No, wait, come back! This isn’t a strange fantasy I had or another dream which made me orgasm! It’s really a different kind of post, I promise. Are you still reading? ARE YOU?! Okay then.
She’s so bouncy it took me a while to take this screenshot.
It’s been a while since I’ve either had a sexy dream or watched anything featuring Kitten. Since I moved I haven’t really had the wherewithal to put on any DVDs. and only really managed to plug in my external CD/DVD drive about a week ago (ironically, I basically bought it for porn, and haven’t yet used it thus!). My Region 1 copy of Beneath the Valley of the Ultravixens is in my special drawer, and I have yet to dig it out.
The fact remains that I have seen Beneath the Valley… so many times that I could probably recite it. I ordered the DVD at the age of 18 (the package itself appeared to have come from Germany!) and, it being one of the very few DVDs I owned at that point, it was something I watched over and over and over and…
…and when the band I was in played Old-Time Religion, I was laughing so much I had to hold onto my bass drum to avoid falling to the floor.
The other night, however
I woke up at about 5am with an entirely new sex scene in my head. I know it actually isn’t in Beneath the Valley…, because I’ve seen all those too. It did, however, have all the trappings – Kitten as Lavonia, on a bed, with plenty of movement, music on the radio and the necessary exhortations for cock.
But some bits were missing. I didn’t see who she was having sex with. I didn’t have any context from the narrator or the quick cuts between scenes the film is famous for. The bit that did wake me up, eventually, was a few seconds of Kitten in a certain position that we get about one second of in the original RM release.
Yeah, I know, I really do. I shouldn’t really be waking up as hard as I did (and I did, I was solid as a rock) due to four seconds of simulated sex that, as far as my memory serves, don’t exist. Perhaps I shouldn’t, at the age of 39, have dedicated so much of my brain to such a niche piece of (admittedly very quotable) media. But I clearly have, at some point, and it’s going on to invent more bits of this film that’s six years older than I am.
It happens sometimes. I think I know more than I do – I can catalogue most of Passion Cove, put the Confessions films in order, list each of the films in the Emmanuelle series GIVE THE 2024 ONE A UK RELEASE YOU ABSOLUTE COWARDS – and then something blindsides me at the last minute.
Featuring Joe Estevez (brother of Martin Sheen), Don Swayze (brother of Patrick) and Joey Travolta (brother of John) – and bonus Jackie Stallone, Burt Ward, Nikki Fritz and C.C. Costigan – Beach Babes from Beyond is one such thing. I’m genuinely surprised, thinking I knew everything Surrender put out in their entire catalogue… and then I find this!
It even won an AVN Award – I mean…!
Appearance:Beach Babes from Beyond (1993) Characters: Dave & Xena
I can’t believe that’s the tagline.
Plot-wise, this one follows the standard formula: intergalactic babe Xena (Roxanne Blaze) “borrows” her dad’s ship to go… somewhere… with her two pals Sola (Nicole Posey) and Luna (Tamara Landry) but they run out of fuel, crash-landing in California. Into the mix come three guys (wouldn’t you know it? Three! How fortunate!), Dave, Jerry and Ziggy (Michael Todd Davis, Ken Steadman and Michael Roddy). Sex happens Stuff happens.
There’s some more stuff – Uncle Bud is about to lose his beach house; the beach babes enter the bikini contest to win repair money; the evil fashion designer will stop at nothing to win – but it’s mostly salad dressing. It gives you a plot to cling to (I will admit “we crashed so let’s fuck” is a little flimsy, even for Surrender). Consider, however, that a total of 08:75 – over 11% of this film’s 79:44 runtime – is given over to Baywatch-style bikini-clad beach montages… not to mention the 06:03 bikini contest routine towards the end, and it’s fairly clear somebody thought that whatever they filmed needed a little padding.
In any case, the sex
Although the sequel (yes, there’s a sequel) indicates that all three girls lost their virginity to the guys during the events of this one, you wouldn’t know it. The cut-between-sex montage featuring Jerry, Ziggy, Sola and Luna depicts those beach babes as particularly well-versed in exactly what to do in bed with an Earthling. Maybe it’s Xena who was a virgin. Let’s find out.
