Innocent Loverboy

Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references


For the fourth time that day, I regretted not bringing a hat to Chessington. Although the continuous beat of the sun had proven quite effective in baking off the water I was covered in from Professor Burp’s Bubbleworks, it was still feeling quite oppressive as we stood patiently in the queue for Seastorm.

Lightsinthesky had left us a while ago, accusing us of living in “pencil-land” when we both refused to go on Rameses’ Revenge. Einstein and I were enjoying ourselves, however.

What neither of them knew was that I had had A Moment™ earlier that day. As usual, nobody had wanted to sit next to me on the bus, so I had a double seat to myself – most of the rowdy boys opposite me were more concerned with making V-signs at lorry drivers than haranguing me, so I had a quiet journey. As we pulled into Chessington, however, the radio blasted an Elton John track the instant the second bus came into view.

The first person I saw through the window was Zebra, the girl I had a crush on. Granted, she was the only one I’d been looking for, but the combination of the music’s swell and her long, dark hair (and beautiful toothy smile) had a profound effect on me. At that moment, all I felt was love, love, love, and the dark and difficult year I’d just had seemed to simply melt away.

As Einstein and I clambered onto Seastorm, she hovered into view again (and I mean that – her feet never seemed to touch the ground), accompanied by her short, cheeky friend and two tall, white girls with glasses. Eventually, I’d end up with a crush on all of them. But, at the time, I only had eyes for her.

“Look, there’s…” I started, but I never got to finish my sentence, as she faded into a blur when Seastorm started moving. I held on, let out a few whoops every now and again, and thought to myself, this is all right. Everything’s all right.

For the rest of the day, I kept an eye out for her, although the milieu of warm bodies throughout the park was too dense to make out her shape. I went on as many rides as I could, for sure, but I never did see her after Seastorm.

As it grew darker, the teachers corralled us and we were duly shepherded back onto our respective buses. I sat in the same seat, the multitudes prepared their V-sign fingers, and I trained my eyes on the window I’d seen Zebra sitting at that morning. As I’d hoped, she materialised in exactly the same place, smile fixed to her face, looking straight forwards.

She wouldn’t see me unless she turned to the right.

So I stared…


Ring ring
Is that you on the ‘phone?
You think you’re clever
But you’re never saying nothing at all

It was the middle of a lazy Saturday afternoon when the ‘phone began to ring. My parents were out, my sister was away, my gran was at a day centre, and my dog couldn’t use a ‘phone. Moreover, the landline was just outside my bedroom, so it was easy for me to get.

The problem being that I wasn’t really available to answer it. We had decided to take advantage of the empty house and spend an hour or so of having very energetic, very messy and very loud sex; not content with re-aligning her spine on a regular basis, we were now trying to murder my mattress. She was certainly making all the right sort of noises, and tight around my shaft…

I was going to come inside her. I was so close (and she was approaching something like her second or third orgasm), so I couldn’t just stop now, could I?

Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring.

“How long does it take you to answer the ‘phone?” squawked Lightsinthesky by way of a greeting. “We were wondering if you were going to come and sit in when we record the song?”

The song! I’d totally forgotten about it. I’d even written a verse myself and hovered in the music room making suggestions while Music Man strummed chords. I owed it to them – and my token black friend (whose song it was, nominally) – to turn up.

“I was… was… going to…”
Are you coming back to bed, love?” she said, loudly and breathily, grabbing my arm and hauling.
“Yes, yes,” I gabbled. “I’ll come…” (at which point she laughed) “…I’ve just got to finish something first. I’ll be there, I’ll be…”

She took the ‘receiver from my hand and hung up. We went back to bed, and half an hour later with my cock still tender and her full of cum, we turned up at Lightsinthesky’s house. None of those present had ever met her before, but one supposes meeting someone in their “just got railed” state isn’t an entirely unpleasant experience.


Later that day my mother deemed it prudent to ask the perfectly innocuous question of what we had been doing that afternoon.

“We went to Lightsinthesky’s house,” I said, perfectly truthfully, “and recorded the song we wrote for my token black friend. It was very good; she was still singing the chorus afterwards.”
“Did you say hello to Dane?”
“Dane. The builder, Dane.”

