I should probably be 40 already. I was born a week late (my mother claims I was still in there reading The Beano) and, for a while, it looked as if I wasn’t going to make it. Eventually, however, I was born on St Patrick’s Day, a date that becomes even more humorous when I tell people I don’t drink.
For a very long time (in fact, since I started this thing back in 2007) I’ve been wondering what to do when I turn 40. I did assume (as it turns out, correctly) that I’d still be blogging by this point, but as whom? At forty years old, am I still really a boy? I’ve always considered myself one. So do I change my name? Accept that I am finally into the adulthood I have been so strenuously resisting for twenty-four years and shed the moniker of “Innocent Loverboy” to which I have always painfully clung?
I could always go with “Innocent LB”, I thought. That’s my blog URL and social media handle. I could just do that and then refuse to explain what the LB stands for.
But then I look back at the ILB from 2007 and compare it to now. 18 years later (this blog could be a full adult) and it does seem like very little has changed. I still play Nintendo games. I’m still a fan of Knightmare, Star Wars and Pokémon. Additionally, I read DC Comics; I write songs; I listen to James. I remain a member of Woodcraft and the Green Party, I have a similar taste in movies (classical, contemporary and – of course – smutty). And I still have stories to tell. I even work in the same industry…
At least my logo has changed.
The more I think about it, the more ILB at 40 sounds to all intents and purposes like ILB at 22. People around me evolve all the time; just this morning I was talking over breakfast with Einstein about how many friends have ventured into the “having children” malarkey. 40 sounds incredibly old – I mean, that’s practically 60, and that’s practically dead. Bang, and I’m in my declining years!
Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose…
But no matter how I age (dis)gracefully, something still ties me to my “boy” identity, and by extension, my “Innocent Loverboy” moniker. If I’m the same person I was then, that’s the name I should be using. If GOTN can be a girl on the net, there’s really no reason I can’t be a loverboy. I mean, I still love… and I’m still kind of innocent…
…right? RIGHT?!
But here’s the rub. At the age of 40, does my content need to be any different? Do I need to move along from soft porn reviews, funny/awkward/sexy bits from my past, conversations with my friends, excessive parenthetical comments and awful self-deprecation?
There’s an answer to this: no. It’s all part of my brand. For years now I’ve been entertaining dozens, if not hundreds, of readers with pretty much the same claptrap. People still read, they still see, and they still interact (even if they don’t do as much any more…); blogging may not be as huge a medium as it used to be, but I persist.
Societal pressures, of course, tell me I should really do something for my 40th. And so I’ll announce it here:
There isn’t any sex in this post, but I needed to write this out somewhere, and it seems like this is where it may get the most reach, so please excuse me.
The Phantom Menace
The first time I applied for PIP I was told I wasn’t disabled enough. The DWP didn’t exactly explain why, but the (scarily personalised, with the use of “I have decided…” sentences) letter had that message. I left it for a confused month or so before some friends of mine who also claim PIP suggested that one never gets it first time, and a re-application may be successful.
I tried to re-apply online, but it wouldn’t let me. Whether I used my existing login or a new account. The system, I was told after 60 minutes of juggling my testicles on hold, wasn’t finished yet. I could send a paper version of the form, apparently, but I couldn’t download it – I had to wait for one.
Attack of the Clones
The second time I applied for PIP I took one look at the form and had a number of thoughts, including things like:
– if you are blind or partially sighted, how do you claim PIP? – if you are dyslexic or illiterate, how do you claim PIP? – if you are intellectually incapacitated, how do you claim PIP? – if you are working with English as an additional language, how do you claim PIP? – if you are homeless or living in temporary accommodation, how do you claim PIP?
I do not fall into any of those categories, but I do have myotonia (a condition where your muscles can lock up and not loosen for a while), and writing longhand is getting to be painful. Despite being told I couldn’t do it, I typed my application and printed it out, then sent that.