Her sex scene with Mike doesn’t actually start too badly. It’s actually fairly romantic, in a way (a “terrible sound design but the dialogue is all right” way): a hissy Xena doesn’t want to leave Mike, but a hissy Mike is insistent that they’ll find a way – quite an LDR, two galaxies away, but maybe they can use Zoom or something.
In any case, their kiss is quite sweet and WHAT THE FUCK JUMP CUT?
This was in full colour with some unobtrusive music! Why is it suddenly blue? Where did their clothes go? Why did somebody suddenly overlay the exact same music from Tales of the Saddle Tramps?
Enjoy it – it’s the last moment of full colour you’ll have for a while.
Where even are they, anyway? This isn’t Uncle Bud’s beach hut. Have they suddenly checked into a hotel? What happened to Xena having to get back to her planet before her parents find out she nicked their ship? EXPLAIN, MOVIE! EXPLAIN!!!
All right, so can I make out what’s happening through all the teal tint? After the necessary breast licking, which is definitely the way to go according to every softcore movie ever, we get a fair amount of oral sex. Fair play here: with the exception of Bedtime Stories, not a lot of soft porn attempts to show cunnilingus, but this one dwells on it for quite a while. We have to put up with Davis’ bum, but I’ll let that one go.
Don’t know about you, but I think he’s a bit of a bum man.
What’s less explainable, if one can see at all through the Oxford overlay, is that the scene then mixes to a standard softcore blowjob, with hair getting in the way. Fair enough that Xena may want to be giving a blowjob as she is still a virgin – I’m sure lots of people do, my first girlfriend certainly did – but, unless she is preternaturally talented, shouldn’t it be a little more awkward and experimental than this? Has she been practising on space dildos or something?
You were saying?
Oh yeah, the scene. Well, we do then get missionary penetrative sex through the azure ambience. It starts with a close-up (in which you can genuinely see the sweat on Davis’ back), pulls out to a full-body wide shot and then mixes back, a slow pan to facilitate arse-grabbing. Another mix throws us into doggy style (presumably; it’s very dark and very blue so it’s difficult to see), also shown through a few close-up shots, then sitting up, then riding…
Back sweat is categorically not sexy. Bad call, Dave.
…and we end with a kiss, which would be erotic if I could see the bloody thing!
JUMP CUT WHAT THE FUCK FULL COLOUR? My eyes already hurt enough! What is this, The Krypton Factor?
In any case, that’s the end of the scene. Eighteen more minutes of pissing about on the beach and then they leave Earth. Fantastic.
Why haven’t you made a Xena: Warrior Princess joke yet?
Because I’ve only ever seen one episode. Anyway, yes.
Have I been a bit critical here? Possibly. Full disclosure: all the other sex scenes in Beach Babes from Beyond are a little dark (and in some unspecified location), but this is the only one that’s the colour of my teenage bedroom. It’s a bit of a shame you can’t see much, because Xena is genuinely attractive and Dave is… well, he’s a generic ’90s idiot, but at least a believable ’90s idiot. I remember the ’90s, we all had hair like that.
How is there a light on outside? Could it be… the sun?
There’s also a bit of a missed opportunity here. This could be a great scene and something I’d have an orgasm to if there was a better colour scheme to it. It’s got everything I like in it, and even if the music is over-familiar, at least it’s music that works. Neither Xena nor Dave has had any form of full nudity earlier, either, so it’s nice that they finally get to DO IT!
However, the loud music, the cerulean cinematography, and the fact that a jump cut takes us both into and out of the whole shebang does make it all seem a little incongruous. If they’re going to have sex, why not do it outside? California’s certainly warm enough. Why not on the beach, since that’s in the movie’s title? The balcony outside Bud’s hut? Hell, why not Xena’s ship? It’s just sitting there not doing anything!
But the one thing I can’t get past (and this genuinely is just me, but it’s my blog, so…) is how smooth the sex is! The sequel clearly states that this was Xena’s first time! My first time was a few minutes of clumsy cowgirl after it took me ages to get it up! How is she suddenly able to do everything, including three different sex positions, when all she had to get her going was thirty seconds of foreplay?
“You’re sure this is the Sahara?” “The map says so, doesn’t it?” “But my senses tell me differently. It’s so… humid. And wet. And I don’t remember there being a rainforest here, either.”