I knew Dane. He had helped to convert our attic into a third bedroom. But I’d no idea he had been present. Maybe he had come by while I was at Lightinthesky’s?

“I didn’t see him – when was he here?”
“He’s been here all afternoon, finishing the bathroom floor! You didn’t see him? What were you doing for most of the afternoon?”


He’d certainly done a good job on that bathroom floor. Six years later and I was still fucking on it.

TMI Tuesday: Lord knows, it’d be the first time

Swirly colours with text "First Time for Everything" superimposed
*Doctor Who Theme*

It’s the second week of 2022 (possibly – time has very little meaning any more) and the first time I’m doing this meme. Hmmm, that isn’t as snappy a sentence as I thought at… wait for it…

…at first.

When you’ve finished rolling in the aisles and being carried out helpless with mirth, would you mind reading the rest of this post? Cheers.

1. First app you check in the morning?

This is Twitter. I don’t have any other apps on my phone – I use Facebook, but rarely, and primarily on my computer, and I don’t have any other accounts – ie. I don’t use Instagram, Snapchat, TikTok et al. (edit the preceding sentence according to the year). I routinely check Twitter, since it genuinely is my only link to the outside world.

I’ve got WhatsApp too, which I guess is an app of a sort, but I’ll check Twitter first.

2. First kiss location?

In her bedroom, on her bed, just after asking her to be my girlfriend. I’d never been kissed before, and I had no idea how to do it. It was messy, deep and surprising – I didn’t even imagine that there would be so much tongue – but so, so good.

She kissed me again afterwards, which was also a surprise!

3. First major purchase over £1,000?

I don’t think I’ve ever bought something that cost over £1,000 (not even rent – the rent here is £950 per month and the deposit was paid by my grandparents)… and, even if I wanted to, I would never be able to afford that!

My biggest purchases have been video game consoles. My Switch set me back a couple of hundred.

4. First song choice in a karaoke song book?

For someone who can’t shut up once he’s started singing, I’ve got very little experience with karaoke. I know all the lyrics to the greatest hits of James, so I’d go for those (as long as it isn’t Sit Down), and I’d sing anything by Smash Mouth by virtue of them being my second-favourite band. But, generally, I’d sing anything.

The first and only time I’ve ever tried karaoke, I sang Gangnam Style. No, I can’t read Korean, but I knew the words phonetically… to a point, at least.

5. First internet screen name?

Benvolio. We were studying Romeo & Juliet (and I was reading Doctor Faustus, in which he also appears), and it seemed an appropriate enough sobriquet.

6. First break-up reason?

Oh, well done on opening up that wound.

This is still unresolved, and won’t ever be. I think the most simple reason is “dumped me for someone else”, but I’m fairly certain there were multiple other reasons for what happened. She was reading The Ethical Slut before breaking up with me, and I’m pretty sure that was a contributing factor.

The fact remains that I was being cheated on (and I knew it was happening and didn’t say anything on the assumption that it would end soon), and as a result, I find it incredibly difficult to trust my partners, especially if they have a celebrity crush.

It’s a silly thought, but it stems from how my first relationship ended. One word from anyone else and they’d be out the door.

7. First concert and how old were you?

Green Day 2002. I was 17.

I’ve been to a lot of concerts (I almost saw Staind before Green Day, but Music Man also promised the ticket to his then-girlfriend), and prior to this I saw a lot of classical music at the Barbican. I am assuming that you mean rock concerts, though, and therefore The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party at the age of 12 probably doesn’t count.

It took me long enough to get to a concert. I had tickets for blink-182 the previous year, but then 9/11 happened and all the flights got cancelled. Then Tom broke his back. I eventually saw blink-182 in 2004… I was going to go with my girlfriend, but – well, see above…

8. First crush?

My first crush was a very quiet girl who sat in the most inaccessible corner or every classroom. I had a crush on her for a very long time, actually, and until the end of school, I still sneaked a few looks at her. We eventually became friends.

At the time, I gave all my crushes code names. Hers was The Zebra Project.

Bonus: What was the title of your very first blog post?