I didn’t hear anything for months. I eventually got through to the DWP after another session of testicle-juggling to be told that someone put it in the recycling “by mistake”. They weren’t planning to tell me that they had thrown away my application, and were surprised I could remember I had sent one. When I pointed out that I had a very high IQ, an intellectually demanding job, two university degrees and besides, I had sent two applications, they sent me £100 as a “gift”. They weren’t willing to give me PIP, though.
Revenge of the Sith
The third time I applied for PIP I got my MP involved. Not only did I send her a letter, I also sent her a copy of the (third) application and letter I’d sent the DWP. She, to her credit, sat on the ‘phone juggling her testicles for two hours before they answered. They were surprised at having to talk to an MP, assuming parliament were all behind them.
I sent my application with, attached, a letter from my neurologist who was the world expert in my disability; a copy of the occupational health report from work; something from my former boss supporting my claim; and, finally, confirmation that I had (in the year since I first applied) been awarded Access to Work, got a freedom pass and a disabled person’s railcard, and been referred to cardiology since I had developed a secondary condition with my heart.
It took them two months to get around to my application. For the past couple of years, I have been receiving a small amount of PIP which mostly goes to pay my cleaner once a week. Without it (and Access to Work, just as useful), I would not be able to afford to live. At least, not the way I do now in the location I’m in. I can’t just up sticks and go somewhere cheaper, because:
a) I’ve got a job in the local area b) they’d cancel my PIP
A New Hope
I am showing my privilege here, but my PIP isn’t at as much threat as many others’, since I am in work and the proposed cuts are aiming at victimising those unable to work. I find physical activity difficult, but I am going into work, day in, day out (unless I am in hospital – which has happened now, three times). I’m doing this because I enjoy my job… and I also need the money.
I live in London. Of course I need money.
But what happens to those who can’t work? Those who only get PIP? As above, even the application process is deliberately designed to be hellish and labyrinthine. Those who survive the DWP Hunger Games are few and, it seems, fortunate. Applying for PIP is a gamble no matter how disabled you are. I’m still astonished I made it.
So, to those asking, no – you don’t just call and ask. You do have to start by doing that, so if you are deaf or mute or can’t speak English, or don’t have the time or wherewithal to sit for hours and juggle one’s testicles, that’s already not really an option.
And threatening to remove it is almost theatrically evil.
Doing Soft Porn Sundays suggested by readers is always a bit of a challenge. On one hand, occasionally I like the scenes, and it’s always good to add to my (admittedly labyrinthine) knowledge of softcore. On the other, however, I do like the familiarity afforded by actors, writers, directors and series I know. For that reason, when friendly reader SA suggested I do this one (thanks for the recommendation, SA!), I was immediately intrigued.
The reason? Not only am I already aware of the Sex Files series, I am also familiar with some of the names here. Writer Justin Ritter served as production assistant onEmmanuelle in Space and was “second second assistant director” (I’ve never known what that means) on Justine. The cast contains Regina Russell, Nancy O’Brien, Brandy Davis and “good ol’ Jason Schnuit”. It’s even casted by Robert “lots of money but a real dickhead” Lombard and executive produced by an uncredited Alain Siritzky.
This is nice. It’s okay. I’m comfortable with this. I’m home here.
Of course, the children worked out what was happening.
Like the other flicks in the Sex Files series, a thin plot justifies all the shagging here: a video store is being run by aliens, whose videos brainwash people into having sex with… whoever. It’s not the most involved of storylines, neither is it particularly explained to any great extent quite why they are doing this. Lots of people watch the videos and then have sex and that’s it. That’s pretty much the movie.