I began to unbutton my shirt, almost by instinct.
“Thank the North African monsoon,” she said matter-of-factly. “Its northward migration helped with the fertility.” She tossed her discarded tee casually on the floor of the pod. “The extinction of humanity couldn’t have hurt, either.”
I couldn’t argue with that, although I had assumed, until that point, that some other invasive life form would have done whatever it could to ensure that the arid desert remained the blasted wasteland it had once been. As I cast my eyes across the vast swathes of jungle that reached past the horizon, even from this height, it turned out I was wrong.
“You’re sure this is safe?” I asked, as I fumbled with my belt. “Nngh,” I added helpfully as I gave it a heftier tug. It dug into my midriff as I eased it open. My trousers slid off easily, though, to my relief.
“Safe? Of course it’s safe! We’re fifty metres from the canopy!” she laughed. “Even if one of the unmentionables that survived the eruption…”
An eerie, ululating call came from below. She continued unabated, unhooking her bra as she did so.
“…that survived the eruption did notice us, how could they do anything? We’re up here.” Dropping her bra in my lap served as a reminder of exactly what we had come here to do. Trust me to become distracted by science, although not all of me was distracted by the chittering of nature above the soft hum of the hovering pod. That was judging by the rapidly increasing stiffness making it difficult to keep my pants on.
I’ve never been able to resist her breasts. I love their form, their shape and their weight in my hands. They compliment her small frame perfectly. Add in the sweeping red hair, the sparkling green eyes and the tireless tongue and I still don’t know why she’s in the least attracted to the shambling mess I am.
She catches me looking. It’s perhaps the first time I’ve been distracted from the North African Fertile Growth. Someone in a white coat decided that the term “Sahara” carried too many negative connotations; I may not have agreed with him, but there was certainly a lot of fertile growth going on at the moment.
“So don’t worry,” she stressed, moving closer. “You worry too much.” “I suppose I just think a lot,” I murmured.
She was far too close. I could feel the tickle of her hair, crackling with static. I could breathe in the scent of rosin and woodsmoke that I always associated with her. I could see the peak of her stiffening nipples…
“You need a distraction,” she whispered in my ear, “a distraction from your stress.” “So distract me.” “That’s what I needed to hear,” she mouthed, alighting deftly on her knees. “Keep an eye out for any other pods, will you?”
And I sat in my seat, the force of nature spread out below me, life continuing apace from every corner, while she closed her lips around the burgeoning shaft of my cock.
It happens, occasionally. You’re investigating something, you find out what you’re looking for at the bottom of a page hidden down the back of the Internet, and then that leads you somewhere else, and suddenly you discover the entire oeuvre of an actor and director named Paul Thomas.
Nicknamed P.T., Thomas is married to Judy Epstein, and has produced such pieces of cinematic history as Live!!! Nude!!! Girls!!! (2010) and Orgy: The XXX Championship (2011). He’s also Saint Peter, according to Jesus Christ Superstar (1973).
So why he wasn’t credited for this after playing the first ever Pope is a bit of a mystery…
Appearance:Emanuelle, Perché violenza alle donne?, aka Confessions of Emanuelle, aka Emanuelle Around the World (1977) Characters: Emanuelle & Ivory Vanlines Driver
Meanwhile, in SAN FRANCISCOOOOO…..!
It’s probably best to also repeat the same thing everyone known by now: this isn’t an official Emmanuelle film (of course it isn’t; there’s only one N in the character’s name). It’s part of the (Italian) Black Emanuelle series starring Laura Gemser (who isn’t black), and like many others in the series, it has a scary title (Why violence against women?) and very little plot to speak of.
I mean that this time. There’s little other than a few different vignettes in exotic locales. You could come in at any time. It could be a loop.
The setup’s quite good, though. Emanuelle fare-dodges her way around the world sleeping with various people. She manages to take in San Francisco, New York, India, Hong Kong, Italy, San Francisco again, and the Middle East, all while foiling people-trafficking, forced bestiality and a guru who makes false claims. Mostly without wearing much.