It was “I really don’t understand some people.” The first sentence was:

It’s so unfair, sometimes. I try my damn hardest not to get so upset about everything and yet some things just whistle by. 

2001 ilb

Most of my earliest blog posts were angsty teen rants from a boy who desperately wanted a girlfriend – more intimate and love-fuelled posts than I had in my paper diaries, but still on a public space and intended to be read. My early blog posts weren’t good reads, but looking back on them, they do provide something of an insight into the teenage male mind, and maybe that proved useful…

…to a point?

#FiveThings: Journal

First post of 2022 and it’s a meme. ILB, you predictable bastard.

In any case, this is my attempt at taking part in the new Five Things meme, with thanks to Julie from MPB for coming up with the concept. The prompt is “journals, diaries and planners.” I can do that, I’m sure.

When I was in my teens, before I stated blogging, I kept a journal. I wrote it, diligently – almost religiously – every single day. Occasionally my entry would be a couple of sentences (on two occasions I wrote “too tired to write”, read: “too lazy to write”), but more often than not, I managed to fill the whole page. So here ae five things about my handwritten journaling days.

1) My journal was written purely to entertain.

From the instant I started writing, I knew that the intent was for my journal to be read. Once it got out that I had a journal, I knew people would want to read it, and I knew that I liked to write. My aim wasn’t to keep secrets, nor was it to mention anything too explicit. I wanted my writing to be read and I kept that in mind.

2) Once it was read, it became wildly popular.

Maybe “wildly popular” is a little hyperbolic, but for a while, it was one of the few things any of us brought to read on residential trips, holidays, etc. – and I certainly took a few of them. Since I didn’t mind my journal being read (and it was written for that purpose), I was quite pleased to let it be passed around the group and let everyone read my words. (This may come as a shock to you, but some writers are self-obsessed, wanting people to actually read their content. I know: amazing, isn’t it?)

3) Other journallers were confused by my attitude.

Our year 9 History teacher once asked if any of us wrote a journal; three hands went up. His question was about reading – did any of us let anyone else read their diary? Both girls who had also raised their hands confessed to letting each other read (they were best friends who, at this point, lived together), but that it was private. I said, truthfully, that my journal was an open book (quite literally, heh…) and that I would willingly read bits out if people wanted me to. Neither girl understood this, but they both ended up reading it.

4) I wrote my journal with an incredibly specific style and structure.

This is something I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone else ever do. Every journal entry had to have:

(i) A title – usually a pun, or a sentence, or a couple of key words… like a blog post does. This would range from “Xmas Day” (my very first entry) to things like “Venture On In!” (a Venturer day out) or “Droit du seigneur” (when we’d first done sex ed in school and I was amused by it). I did this accidentally at the beginning and liked it so much I carried on doing it for all three journals I managed to fill.

(ii) A quote of the day. This was something funny, clever or memorable that somebody had said throughout the day. My favourite was “I shall never make soap”, but that takes a bit of explanation to justify.

(iii) In later years, I’d add a statistic or fact (one that I knew; I was too lazy to look anything up) relevant to the day’s events. This went after the quote and was rarely a replacement for it…

(iv) …and/or a “moral learnt”, which was later still and only really appeared in “Journal III”, the final one. This was intended to provide a bit of humour – everything I write is meant to be humorous, really – but throughout the year it became more and more bitter and self-deprecating.

(v) Cross-posting appeal. My first diary was a little longer than my second, so I would write each entry twice: once in my first journal, and then again – word for word – in my second. Towards the end of my third, I started a LiveJournal, and when I didn’t have anything new to add for a journal entry, I would print out that day’s LJ entry and stick it on the page.

5) It wasn’t just a journal.

Because I’m… well… me, although my main intent was to write an entertaining, humorous, self-deprecating account of my life, my journal was used for more. Every now and again, snippets of fiction that I was working on, bits of a playscript (I finished the play, eventually, after photocopying journal pages), song lyrics I’d written, schematics for a droid I wanted, or emotional short-form poetry.

I started my journal when I was 14. At 16, I genuinely wasn’t sure who I was or what I wanted to be… but I was pretty certain that I could write anything I wanted. About anything. In any form.