Among the milieu of people having random sex we have Ms. Winters (played by von Flotow, credited here as “Michelle Hall”), and Robert Donavan (also a regular) as generic man Ralph Lucky. Lucky (her boss) and Winters are intending to stay “professional”. You know this because Lucky says
How much more professional can we be?
and then proceeds to run the sex tape anyway. A few snatches of repurposed footage from other Sex Files productions happen (seriously, it’s about a second), there’s a gasp, then Winters says, “oh, Mr Lucky”. Mr Lucky responds with “Ms. Winters.” Then they have SEX!!! zOMG I NEVER SAW THAT COMING!!!!!1one
Ralph Lucky and a proud mother huntress.
Okay, maybe I skipped a bit. They don’t immediately have sex. They start by kissing and then taking their clothes off (they are both wearing business suits… professional, you see). Winters is wearing a strange and ethically questionable leopard-print bra and knickers combination (I don’t know, but maybe the fact that they match makes it more professional) before delivering…
…what I assume is meant to be a blowjob. Immediately after this is a mix to a scene in which Lucky is still very much wearing shorts. Why he’s wearing shorts under a business suit I have no idea, but that’s okay, because they suddenly and magically vanish the instant he takes off Winters’ underthings. Just as well, really, because she immediately starts riding him.
While doing so she finally takes her bra off. That’s fairly efficient. Professional, in fact.
Winters’ entry into the American Academy “Creepy Face” competition.
The cowgirl sex doesn’t really go anywhere, by the way. It lasts for about sixteen seconds before there is an (admittedly clever) transition to missionary sex (filmed as if in one shot – maybe it was…). That doesn’t last too long, either, replaced as it is by Lucky giving her oral sex. At least I think that’s what he’s doing. It’s difficult to tell. That isn’t important, anyway, as they then jump back to missionary sex for five more seconds before there’s more astride and seriously what the fuck’s going on with this scene?
Co-starring “Jar of Hand Cream”, “Book!”, and “Superfluous Old-Time Radio”.
I mean, really. It’s less of a coherent sex scene than it is the component parts of a sex scene edited in an intentionally disjointed way. The latter half of the scene is more of the same – sex in a variety of positions – but the bits are presented with very little clarity and no accounting for continuity. If you’re finding one bit hot, then you’re going to be thrown off after a few seconds anyway, so what’s the point?
He’s singing along. You can tell.
The best bit of the scene, by far, has to be the fact that the whole thing is set to a ’90s-esque pop song (evocative of Alanis Morissette or LeAnn Rimes) sung by a professional-sounding woman with a nice enough voice. I’m listening to it while typing this paragraph and, since the actors never utter a sound beyond three very quiet moans, it doesn’t make for that bad listening. (There’s no credit for this on IMDb, so if someone knows who this is, tell me!)
So, yeah. This is a curious scene in a series of films of which I’m otherwise quite fond. It moves forward at a fair clip, the actors are giving it a good go, and the music is great… but it’s confused in its presentation. The little vignettes aren’t long enough to hold any attention (even the lengthier ones make you wonder when they’re going to change). There isn’t even any passion in this, and the scene ends without any reconciliatory dialogue (it could do with some!).
Good idea, and all – and it fits the brief – but it isn’t very…
“I want a psychedelic fuck,” I said. Her e-mail address wasn’t quite that – the profanity was missing one letter and the word “psychedelic” was misspelled – but the meaning was clear enough. “Me too,” she replied, and she left it at that. I dithered for a while; frankly, I had been expecting more. At the very least, confirmation of any fucks she had had herself – psychedelic or otherwise. “I’ve had sex,” I humblebragged. “It’s…”
At which point I wondered exactly how to describe what sex is in one sentence fragment. It wasn’t easy. Eighteen years of sex blogging later and I still can’t do it.