I suppose that explains the Around the World title and Why violence against women?. Where the Confessions bit comes in I’m not sure. Maybe she’s going to admit all her sins to a Catholic priest. I mean, Saint Peter is right there. Get onto it, P.T.
Right, so. In a teaser to the actual movie we are treated to a sex scene between hedonistic photojournalist Emanuelle (Gemser) and a nameless, uncredites and largely merit-free trucker (P.T.) in the back of his truck. She’s going to ‘Frisco, see, and apparently the best way to hitch a lift with someone is to shag him, so that’s what she does.
Genius.
The foot fetishists are going to love this post.
The scene, and therefore the whole film, starts with feet. That shouldn’t be much of a surprise; to anyone who’s seen these things, it’s a Black Emanuelle film so you know what you’re in for. You’ll get a number of edited cuts of nudity put together to indicate sex with a repetitive piece of music overlaid. Any bare skin is a good way to start, so why not naked feet? It’s also quite fortunate that P.T.’s truck is used for long-hauling furniture, as there’s a convenient bed for them to use.
Of course, this is an example of LUCK! It’s so INCREDIBLY LUCKY that there’s a fully made bed in his truck!! What a LUCKY thing to happen!!!
That thing’s going to fall right on top of them…
Anyway, where was I? Yes. This is a Black Emanuelle film so you’re going to get a lot of quick cuts. There’s plenty of kissing, rubbing and nudity, and you see P.T.’s bum quite a lot, but I’m fairly certain that up until 01:03 there isn’t any actual sex going on. We certainly get some, in the end – nineteen seconds of missionary action with P.T. on top, Laura Gemser grabbing at his abundant behind and slow, but steady, movement.
This is the sex bit so it gets a full-size screenshot.
There are even some occasional sound effects, but I’m fairly sure that’s just Laura Gemser breathing. You can’t hear any sex noises anyway, because the most abundant thing here is a bassist playing the same 14 notes over and over again (there was a synth at the beginning, but their budget ran out, or something), joined occasionally by a wind player. Maybe it’s Karolina.
The claw is our master!
Once the sex is over (I guess; there’s no real indication that it is), there’s a jump cut to P.T. and Emanuelle leaving the truck. They talk a bit, and then he gives her a lift to San Francisco, because of course he does.
So, it’s quite a brief sex scene, it’s poorly-lit, you don’t see much and the music is off-putting… the question remains, then, why does it make me come so hard?
It took me a while to puzzle this out, and I think the answer might be manyfold:
There’s no indication throughout the scene that this is inside a truck. It could be a warehouse. You only see the truck afterwards when they are leaving it.
Although the playful banter is awful, you can tell that both P.T. and Emanuelle enjoyed themselves…
…and that Emanuelle does this sort of thing a lot. I can’t resist someone who so freely and shamelessly has sex with people just because she can.
The bit where P.T. finds a toothbrush between her boobs (she’s travelling light, y’see?) genuinely made me laugh!
Ah yes, the post-sex “shampoo advert” walk.
And, overall, it really isn’t a bad scene. The whole reason I’ve chosen this one, as opposed to any of those later in the film, is that I think it’s the best one! It’s very loose, it doesn’t do much, and it’s hardly necessary… but so what? P.T. was an actor needing work, they had a camera crew ready, and Laura Gemser is sort of “effortlessly sexy” (I can’t really define this, she just gives off a vibe).
Plus, Emanuelle is an openly sexual character. That’s central to her character… so why not open with her having sex?
It’s 11:30 pm on my first day at university and I’m wanking feverishly in a stall in the toilets of the union bar. It’s club night and my fap fap fap is masked by the thump thump thump from just outside. I’ve never been clubbing before, but here, everybody does it.
That is not all everybody seems to be doing. The sexual energy from the heaving mass of sweaty bodies is electric. As it turns out later, not everyone was having sex with everyone else, but for the majority of us, this is the first day of freshers’ week which, sixth form told us, was specifically reserved for sex with someone new. In this very bar, on the dancefloor outside, I will have incidents where I don’t want to cheat, and those where I’ll fail to get laid. I just don’t know this yet.