So I did.

And I still do.

Five Things

2021 #orgasmcount (aka: “Zounds, More Of This Shit?”)

After a difficult, depressing 2020, 2021 was certainly different: a rough-and-tumble, tumultuous assemblage of a year, starting with sea shanty TikTok and ending with an absent Prime Minister. I, personally, have been through several highs and lows throughout the year and, now that it’s over, I’m not entirely sure how to feel about that.

The Year

I had quite a good Spring. After being jettisoned from my beloved job at the end of 2019, I had struggled to find anything else for a while, until just before my birthday, when I was given a lifeline until the Summer. I was very sad to have to leave that job, although the last few weeks of June were slightly tempered by the fact that I’d spent a week in hospital and been diagnosed with myotonic dystrophy (which was both a surprise and a relief).

Summer was a confusing mess, overshadowed largely by the fact that Willow died at the beginning (but I did enjoy a free August). I didn’t enjoy Autumn much – as the result of working at a new job where it was made clear that I didn’t fit in – but I had an okay Winter… at least until a couple of weeks before Christmas, where I had to battle off COVID-19 for two weeks, only for my nan to die a few days later. Christmas was a sad one, although it did go well enough, considering the circumstances (and I got everything I wanted – thanks, Jesus!)

I’ve spent the last few days trying to be calm. I’m not good at being calm, but I’ve been trying. For the past couple, I’ve been achieving it. This morning I even managed to get up early and make myself a hot chocolate – how’s that for progress?

The Orgasms

Right, back to what I was originally intending to post about. In 2020 I had 113 orgasms; this was down from 2019’s 134 (but 2019 was a better year!). This year I had long periods of not being able to touch myself – being in hospital and sick with COVID, plus some relatively severe periods of depression at points – so I wasn’t sure how many I would have had by now.

Fortunately, I kept a record….

131– the number of orgasms I’ve had this year (as denoted by a ★ in my WHSmith mid-year diary)

That’s markedly more than last year. I am genuinely surprised by this; I thought it’d be less.

35.89% – the number of orgasms in a year, compared to the number of days in a year, expressed as a percentage

More than a third. That’s an awful lot of time with my dick in my hand.

24/11 to 09/12 – a period of time in which I didn’t have any orgasms at all

This was the week (and surrounding days) when I had COVID. I was pretty much knocked out by COVID and, although I had feverish sex dreams during, I barely had the energy to move, never mind wank. I also didn’t do so when I was in hospital, but I’ll talk about that later…

28/06 and 05/11 – dates on which I had notably powerful, effective or satisfying orgasms (as denoted by !!! in my diary)

The first of these being the day after I got out of hospital. It was also, in fact, the first orgasm in my parents’ house (where I was staying) for years. Bonus fact for you there.

27/01, 03/03, 07/04, 01/06, 03/08, 13/12 and 16/12 – the one date on which I had more than one orgasm (as denoted by “x2”) in my diary

I’ve been a busy little bee this year. Buzz, buzz, buzz.

03/04 – a day where I wrote the single word “jump!” after the ★. I remember this one: I was angled in such a way that my jizz did a Dick Fosbury move in the air before coming down to land. Holy jumping semen, Batman!

The Audacity

This marks post number 65 in 2021, compared to 79 in 2020, so I certainly didn’t manage to make 2020 Escape Velocity this year. Maybe next year… we’ll see. As long as I don’t get laid up with a mysterious illness at any point, I’m sure I’ll be okay.

I have an interesting year planned for 2022 – although with caution, as I’m pretty sure nobody knows how ’22 is going to go. Nevertheless, I can pretty much guarantee it will be interesting. Let’s hope it’s actually interesting in a more entertaining way than the last two years have been.

Join ILB in 2022 for more sex, porn and wanking chat. See you there.


Seventeen years ago, on this day – the twenty-eighth of December, 2004, something happened.

2004 hadn’t started well for me (apart from this, but those four days don’t count), and it was only by the summer that I had really managed to restart my life… or what could really be counted as a “life”. That summer, I spent seventeen days in that which I will term Good Company. By autumn, I was fairly confident, insofar as who I was.