“It’s quite good,” I settled on. “I don’t know, though,” she wheedled. “A friend of mine had sex and it hurt so much she never wants to do it again…” “It shouldn’t hurt.” “It was her first time, though.” “It still shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t hurt any time. My first time was awkward, but it didn’t hurt.” “I’m not sure,” she went on, “if I’ll ever be ready.” “Even though we’re both about ready for a psychedelic fuck?” I couldn’t stop myself from saying. The sort of statement I would have put a smirk emoji after had emoji been a thing back then. :-p didn’t really convey the same message. “Even though. I’ve got another thing I do,” she said. I could practically feel the accompanying blush through the screen. “Oh? What’s that?” “I’m downloading porn.” “Oh,” I responded. “Yeah. That. So am I.”
Two years later…
“I don’t know what the sort of thing is,” she said, “but my boyfriend doesn’t really want to have sex with me when I want it.” “You mean he’s not ready?” “No, I mean, we have sex when he wants, but not when I want.”
Her boyfriend sounded like a bit of a dick. I never met him, but the pictures I saw looked scary.
“Your boyfriend sounds like a bit of a dick,” I said. “He is,” she readily agreed, “but the sex is really good. It’s the best sex I’ve ever had.” “I thought you said you weren’t ready for sex?” “That was two years ago. I had sex about a week after that. You told me it shouldn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt. I like it now.”
My heart suddenly beat twice as fast. Did I have that sort of influence?
“Anyway, I want sex.” “Yeah? Are you going to pounce on your boyfriend with the questionable morals but firm and unyielding penis?” “Nah,” she demurred. “I’m downloading more porn.” “Oh,” I responded. “Yeah. That.”
There was a notable pause.
“So am I,” I added, opening VLC as my halo lit up and began to spin.
Over the last few weeks I have been spending a lot of time alone – mostly in the mornings. Being the sleepy boy that I am, I have to have my own ways to wake up (I’ve noticed that if I don’t I will simply skip entire mornings). Following a tip from a friend, I’ve found the best way to do so is to talk myself awake.
I’m aware, when I monologue in the mornings, that nobody but God is listening. There’s no response, and no feedback. If I’m talking to an invisible audience, then I fully know that they’re not there, but then I’ve always done that. It’s something I do, and it helps me wake up. So I’m talking to the audience and hoping they are listening. Best I can do, really.
If I’m on my own, I can talk about things I wouldn’t mention in mixed company. For the past few mornings I’ve been talking about how and why I started ILB. Where the name came from, the process I went through to register, what little of a plan I had, what the main inspiration was (Adam Kay, it was you, if you’re reading this!). I talk about the adventures I’ve had (I’m particularly fond of the time I left my house at 4am in order to get to Eroticon 2012 in time for breakfast), and those yet to come.
I’ll talk about soft porn and occasionally sing along to the music in my head. Maybe I’m reviewing something i like or raging about Emmanuelle. Quite often I’m rehearsing an introductory speech to the Erotic Independent Film Club (which doesn’t exist, but it’s nice to think about). In my quieter moments, I make lists of the sex bloggers I know in my head. How many do I know? How many of them are still around? Who are they? Where are they?
How many of them had sex last night?
Is this very silly? Perhaps. I’ve been in a massive creative slump since I came out of hospital. So much as thinking about updating my blog is nothing short of scary; I have neither the will nor the inclination to do any of the other creative project I do in February. The other day I did write one page of the story I’ve been meaning to start, but a little voice in my head serves to consistently remind me that I don’t know where I’m going with it.
So, yes. Maybe it is silly. There isn’t anyone to listen when I tell my stories. The only person who gets to hear them is me.
Three o’clock in the morning. I lie awake, wondering why I do so. Usually I wake up at this point needing to go to the toilet. But I don’t need it now. So why have I awoken?
Throb.
That’ll be why. I didn’t realise I was hard until just now. Why am I hard? Did I have a dream, or is this just something that happens?
Throb.
Wow. I’m really hard. I haven’t been this turned on for aeons. It feels like I’m more erection than human right now. Maybe I should… do something about this. Where? Right here in the bed? No, I can’t; they’re sleeping. It’s too cold to get up. Maybe I have a dressing gown or a
Five-thirty. What happened? Did I fall asleep? What happened to the horny ILB with the massive erection? I was going to use that. Or at the very least remember it.