Outside this bar bathroom, the milieu continues unabated. The freshers’ reps are all called things like RAUNCHY, PLAYMATE and KING SNAKE. It’s become common knowledge that GIANT does, in fact, have a rather small penis, but he’s been sleeping with half the freshers, which makes it okay. About an hour earlier I had been talking with a pretty blonde who then vanished from view. Her equally pretty best friend apologised on her behalf – she had a boyfriend – but that didn’t bother me, as I was just chatting.
I’d also come to university as someone in a long-term relationship. Engaged, actually. In the unlikely event that I did get any leads to be having the kind of wild and carefree sex I never ended up having, I wouldn’t be following them up on account of the fact that I was in a relaionship.
I am wanking in the toilet because I feel that, despite how out of place I seem to be, and how what is going on elsewhere doesn’t affect me, I deserve, on this very first night, my own sexual experience, so I’m giving it to myself, no matter how desperate or unclean or pathetic this all is. I’m going to have an orgasm here, tonight, and nobody else will know, and that will be mine. Just something that I can do.
Also, I’m horny.
I don’t yet know that the following three years will be an era of sexual self-discovery. That I will feel both the closest to and the furthest away from death than ever before, and that I will emerge from the whole experience having had no more sex, but aware of the sort I wanted to be having. I haven’t even been to a lecture yet.
There’s no way of knowing which way this is going.
I have my first orgasm of semi-independent life standing up, in a bar bathroom stall. Whatever happened next, nobody was going to take that away from me.
It was another hot, but windy, afternoon in Denmark – the seventh out of seven days in which both sunbeams and breezes had been wrestling for dominance. Considering that, it was still very much summer. We were going home – not quite on our way, exactly, but very much aware that it was imminent. The pretty girl I had been flirting with all week was wearing a T-shirt that said “I ♡ my dad’s credit card.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever see you again,” I said mulishly. “Oh no, we’ll see each other again,” she smiled warmly. We hugged for the last time.
I never did see her again.
The girl I had a crush on was sitting under an awning in the corner of the campsite, with a lit cigarette and strong cup of tea. The organisers had been very strict – both alcohol and “euphoria drugs” were banned. They had been more lenient with people enjoying the occasional fag, which I found slightly contradictory. Evidently, I couldn’t go anywhere near Leaf while this was happening, but I was close enough to hear what she was saying.
“You look really happy,” said one of our number – Beth, who had availed herself of Black Cat condoms with Marks earlier that week. “I mean, like, really happy.”
She had a fair point. The drugs may have been banned, but Leaf herself looked nothing short of euphoric. I described the look myself, at the time, as “blissed out”… although she always looked fairly heavenly to me, of course. The broad smile plastered on her face and curling steam from the mug framing her did nothing to taint the image I had. She looked, for all the world, in total bliss and nothing was going to stop that.
“Yeah,” she said, dreamily/sleepily. “Now all I need is some sex.”
At which point my crush took on a while new dimension. I knew, of course, that she had been having sex by that point – and it wasn’t going to be me, of course it wasn’t – but, a couple of years prior when I’d first met her, and started to become interested – she was, in her own words, “an innocent”. She was still a virgin when I kissed her a while later and, even though she was still the same person, the fact that she was now sexually active (and really quite good at it, by all accounts) had awoken something at the back of my brain.
I shouldn’t have let her get to me at all. Before I left for Denmark, I was absolutely sure that I was romantically fixated on one other specific person. I didn’t see Leaf often enough to have – or, at least, I thought I didn’t – an “official” crush, but the instant I saw her at the station, it all came rushing back. For the whole week I had been thinking of the friend I loved, the flirty girl I knew in the US, the pretty one on the camp who was more than happy to talk to me… and yet my eyes were only for Leaf.
But now she’d had sex. Were my fantasies now justified? For years I’d been dreaming of kissing her. I’d been friendly and shy and wrote a whole album’s worth of songs about her at one point.
What was she like in bed? Was she still sweet and smiley and funny, or did she switch and become a sexual dynamo? What did she look like, I asked myself, with no clothes on? As she smoked, did she do so after sex like they do in the movies, and would I have to excuse myself from the room if so?
And then I found myself feeling slightly sick that I’d even entertained such thoughts. I was a trusted friend, not a dirty lecher.