And I had a crush.

Seventeen days into December, the list of those going to the DF event that spans the useless void between Christmas and New Year was released. I was on it, of course, I was the first to book; a quick scan of the names revealed the fact that Leaf was on it too. I’d seen her in the summer, of course, and in the autumn… but this was winter: a chilly, but romantic, season – and we’d be out in the countryside somewhere. If we got together, we could hold hands and look at the stars without any London light pollution.

Don’t be silly, ILB, said my brain. You’re not going to get together with her. She is younger and prettier and popular and wittier. And besides, she’s seventeen.

I was twenty, but I didn’t want to push that.

On the twenty-seventh, I fell into a ditch on the way to the event. I was largely unhurt, but I’d ripped a hole in my new trousers. At the venue, my kind redheaded friend sewed it up. Leaf wasn’t watching, but I’d seen her there.

There were seventeen steps up to the attic room where the Secret Friend envelopes were. I wasn’t her Secret Friend, but since the scheme was meant to be done in secret, you could hypothetically put anything anywhere. I deposited some things I’d bought for her in York in her envelope, in addition to a couple of handmade things, including a felt heart on which I’d painted “She’s A Star” in yellow. I stopped short of putting an “I fancy you”-type message in (I was never that bold). I also had to leave some space for her real Secret Friend.

I’m not sure that what I was doing those days was trying. Lots of kisses and flirting and coupling up and sex happened at DF events, but I never got to do any of those things (going some way to explain my opinion that I’m not very attractive). On the twenty-seventh, I held Leaf as I guided her up a slippery path. That evening I told her, “I like you”, which could have meant anything. I danced until two and got no sleep that night.

Seventeen years ago, on the twenty-eighth, I was in the bedroom I shared with a few others, chatting casually away until Leaf came in, slightly tipsy and high on the general euphoria. She’d also just kissed three people and was hungry for more.

“Who wants to be the fourth?” she called, lying supine on the closest bed.

Don’t do it
Don’t do it
Don’t do it
Don’t do it
Don’t do it
Don’t do it

My heart thumping seventeen times a second in my chest, I walked over, bent down and pressed my lips to hers. She had the scent of woodsmoke and tasted like alcohol and pineapple. She slid her tongue into my mouth and we melted into a full-on snog – messy, inexpert, experimental. And maybe a little too long.

Seventeen seconds of bliss.

I gave her a quick peck as an ending, stood up and walked out, slightly dazed at what had just happened.

I’ve just kissed Leaf. I’ve kissed the one person I came here wanting to kiss and I’ve just managed to do it. I’ve been wanting to kiss her for months and never thought I would and I’ve just kissed her. Take me away now; I’m done.

For the rest of that evening, I was very giggly. I went back into the makeshift club night, but somebody was playing hardcore trance, so I went into the kitchen and danced to Build Me Up Buttercup on an old, clapped-out CD player with my closest friends.

I took seventeen pictures with my new digital camera over those few days. On the bus on the way back to civilisation, Leaf pulled a silly face for me to snap. Years came and went, as they do, and although I saw her on seventeen more occasions, neither one of us ever acknowledged that we had shared a drunken kiss on a bed in winter 2004.

I’m fairly certain that, as I was kiss number four, I was nothing more than a statistic to her. But, for me, that was a life-changing event.

Because it proved to me that, given the right circumstances, place, time, and mood, I was indeed – if not dateable, or even shaggable – at the very least kissable.

I didn’t kiss anyone for the next few years, and in the seventeen years since then, I have kissed six other people. Every time, I’ve enjoyed it.

I will be forever grateful to Leaf.

Feliz Navidead


My aim to write more posts in December didn’t happen, did it? I’ve been fairly active on Twitter, but (on account of the fact that I’ve been off work for a couple of weeks now) I was fully aware of the fact that I was in possession of the precious time I need to write blog posts, and wasn’t using it to do so.

So why not?

On Monday the 20th, one day before her eighty-ninth birthday, my Nanna died, suddenly and unexpectedly. CPR administered by my grandfather, mother, uncle and auntie – followed by a team of paramedics who arrived 50 minutes later – managed to recover a faint heartbeat, but she had stopped breathing. A few moments later, quietly, she died.