I’m fairly certain at this point that I did have a dream. I’m not sure who about or what happened. Whatever it was, its effects were fairly transient. I’d prefer something lasting, but I don’t really think that’s something I can control.
Ay me. Maybe next time I’ll be able to remember. Probably better than having an orgasm in my sle
Six-thirty. I hate my alarm. Hate it, hate it, hate it. Where’s my ‘phone? There it is. Grab, scrabble with the screen. Flick it off. Lie back down, pull the duvet back over me and…
Throb.
Oh, there you are. Where did you go? I missed you an hour or so ago.
Six-forty-five. Not hard any more. Seven o’clock. Throb. Hard again. Seven-fifteen. Not hard any more. Seven-thirty. Time to join the human race. Scramble out of bed, scream at the pain in my left shoulder. Quieten the shrieks in my head. It’s better to pretend right now.
Or should I be calling this “2024 Fapped”? No, that joke’s too bad, even for me. And that really is saying something. But I always do the orgasm count, I can’t resist easy content, and I have lots of lovely pens and a diary to write stuff in, so I guess we’re doing this.
This time last year I was a little doom and gloom about the state of play of sex blogs and the community in general. Although I would tend towards saying that 2024 has been quite a positive year – for me, at least – what with a joyful General Election result and a (admittedly very small) pay rise at the job I am continuing to enjoy. I will admit that I haven’t been blogging as much as I could have, though: 40 posts really isn’t much. It also doesn’t reach 2023 Escape Velocity (2023 was 51 posts…).
So I suppose that’s my New Year’s Resolution, then. Write more posts, you lazy bastard.
Of course, there have been bits of this year that appear to have been conspiring against me. In the summer I had a heart attack and spent three weeks in hospital. August brought with it a trip to Amsterdam, which put me in a very precarious monetary position from which I still haven’t fully recovered. There’s also the fact that my insomnia has been getting worse, and there’s a lot of stuff going on around me, even if it’s not directly happening to me.
I’ve had counselling this year, and even without it I’ve noticed that I am less depressed about things than I am nervous. I’ve been feeling very awkward and hesitant about saying things, or doing things (which you wouldn’t know to look at me, since I talk a lot and I’m a bit of an extrovert), and I do occasionally feel like I’m walking on eggshells.
This post is a good example. I was meant to be talking about wanking and just kind of went off in a different direction. Fantastic. Story of my life!
The Orgasm Count!
Once again I’m going to go through my diary and to to decrypt my awful handwriting. I’ll also include the codes I used, because they make me feel like a spy, and that’s awesome.
☆ – 89. This is the number of orgasms that I’ve had this year. That’s less than last year’s orgasm count, although it creates a nice palindrome with last year’s 98. Maths tells me that’s an orgasm per day on 24.3% of the year. Boo!
☺ (not an actual emoji; the face I draw looks more like a sideways =)) – 13/2; 3/5; 30/7; 7/11; 30/12. These are the days on which I had a particularly nice orgasm. In an Earth-shattering revelation, most of these were days after a period in which I hadn’t had any orgasms. I KNOW!
🙁 (a sideways =() – 9/4. An orgasm I’ll talk about later. Not a good one, really.
28/9 – This date got three codes, so you know it’s important. It got an !!!, two smiley faces and the word plentiful! underlined. Whatever happened here, it must have been a great orgasm. This was also – you couldn’t make it up – my 69th orgasm. I should get a certificate or something.
Boing! – 8/12. Holy jumping semen, Batman! There are usually more of these in a year, but this one was notable enough for me to record the fact that it looked like my jizz was competing in the Paris Olympics.