One year later
I’d managed to organise my thoughts. The pretty Danish girl was happy with a new boyfriend (who she has since married). My friend was now just a friend. I’d had my time at university, and after all that, I bumped into Leaf one more time, in the middle of a gig. It seemed appropriate.
My stomach did a little flip as we hugged, but we exchanged no more than that.
“You know she has a sort of boyfriend?” asked Beth over MSN. “I didn’t know, but I’m not surprised,” I replied, truthfully. “She’s an attractive girl.” “Yes, I know she is,” nodded Beth, “and you couldn’t keep your eyes off her, could you?”
I hadn’t realised that I’d been that obvious.
“I hadn’t realised that I’d been that obvious,” I replied. “What about you? Are you okay?” “I am,” said Beth pleasantly. “I’ve just had a cup of tea and a fag. I’m feeling really happy. Blissed out.” “Sounds like all you need is some sex,” I filled in.
She never thought to ask where I got that idea from. But she did have sex that night.
There are missed opportunities, and then there are things which never start.
While sitting in hospital I began formulating a vague plan for August. Last summer I flexed my contactless card and visited, by bus, all the bits of my London borough I’ve never seen before. They weren’t all fantastic (one was, as it turns out, mostly an industrial estate), but I managed to get a meal in each one, and at least I could say I had done it.
I’ve always liked this colour scheme…
This year, with a freedom pass in my possession, I had more liberty to travel around London. I had one more place in my borough (well, the neighbouring one, but close enough) that I could find a way to. I wanted to go back to W1 and walk around seeing what’s changed since I last worked there. One thing I particularly wanted to do was to visit every station on the DLR network, taking a picture of every roundel to prove that I’d done it.
It’s not even like the opportunity wasn’t there. For the first two weeks of August I had basically nothing to do. I was just kicking around doing very little and, had I thought about it even once, I could have done at least one of these things. Fair enough, I did spend a week in Amsterdam recently – which was something I had planned to do – but it’s not really the same.
The whole idea behind my mini-sojourns is their random nature. I will have a vague idea about where I’m going and a route to get there, and then I’ll just go. Last year I timed every one to coincide with lunch, so I could go to whichever café I saw first and engender the feeling of “having spent some time elsewhere”. I did, however, have nothing else by way of a plan.
Now that I have one week of August left it’s beginning to dawn on me that this won’t be happening. I can go to the place I mentioned by a relatively convoluted route, provided all the services are running, but doing the whole DLR is out of the question. With the resources and energy I have at my disposal I’ll be lucky to manage the Waterloo and City line.
I also have very little money right now, due to nasty surprises that happened in Amsterdam, so maybe spending time on Oxford Street isn’t the best of ideas, especially seeing how there’s a branch of Waterstone’sand an HMV. The place I used to work at is now a McDonald’s, even, so it’s not like the nostalgia factor is there at all. The more I think about it, the more reasons there are to not do any of this stuff. It might be more rewarding to stay on the sofa playing The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past.
Not to mention the fact that doing anything of the sort requires getting up before midday. I’ve had problems doing that recently.*
Something in me says that the fact I care enough to write about this is an indication of something. It’s not entirely an unforgivable sin to be a little sedentary when one has a degenerative neuromuscular condition and had a heart attack less than two months ago. But I still want to be, at least for a short while, outside – I never really wanted to be in London as a youth; now I can appreciate it, as an adult, I’m finding it difficult to even take my first step.
Think about it: when, in your life, did you first know that someone in your peer group had had sex? Did they brag about it?
There’s usually at least one, although from what I hear it varies according to where you grew up and who your peer group actually was. Most people I’ve talked to seem to concur on a few basic facts, though: it happens during your teens; it may or may not be before the age of consent; it may or may not have been a “good” experience.
In two of the people I’ve talked to, they were that person.
Shocked though my classmates had been to find out that I’d had sex at 17, I was far from being that person – two of the boys in my little group had already done so at 16 and neither of them had enjoyed it – but I was certainly one of the first. To my relief, I didn’t get too many questions (beyond “what does cunnilingus taste like?”. I’ve never been able to answer that one.), but then again
It’s gross to think about your friends doing it. Difficult to visualise. At least with porn it’s actors having sex. It’s less appealing when it’s a mate.
my friend-who-is-a-nurse
not that I had much choice to begin with.