Grief is an odd thing, and it’s become apparent to me quite quickly that I don’t know how to do it. When I turned up at Nanna’s house that morning, I was the only one of my generation who wasn’t crying. Given the fact that I cry at the drop of a hat, and howled like a banshee when Willow died earlier this year, I spent the day abundantly aware of the fact that I wasn’t doing so. As the one religious person left in the family, I said prayers for her, and that was the closest I got.

I feel sad, and I feel the loss, but I don’t feel inconsolable, like my mother is, and for that reason, I also feel a little guilty – like I’m not sad enough. I don’t know how that works.

Additionally, as a result, I’ve been spending a lot more time with my family. This isn’t a new thing, as my family are all incredibly close. We make very little distinction between siblings and cousins, our houses are within the same mile or each other (and we have keys to all of them) and we spend every single milestone together – however minimal. Birthdays and Christmas, sure, but also anniversaries, graduations, Rogation Sunday, to celebrate my grandfather having his foreskin removed… really, any excuse.

But my generation, in particular, have been leaning heavily on each other this week. We’ve barely spent any time apart, and although it seems awful to say this, I’m enjoying myself. Our priority at the moment appears to be supporting my one remaining grandparent (he met Nanna when they were 15, bunking into a cinema – stay classy, South London – and hasn’t really been apart from her since), who now has to spend the rest of his life in the cavernous semi-detached house full of her stuff… alone. We are trying (and, for the most part, managing) to keep him busy over Christmas.

January will be spent organising a funeral. Amongst other things. I’m meant to be planning a wedding, and I don’t even have the emotional energy to do that.

I haven’t been blogging because I’ve been busy, sure, but also because I have very little to say. I wasn’t even sure if I should mention Nanna’s death on here, but then factored in the fact that I should, because it’s an important event in my life and the public needs to know.

I don’t know what the next step is, and I don’t know how I’m going to deal with it, and how I’m going to display the grief (or even if it will feel like I’m doing so enough), but at this moment I’m just going to let it happen.

Because I really can’t do anything else.


For the past couple of weeks, and (more specifically) when I’m taking quiet moments to try to fight off the remnants of COVID-19 by virtue of such remedies as “sleep”, I’ve had one specific sex scene in my head.

Ondrea reclines on a table while having sex with Alvin.
Genuinely didn’t take me long to find this.

It’s one of my favourites, for sure, although for some reason I’ve never really mentioned it on my blog… I probably will at some point. It’s hot, anyway, it’s quick to start, it’s quite long, and it’s got Amber Newman in it. But this post isn’t about that. Unless you want to wank, in which case I would recommend. I mean, I had my first wank in weeks to this scene and I came so hard that I managed to hit my shoulder.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Well, I’ve talked before about how my daytime dreams tend to be more sexual than my night-time ones, for sure, but I’m not sure what I was doing during COVID-19 recovery could really be counted as “dreaming”. Most of the time, I wasn’t even asleep. Just… lying there. In all the pain and the discomfort and with the hideous scent I still have somewhere in my nose. COVID is boring, and at the end of the day, all I was doing was staying still, thinking about how I had COVID.

If I did fall asleep, it would be a fitful slumber. More than likely, I’d cough myself awake at some point, or suddenly need to vomit or drink or something, and I wouldn’t get the rest I needed…

…but just once…

I was surrounded by darkness. To say that I was in a dark room or a dark hallway wouldn’t be an accurate description of where I was – nor was I floating somewhere in the dark. I just had no other surroundings. There was one focal point of my dream and everything else did not exist. I could only see one thing, and that was my point.

Dreamy ILB was staring – not looking, staring – at a screen which was (somehow, I’m not sure how) in front of him. On the screen was a video (maybe a stream?) of another screen, close enough to the camera to see that this was, in turn, showing a third screen… and on this screen, clear as day, was a high-resolution, DVD-quality capture of that one very scene, both Amber Newman and Brian Heidik doing their thing. It’s all that I remember – the music, the disrobing, the sex.