Leana! – 14/5; 12/7; 24/8; 27/10. This is a code I added last year to describe orgasms that happened with the “aid” of rising porn starlet Leana Lovings. Once again, hardcore isn’t my thing, but it’s impossible not to love Leana. This year I also added Emma! to refer to buxom redhead Emma Magnolia, for fairly obvious reasons, but recorded only one such date – 11/1.
Sneaky. – 28/8. As with last year’s orgasm count, this is an orgasm I had with my wife awake in the next room. According to them, they wank when they can and I may well be occupied elsewhere too, but I’m not sure how true that is!
And two brand new codes for 2024…
Necessary – 12/2; 9/4. Eagle-eyes viewers will have noticed that 9/4 was not a good orgasm. Both of these were necessary, though, because they were orgasms FOR SCIENCE! These were days I participated in The Great and Glorious Jizz Dash. I needed to have those orgasms. SCIENCE!
and finally…
NoD – 30/7. I wrote this code down without recording anywhere what it meant. When transferring the stars over to my new mid-year diary I spent about half an hour trying to puzzle it out. NoD? What might those letters stand for? NoD? Why did post-orgasmic ILB seem to think it was that important to make a note of?
And then I remembered.
“…nut on desk,” I muttered to myself, making a note of that too.
Christmas Eve has always been a relatively reflective time for me. Whether it’s the memory of my first time going to midnight mass or the earlier times, when I’d spend all night secretly asking Father Christmas for a kiss from whichever girl I had a crush on at the time… there’s always going to be a memory from way back when.
My earliest Christmas Eve memory is from when I was about seven or eight. I remember it specifically because I slept with my head out of the covers, and because I actually got a fair amount of sleep just before Christmas – a nigh-on impossible thing for a child.
Up until my late teens, I slept with my whole body – including my head – covered by the duvet. Anything else and I would feel vulnerable, or nervous, or scared… ever since I noticed how the rainbows on my Care Bears wallpaper made a scary face if you looked at them for too long, I felt I had to shield myself from the world. I didn’t even notice until the age of about five that it was possible to close one’s eyes without screwing them tightly together. The fact that I was able to go to sleep at all was a miracle. Doing so without problems on Christmas night was completely unheard of. And with my head out of the covers? Positively Herculean.
The reason I’m talking about this on my sex blog is because I find it difficult to relate Christmas to sex. I’m aware that there are plenty of people who do; it just doesn’t really occur to me. I don’t think, or I don’t remember, ever having had sex at Christmas. I’ve brought myself to orgasm all of once on the big day itself. I’m not really one to ask for, give, or receive sex toys as a gift, nor does anyone ever buy me porn.
Even though I haven’t lived with my parents now for years, whereas living with them made enjoying my sexuality risky, it still doesn’t occur to me to be at all sexy over Christmas. Christmas is for Jesus Christ, Father Christmas and Batman Returns. There are even some difficult bits related to it – once ending up with me in the mental health unit of the local hospital. What with everything going on, there genuinely doesn’t appear to be time for sex.
So if anyone has an explanation as to why I’ve spent the entire week constantly thinking about it, that’s be good. Cheers.
Having seen every Emmanuelle film by now, one would assume the franchise was exhausted, on account of the fact that it’s now featured love goddesses, nymphs, vampires, werewolves, aliens from outer space, ghosts, fairytale characters (in a musical!) and multiversal variants. And yet they saw fit to throw another film into the mix, this time with a full cinematic release and seemingly huge budget.
You can get away with this because the last film in the canon established the fact that Haffron opened a rift to the multiverse and revealed the fact that there are an infinite number of alternate Emmanuelles in their own universes, which explains why her face keeps changing.
This one is seemingly the first set in the most boring universe of all.
Emmanuelle (2024) Director: Audrey Diwan Starring: Noémie Merlant, Will Sharpe, Jamie Campbell Bower, Naomi watts, et al.