The word “juicy” still makes me cringe
Outside of people at school and in Woodcraft, there was another group of friends I’d talk to. I rarely, if ever, met too many of them, but they lived locally and were readily accessible via ICQ. My first experience with someone having sex was one of them.
To this day I’m not sure if he had full-on PIV, but his girlfriend certainly existed (her face was triangular, according to our mutual friend), and to all intents and purposes all the other things they had been doing was nothing short of an open secret. He was certainly very explicit about what the other things were, and none of us had any reason to doubt him.
“I don’t know if he’s like this at school,” I confessed to our mutual friend, “but online he’s been sort of…” “Bragging?” “Yes. Bragging. About, well…” “Bragging. You don’t need to say anything more. He does that at school. Bragging. All the time. It’s quite gross, actually.”
It’s not nice to boast, although we’ve all done it at some point. Even if you say something like “I won a University of Cambridge competition that I don’t remember entering by writing a paragraph I didn’t save” in the most blasé, nonchalant voice you can muster, it’s still the most humble of brags. But we are advised not to do so from our youth. Arrogance, we are told, is rude.
For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.
Matthew 23:12
I’ve always found it difficult to express any self-confidence, because I don’t really have any, and I don’t want to appear brash or boorish or full of braggadocio. Living through Mister “I’ve-had-blowjobs”‘ almost constant crowing three years prior had given me a good example of what not to do when I started having regular sex.
This is the sort of thing you can brag about.
I slipped up, of course, but then who doesn’t? Lightsinthesky, who by that point was also having sex, would definitely push it a bit, but between us our sexual conversations were basic and genial – a “what’s your favourite position?” here and “have you tried this?” there, but not competitive in any particular way.
And this is how people should be talking about sex.
Lots of people have sex, or at least some sort of sexual expression. Even if you are asexual, you can still express your (a)sexuality by identifying as such. But there still appears to be a societal barrier; sex is, still, a taboo subject. People will mention it in hushed tones, do so through blushes, or go the other way and become an insufferable braggard. It really doesn’t have to be that way at all, and no other topic has such a black mark on it.
You can be as pleased as you like because you got the English Prize in years 11 and 13, but you’re not allowed to be because you’ve had sex.
There’s a problem there.
I’ve just spent a week in a country which has a much better sex education system, where sex workers are visible in windows at all hours and there are three museums dedicated to the subject. Teen pregnancy there is below 1% and, although I wouldn’t say it’s OUT THERE AT ALL TIMES, sex there is more of a part of life. I’d find it difficult to envision someone from there being anything but cheery about sex worth celebrating.
And that’s my main point, I guess. Sex can very well be something worth celebrating. It’s time we started doing that, rather than using it as an excuse to act like an insidious blackguard.
I’ve got two tickets to Iron Maiden, baby Come with me Friday, don’t say maybe I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby, like you
“I don’t know the chords,” admitted Music Man, “but I’ll improvise. If I get the right key. Does anyone know the words?” His eyes roamed over Lightsinthesky (who was parked behind the drum kit), Leigh (who was clutching a borrowed guitar), and Einstein (who nominally played the trumpet, but had never brought it to school, except for jazz band). I didn’t have my violin with me, but I was there, hanging posters. “All right,” I said huffily, “I’ll sing it.”
Not taking GCSE music, very few of us should have been in the rehearsal room, but there was going to be nobody to stop us. Music Man was taking it, of course, and most of us were in jazz band. That would be our excuse, if we were ever asked. Nobody ever asked. It was a tiny rehearsal room, anyway; you could barely fit a band in there. Einstein was perched on a side table, due to the dearth of chairs.
“Her name is Noel. I have a dream about her…”
We may have all loved music, but Lightsinthesky had an ulterior motive: Leigh. Several years ago, when I was 13, I offhand said that if I was a teenager, I may need a girlfriend. Lightsinthesky made it his mission to find me one, and randomly selected Leigh (who I didn’t know), before deciding that he’d rather have her, and spent the rest of his school life trying to do just that. The fact that she was in such a close proximity to him in the rehearsal room was a genuine surprise. They even tried to start a band together at one point.