Dreamy ILB got that swoopy feeling in his stomach that Normal ILB gets when he’s about to watch something that’ll make him come. Normal ILB, at that point, of course woke up – tearing him away from the scene he loves, throwing him back into his dark, empty bedroom and underneath the tangle of sheets he’d been using as a duvet replacement.

I lay there panting for a few moments. Time check – four in the afternoon. Okay, sure. Body check – still full of COVID. Do I need a drink? No. Toilet? No. Food? No – I keep bringing up whatever I eat. So why do I feel different?

And then I realise that I’m hard. Wait, no, not just hard – very hard. In fact, I think I’m more aroused than I’ve been all year. I’ve managed to turn myself on by having a dream about a stereoscopic view of a scene I’ve been watching regularly since the age of 18.

So what do I do now? I certainly can’t pleasure myself. I barely have the energy to breathe. Moving my hand would be completely beyond my capabilities.

With a Herculean effort, I roll over onto my side…

…I throw my stronger hand over my chest and drag it, finger, by finger, down my stomach…

…and I wrap my fingers around my shaft, feeling how hard it is, feeling it pulse and throb…

…and I go back to sleep.

Top 100 Sex Blogs 2021

Why won’t this work? AAAAAAARGH!!! Oh, there we go.

Typing is difficult when you’re sick. I mean, yes, everything is difficult – to a point – when one is sick, but I’ve been finding using my computer particularly hard, which is why I’ve been completely off work since Wednesday last week and written one single blog post in that time. Even in this paragraph, I’m doing the same thing: making an excuse for not blogging, justifying this through having COVID.

I mean, yeah, I have COVID, I’m excused.

This afternoon Molly put her list up, though, so I may as well share that here.

1 Mx Nillin @MxNillinLore
2 Smutathon @smutforacause
3 On Queer Street @OnQueerStreet
4 Coffee and Kink @coffeeandkink
5 Girly Juice @girly_juice
6 Focused and Filthy @FocusedFilthy
7 A to sub Bee @sub_bee
8 Cara Sutra @thecarasutra
9 Love, Emma @EmmaAus27418832
10 Violet Fawkes @fireandhoney
11 Obsession Rouge @ObsessionRouge
12 Kelvin Sparks @kelvinsparks_
13 Poly.Land @polydotland
14 The Beautiful Kind @TBK365
15 Naked Wanderings @nakedwanderings
16 Arousibility @Arousibility
17 Miss Ruby’s Reviews @MissRubyReviews
18 Rewriting the rules @megjohnbarker
19 KnkStriped @ZebraRoseSub
20 Exposing 40 @exposing40
21 Master’s Pleasing Bitch @MPBjulie
22 Tess tesst @jay_tesst
23 Temperature’s Rising
24 Joanne’s Reviews @joannesreviews
25 Princess Previews @PrincessPreview
26 Betty Butch @betty_butch
27 Love is a Fetish @loveisafetish
28 E. L. Byrne Writer @ELByrne1
29 Off the Cuffs @ocpkink
30 Innocent Loverboy @innocentlb
31 Happy Come Lucky @ht_honey
32 The Smut Report @smutreport
33 A Faded Romantic’s Notebook @romdominant
34 Denying Thumper @thumperMN
35 My Dissolute Life @nLikes
36 Ready for Polyamory @lauracb88
37 Nikki Nelson @NikkiNWrites
38 The Gentle Domme @TheGentleDomme
39 Kinky World @mistress_kay
40 O Miss Pearl @OMissPearl
41 Tall, Dark and Dominant @darkanddominant
42 Vanilla Free Sex @vanillafreesex
43 On her back @on_her_back
44 A Leap of Faith @thebarefootsub
45 Lillith Avir @Lillith_A
46 Maria Opens Up @MSM1647
47 Wind Whisperer @_WindWhisperer_
48 Still Searching For Prince Charming @SS4PC
49 Down the Bunny Rabbit Hole @luvbunnysl82
50 Witch of the Wands @WitchofTheWands
51 Holden and @h_and_c_dot_com/
52 Submissive Feminist @SubFeminist
53 Rain De Grey @raindegrey
54 Asrai Devin @asrai
55 Modesty Ablaze @ablazingmodesty
56 Life of Violet @v_greyauthor
57 Victoria Blisse @victoriablisse
58 Love Letters to a Unicorn @AuntieVice
59 [This space left blank for display purposes]
60 Sexilicious Ash @sexiliciousash
61 Queer Earthling @threatganglia00
62 August McLaughlin @augstmclaughlin
63 Corrupting Mrs Jones
64 Meghan Madness
65 Adventures in Sexland @sexlandalice
66 Spices of Lust @spicesoflust
67 Cassandra
68 Hannah McKnight @HannahTGirlMN
69 Life in Grey Places @hope4greyplaces
70 Loving My Disciplined Life
71 The Joy as it Flies @BeStillMyBeaten
72 No Pants Endurance @nopantsenduran2
73 Tabula Erotica
74 Hoplessly Hopeless
75 Miss D
76 Nijntje & The Bear
77 Ouizzi @ouizzi
78 The Lustful Empress
79 The Poet Kiss
80 Finding Strength in my Submission
81 Lascivious Lucy Ashwood @LasciviousLucy
82 Kinky katie @KinkyKatie9
83 The Drew Duality @dualdrew
84 Bambi Biohazard @BambiBiohazard
85 Mr E and Lilly
86 I have loved you long time @The_Other_me_9
87 Megan Ward @megwardwrites
88 Mistress Lisa’s Femdom Diary
89 Breaking Away From Monogamy @K_Ghislaine
90 Jen Dragon
91 Citrus and Sex @citrusandsex
92 Sex, Life and Everything @sexlifeandevery
93 GemStrong63
94 Raspberry Ripples
95 Struggling Peter Pan
96 F dot Leonora @fdotleonora
97 Ruan Willows Erotica @RaunchyIs
98 Eros Blog @ErosBlogBacchus
99 Oh Larney!