This is also the first Emmanuelle title since the very first not to be produced by Alain Siritzky, who oversaw every one from Emmanuelle 2 up until his death in 2014. It’s dedicated to his memory, but produced by completely different companies. Gone are the tongue-in-cheek pop culture references and the sci-fi elements; they have also dispensed with the stylised “E” that has appeared in every version so far, and – tragically – the wicker chair! They really should have kept that in, at least!
Reviews of this have been mixed, to say the least. Some people love it; some hate it. I was completely bemused by this… and here’s why.
It makes no sense
Emmanuelle shown trying to decipher the script.
The plot uproots Emmanuelle’s globe-trotting adventures and places her in Hong Kong for the entirety of the one hour and forty-seven minutes’ runtime. No longer is she a reporter or a photojournalist or a diplomat’s wife; here she works for a hotel chain, seemingly here to review the hotel itself but truthfully to dig up some dirt on hotel owner Margot Parson (Naomi Watts). Her boss (voiced with malevolence by an unknown actor) wants to fire Margot for reason or reasons unknown…
…oh, and there’s some stuff about yoghurt. I don’t know, I wasn’t really paying attention.
And that’s it. That’s the plot. There are multiple subplots involving escorts, actors, tapping rhythms and illegal mahjong, but they all come and go with such little context that they may as well be salad dressing for all the relevance they have. The main story doesn’t even have a climax, or a resolution… suggesting, that the writers changed their mind halfway through and put something else in there!
My OH would like to add that there is very little emotional truth in it, either. The film continues apace with people saying and doing things but there’s no rhyme or reason behind them. It’s like watching soulless automatons acting out a script written by AI.
The cast is odd AF
Zelda’s not really into it. She’s just fascinated by Emmanuelle’s inhumanly long neck.
Let’s get this one out of the way first. Noémie Merlant is an incredibly beautiful woman. Is she a good actress? Yes. Does she have a nice voice? Yes. Does she have an innate sensuality for such an iconic role? Sure, why not. Is she Emmanuelle? No. There’s something about the character that she does not have. It’s difficult to pinpoint, but she doesn’t really have the X-factor that Sylvia Kristel, Krista Allen, Holly Sampson and Allie Haze all had.
The rest of the cast are fine. Will Sharpe is originally intriguing as the mysterious Kei, although more annoying later on as he suddenly becomes important; Bower is good as advertising executive Sir John, but he vanishes with no real explanation. Perhaps the best character, Zelda (Chacha Huang), is written out before the ending seemingly just to give Emmanuelle some detective work to do.
The problem is that practically none of them serve any purpose. There isn’t much of a story to advance and (apart from Kei) none of them are relevant to it. You may as well have a film just featuring Emmanuelle and Kei and you could still get the same film.
The cinematographer should be fired
I have no explanation for this.
One of a few “bath” scenes. She really likes water, does our heroine.
I don’t know why there are so many slow zooms to end in close-up of Merlant’s head. I’m not sure why some bits are so light whereas some are so dark and there’s absolutely nothing in between. I’m clueless as to the bits where Emmanuelle’s talking to another character and you can’t see who she’s talking to.
I’m also not sure where the wicker chair has gone.
And then there’s the music. Zounds, the music. Emmanuelle films have often featured some of the best and most iconic scores softcore has ever seen. The score here is moody, dour and sparse; there’s very little to it. It doesn’t even fit the sex scenes, which is usually a big part of them. Speaking of which…
It isn’t sexy, genuinely
Emmanuelle is reflecting on… [is dragged from keyboard and beaten violently]
And it really isn’t. Yes, there is sex in this film. but for something with so much sex – and, come to think of it, gratuitous nudity – it certainly isn’t particularly arousing. Maybe it isn’t meant to be. Handled differently, or given different camera and atmosphere work, these could be sizzling hot sex scenes. But these aren’t. These are attractive enough people going through the motions, turning titillation into tedium.