“What’s wrong with my life,” he said in an undertone as the bell rang, “is that Leigh isn’t shagging me senseless every lunchtime.” “She just played Teenage Dirtbag with you,” I pointed out gamely. “Well, us. I mean, I was singing lead, but you were there hitting things, so…” “But she’s so intensely shaggable and…”
I’d stopped listening by that point. Singing Teenage Dirtbag by virtue of the fact that I was the only one who knew all the words was an unexpected high point. I suddenly had a vision of the trailer for the upcoming series of my life, Year 11, in which I’d be turning sixteen and taking GCSEs. It would be of all the main characters rocking out in the rehearsal room, except I’d have a microphone this time, and I’d also be wearing my new glasses. I hadn’t ever worn glasses beforehand. This was a new thing for me.
It would be filmed from a bird’s-eye view in vibrant colour and I still regret never making it.
Two years later and we were back in the rehearsal room, accompanied once again by Leigh, plus the girl who had a crush on Music Man and Lightsinthesky, who had become a bassist, because apparently that’s how you get all the ladies. We had moved on from Wheatus by now, and Music Man was teaching us how to play RHCP. We did a fairly good Californication, as long as my guitar was turned down enough. Lightsinthesky got over his distate for pink and jeans as long as Leigh was wearing them.
I was having a much more interesting 17 than I had assumed my 16 would be. I’d be having my first kiss and, eventually, sex for the first time. I’d spend the first term of year 13 a lot more confident than my fractious year 12.
Somebody started playing Dammit by Blink-182 at one point, and everyone gradually joined in. I still didn’t have a mike, but I knew all the words.
“Well, I guess this is growing up,” I yelled over the racket, chancing a sideways look at Leigh, looking for all the world like she was living her best life…
Today is National Orgasm Day (thanks Clara) and it’s the final day of Disability Pride Month (thanks Hux), so this provides me with the ideal opportunity to write about this. Then I guess I’ll have an orgasm.
Since being diagnosed with DM back in June 2021, I’ve most definitely started “feeling” my disability. Even if I hadn’t been diagnosed – and I was by accident, I was in hospital for something completely different – I probably still would have done, but put it down to being old. (Says the 39-year-old with the word “boy” in his handle.) Whether I’m at work, or resting at home, or even out in town, I’m aware of my dyspraxia, my heavy breathing and my waddling gait. I drop things, I shoulder doors open rather than using my hands, I fumble when digging around in my pockets for my freedom pass, and I scream every morning when my shoulder wakes up a few minutes after I do.
I try my hardest not to complain, though; a lot of people have it worse than I do. My mother’s disability makes her shake uncontrollably and my friend’s killed him. Mine is annoying, and restricting, and more often than not painful, but it doesn’t stop me doing anything. It slows me down a bit, but it’s never quite stopped me. I can work, I can write, I can game, I can read, I can… actually, that’s all I do, really.
And I can orgasm.
Even with occasional forays into the fringes of the same, I haven’t had PIV sex for about a decade now but I will admit to being wary of doing so if the opportunity presents itself. Having put on weight may be one thing, but losing my muscle strength? How can I finger their nipples while licking them out if all my left hand can do is flop around like a fish? How do I roll around in bed without yelling in pain? If I penetrate them, how do I thrust, considering the fact that putting socks on is a challenge for me now?
Oh, and forget 69. That’s out too. There’s no way I’m that supple.
Even though the recent summer heat is a reminder that I won’t be railing anyone in a sundress, I can still orgasm. In fact, since the age of 18 my orgasms have never really changed. The method I use to induce them is almost exactly the same, down to the sameaudiovisual stimulus; the amount I produce (although it varies) is the same; the time it takes is the same. I could even point out to you the places my spaff hits if you ask.
In such extraordinary times, and through everything that’s happened both good and bad, orgasms have been one of my very few constants. They are available and healthy and recreational and free, and I’m very grateful for them. As long as my penis and my hand still work, give me a while and a place to sit (or lie, or stand if I’m feeling risky…) and I’m good.
Yes, it’s messy. Yes, it’s awkward. Yes, cleanup is difficult. But it’s good. My body is failing, but this bit of it works. Frankly, it’s the best bit to work.
I may feel the worst I ever have, but I can make myself feel the best. That’a a dichotomy I can very much live with.