30 is a surprise, insofar as it’s a higher position than last year and I have categorically been a worse blogger in the last twelve months. There were less people nominated this year, though, so I suppose that may have helped a little. I’m genuinely grateful for anyone who voted for me.

I would say more but I’m genuinely out of energy.



We’ve heard a lot about COVID-19. Even if you have spent the last two years living in a cave on Mars with your fingers in your ears, you almost definitely have been bombarded with news about it. There’s a lot of panic and misinformation around it, but if you can filter out all the waffle, there are some very important messages hidden there.

What nobody tells you is how boring COVID-19 is.

Since testing positive two days ago, my entire life has ground to a halt. I’m being careful – self-isolating and all that – but, even so, it feels like I’m doing much less than I would be doing were I at home for any other reason – say, a weekend. It’s Saturday now, and it took me a while to work that one out.

I’m usually really grateful for the chance to spend a little more time in bed, but it’s less pleasant when lying in bed is accompanied by a pounding headache and far too much heat for November. In order to protect my beloved, I have been lying on the sofa at night while they take the bed – notice how I didn’t say “sleeping”. Sleeping on our sofa is physically impossible.

The nights are unconscionably DULL. Lying there, lacking the energy to move or do anything fun, just waiting for the morning to come. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Why aren’t I sleeping? I’m not well, so why can’t I just sleep through it like I do with every other illness?

And yet when the morning comes there is still nothing to do. I’m not a particularly active person usually, but the fact that I could do something – go to town, shop in London, get some food somewhere (even if I didn’t do any of those) – was always an option. Staying at home was just something I chose to do. Now I have to.

It’s so boring.

I don’t know why. I have plenty of things here at home – Nintendo Switch, Disney+, a huge pile of books. But now I’m stuck here, feeling grotski, I don’t really want to do any of them. Lying awake last night I made plans for what I’d do today, but since they mostly amounted to “make a sandwich”, they seemed more exciting then than they do now.

Am I complaining? Probably. I feel awful, but I’m fortunate enough that my reaction to getting COVID-19 isn’t any worse. I’ve had to cancel a few things – a gig I was going to; a hospital appointment on Monday – but, at the very least, I have a bed and a sofa and a computer all available.

And yet, on any of them, every second is an age.


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