And that’s really frustrating. This could have saved the film. There’s a scene partway through where a completely naked Emmanuelle masturbates to orgasm in her hotel room. There’s a lesbian encounter between her and Zelda in a shed hidden in the grounds. There’s even a sex scene with a stranger in an aeroplane bathroom…
…none of which are particularly arousing! I saw this in a cinema with an audience, so I’m not supposed to be fapping to this or anything, but why are they devoid of any emotion?
And the sad part is…
The final, most crushing thing I can say about Emmanuelle is that it has so many elements of a good film in it somewhere. It’s well-intentioned, the cast is great and trying hard, it certainly looks pretty, and some aspects are genuinely compelling. Notably a “storm” scene, which happens about midway through, is handled incredibly well, is appropriately atmospheric, and even serves to advance what little there is of a plot.
There isn’t genuinely a lot of sex, but what there is isn’t bad; it’s a little lacklustre, but they are trying. In fact, the final sex scene (also the last scene of the movie) is explicit, different, long and even managed to turn me on a little. But that was such a rarity.
Emmanuelle manages to disappoint on so many levels because it is empty. There’s nothing here: it is a hollow shell of a film which shows how little thought went into it. It is completely emotionless, limp, devoid of a comprehensible story and completely wasteful of a talented cast. It does nothing to entertain or arouse, has practically no link to the character as previously established in either movie or book, and feels nothing other than soporific at points, derisory or cringe-inducing at others.
Alain Siritzky would be insulted, I’m sure… but I most certainly am too.
I was sitting at a bus stop earlier today, a birthday present for my cousin clutched in my hand, shivering slightly. I hadn’t put a coat on – a jumper, yes, but even that was a struggle – but my sojourn to Haringey and back had been agreeable enough. It was only now, at the dusky 3pm, that things were starting to get cold.
And my nipples were hardening up. But not for the good reason.
It’s been a long time since I sucked a nipple on a breast. Of course, I did so the last time I had any sort of sexual contact, but that itself was a while ago. The fact remains, however, that I used to do it. I used to do it a lot.
I’ve never really thought of myself as a breast fetishist, to the point that exactly half of those I’ve slept with had larger than average breasts and the other half smaller than – although I suppose it depends on what you count as “average”, really. Sucking on a nipple, though, has long been something I’m into. Having it done on me certainly gets me going (I find it difficult to orgasm now without some sort of breast stimulation. Both hands are active when I wank.), so…
So I do it. I’ve done it to more than the eight people I’ve slept with. I even fancy that I may be quite good at it, although I’m not entirely sure what that is.
Alicia used to like it when I would find the very tip – about a millimetre of skin, if that – and vibrate my jaw rapidly, producing something like a cross between a bite and a buzz. The Seamstress liked having my tongue running circles around her areolae, getting closer and closer to the tip before closing my lips around it. Rebecca just liked it in general, having her nipple sucked having been the first sort of foreplay we engaged in. Louise, who basically liked everything sexual, was more keen on sucking me off than having me suck her, but gave me a thumbs-up (a real one!) when I did so. I seem to remember snowdrop requesting a genuine bite.
As for me, I just like it. I like the feeling of sealing my lips around a pert tip. I like feeling it grow harder under my ministrations and the sensation of their heartbeat thudding through the skin. I like the taste, breathing them in. I like how I can flick my tongue against it, wind it around and around, or just give it a genuine suck.
I like to suck boobs and I am not ashamed to say it.
Do I sound predatory? I don’t mean to. I’m not automatically looking at your boobs and imagining how they feel in my mouth. I was always doing it to deliver pleasure – the fact that I liked it was a secondary concern. I’ve even got a lot of pregnant women at my workplace and I’ve never even looked at any of those boobs. I mean, c’mon, I’m married.
But my nipples getting hard made me think about it, and now I can practically feel one in my mouth and it’s becoming more of a need than a want and…
…do you know what? I really dislike the word “nipple”. Let’s go with “breast tip”.
