board as she does so. All the skirting boards have scuffs on by this point. I love my Gran.

She is confronted by a seemingly empty room. I'm in the corner, under the chair. She can't see me. I'm on tenterhooks, every nanosecond seeming to take aeons. Time comes to a standstill. I stuff a fist into my mouth, lest I make any sound.

At this point I realise that I've made a fatal error: I've left the light on. Perhaps fearful of the little click that turning it off would make, but nevertheless, it's still on. That's what alerted Gran. She'll know something's up if the light's on, and then she'll investigate further, and then she'll find me here, and she'll tell my parents, and I've been acting suspiciously so they'll know I've done something, and they'll put two and two together and and and...

...oh, she's turned the light off herself. And she's left the room and closed the door. And I can hear her whirring into her bedroom and retreating.

I'm safe! She thought someone had kept the light on by mistake, but didn't me - my plan worked! My secret is safe for another evening.

Of course, I am now shut into a completely dark room with no silent route of escape. But no matter. I've managed to remain undetected for so long already. I'm untouchable.

Thursday, 23 March 2017


For a while, I had an evening routine of lying on top of my bed.


This needs contextualising, since I imagine many people will have done the same thing. I had, for a long time, some things on my toes which were either verrucas, warts, corns or calluses. Not nice to look at, but unlike a blister, you couldn't just slice them open. For a while, of course, I did the British thing of ignoring them. But eventually, they became distracting, so my mother bought me some Bazuka.

And thus became my routine:

I would strip off completely - and, if I wanted to shower, I'd do it then. I'd prop a pillow up on the headboard and apply the Bazuka to the inside of my big toe, my second toe, and the irritating corn on the ball of my foot, and then wait for them to dry. As it turns out, this took a while to happen. So I had to fill my time with something.

I built a tower of fantasy books on my bedside table - things I'd bought or been given, but had never actually read before: Tamora Pearse, Angie Sage, Forgotten Realms stuff. I had a lot of these, and I added "reading the books" to my routine. So, effectively, I got to lose myself in a fantasy world while my toes healed.

And it continued nightly. Turn off computer. Strip. Turn up radiator. Prop pillow up. Apply cream to feet. Lean back. Relax. Read.

Before you ask, yes, I am aware that this could have gone in another direction. Naked boy lying on his back on the bed with the radiator turned up, nothing to do for half an hour? Naked boy who's a sex blogger, no less? Naked sex blogger boy who's just taken off all his clothes and powered everything down and now he has to wait half an hour before he can get into bed?

I don't know about you, dear reader, but I'd have a completely different idea about what he could do in that time.

Let's regard the time. I often went to bed at about 10 or 11, depending on how lazy I was. In those days, I set myself a nine o'clock watershed before I could do anything particularly sexual, let alone touch myself. This, too, became a routine. Just after nine, I'd have my trousers in a heap around my ankles, fingers wrapped around my shaft, working my foreskin up and down, often with something shiny and smutty on my screen. I'd take myself to the edge and tip over, falling into that orgasmic mess. A blur of colour and sound. Fade to white. Hold.


By the time I'd finished with all that, I was just about ready to go to bed (my lower half was undressed by that point, anyway - efficiency!). And so I did. Turn off computer. Strip. Turn up radiator. Prop pillow up. Apply cream to feet. Lean back. Relax. Read. Slightly post-orgasmic, maybe... but, in my state just after orgasm, I can't imagine a nicer place to be than on the top of a warm bed, head resting against the pillow with a good book.

Add hot chocolate and it's perfect.

And that's how I went from one fantasy to another... all by virtue of having to fix my feet.