Innocent Loverboy

Soft Porn Sunday: Nikki Fairchild & Brad Bartram

June 28, 2026 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

You’re the sort of person Honesty Bartram would sell a goblin caller to.
Stiletta

It’s not uncommon for me to pick a scene for this here meme simply because of the people in it. The male character here, for example, is played by Brad Bartram – who won’t be uncommon to fellow softcore viewers from the 4,402,930 other films he’s been in.

I’m not over-familiar. however, with Nikki Fairchild. A quick squiz at her IMDb profile doesn’t reveal too much I didn’t know, however – mostly a hardcore porn actress, her contributions to my kind of smut are less numerous. There’s this, and one episode of Co-Ed Confidential, and that’s… kind of… it.

However, I love this scene, and Brad Bartram, and I adore Nikki Fairchild for reasons that will become apparent from the minute you see her, so forgive me for featuring

Appearance: Sex Court: The Movie (2001)
Characters: Zoe & Dave

and I promise I won’t do so again.*

(*Probably a lie. You know I will.)

For those of you who don’t know Playboy‘s Sex Court, you are probably reading the wrong blog. It was primarily a vehicle for Julie Strain as the sexy, mysterious “Judge Julie” (groan), who would preside over minor sexual misdemeanours and deliver a judgement – nothing too heinous, this is Playboy, after all: filming a sex tape that needed to be destroyed, that sort of thing.

Nikki Fairchild as Zoe and Brad Bartram as Dave in Playboy's "Sex Court: The Movie" (2001) — Zoe seduces while Dave stares into the abyss.

The inevitable movie is ridiculous, but then again, I like ridiculous. The set-up of having three cases at the same time is grossly unconstitutional; the fact that they are all happening at Judge Julie’s ~~house~~ huge Gothic mansion is very suspect; I haven’t even begun to touch on the fact that everyone – and I mean everyone: Julie’s bailiff, her stenographer, her security guard, her poolboy and a pack of vicious dogs – appears to live in the house.

Also, none of them appears to own many clothes.

It’s the ultimate polycule

Into this milieu, throw in a few extra characters: Chip, an original creation who suffers constant Wile E. Coyote-like misfortunes, and three couples presenting their cases: a magician and his assistant (who have sex under hypnosis but are secretly in love), a lesbian cop whose girlfriend fakes multiple personality disorder to have sex with men (but they are secretly in love), and Dave.

Dave’s problem is that he is too attractive. That’s a problem now. His increasingly hysterical wife agreed to a pre-nup stipulating that he could have sex with anyone during their marriage under her assumption that it wouldn’t happen due to his lack of attractiveness. Following facial reconstruction surgery, he turned into Brad Bartram and will suddenly stick his dick into anything that moves. The fact that he runs a swimwear shop in a hot place probably contributes to that.

I say “probably”. You literally see it happening.

Let’s all go bikini shopping

Nikki Fairchild’s character is Zoe, and like all insanely attractive young ladies, she asks the ultimate question: has seeing all these lovely women trying on bikinis desensitised Dave? Surely, after all that, he doesn’t even get turned on by them any more? In fact, she’s placed a bet with her friend that this isn’t the case, and poor Dave, you wouldn’t want sweet, innocent Zoe to lose her bet, would you?

Oh, she wants to fuck. That’ll work.

Dave assumed Zoe that he won’t make her lose her bet, or at the very least he dives headfirst into her boobs, which I guess is his answer. Bikini top comes off and there is some light teasing – brief, but it’s there. Zoe, of course, is taking the lead in all this, initiating everything while Sex God Dave just sits there looking confused at the thing which he’s in trouble with his wife for doing too much.

Excellent work in selling the character there. Great stuff, guys.

Throughout all this, you get an interesting soundtrack of fairly appropriate bouncy music punctuated by things Dave is saying. Not anything particular – he’s just saying stuff. “Whoo!”, “Ahhh,” “Aw, Jeez!” and similar ejaculations. After a minute of this he shuts up a bit in order to give her oral sex. Zoe, picking up the script, throws out a “right there!” at one point, so I guess this is kind of working.

Consent is important

It’s always good to state clearly and plainly what you want to get out of the sex you’re having, and Sex Court gives us a textbook example of this when Zoe says

I want you from behind.

and Dave replies

Oh, good.

and they proceed to take action on that, by which I mean a suddenly-naked Dave sets her up on the side of the sofa, takes her from behind with a classic “Oh, boy!” like an excited kid from a ’50s US sitcom (three times), and starts thrusting away. Which is completely understandable – I mean, I’d do that if I was having sex with Nikki Fairchild. Possibly with less dialogue.

There’s more of this, and then a mix shot accompanied by the sort of noise I make when standing up from a low seat (again from Dave) heralds the start of the ubiquitous riding sequence.

This is, incidentally, usually the part where I come. It’s usually all situational, and one could say that my orgasm is all to do with the escalation of the situation – absent wife, teasing subterfuge, willing consent and hot sex – but let’s be real, naked Nikki Fairchild is on the screen and she’s riding someone. I may be Innocent™, but it doesn’t take a genius.

Anyway, this is really hot

Zoe’s repeated guttural moans (her vocal contribution to the soundtrack) are translated by Dave as

I like that very much

and yes, he genuinely says that, word for word, which one supposes is Zoe’s cue to continue doing what she’s doing, which she does – with a fair amount of gusto and some enjoyable facial expressions. Some more of this and we get a mix to a little more riding, with her on his lap his time, although facing the camera so we get to see her boobs for a while longer…

…it’s the little things in life…

…and there’s a fair amount of bump’n’grind here, followed by a rather obvious orgasm indicator (Dave helpfully saying “I’m gonna cum!” before he does, accompanied by Zoe doing some sort of gymnastics) and a few more thrusts throughout the come-down. At one point Dave says

Greatest sex of my life!

which probably isn’t true, but if it is, he should maybe leave his wife. I mean, this marriage quite possibly isn’t working. If only there were some sort of sex court, with some legal procedure they could go through to work all this out.

You had sex with this girl!

This is genuinely one of my favourite sex scenes, despite how lame the set-up is and how dopey Dave looks. If you can get past that – and the stereotyped characters, the uninspired music, the squeaky sofa and Dave’s CONSTANT NARRATION like he’s auditioning to replace Iain Stirling on Love Island – then there’s actually something really sexy here.

Part of me wonders if it’s just the stunningly beautiful Nikki Fairchild and her enthusiastic, no-holds-barred performance here as Zoe (and drink it in, viewers; she isn’t part of the main plot, so we won’t be seeing her again!). But, as I’ve said, a lot of the excitement for me is situational and I actually kind of like how bizarre this set-up is. It’s one of the weakest excuses for sex I’ve ever seen in softcore and yet it still manages to get me off, after literally years of having watched Sex Court: The Movie.

And for that, I applaud it. At least I would, if you could hear my applause, but you can’t because Dave just WON’T SHUT UP!!!

Moment o’ Memento

June 22, 2026 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

Sitting in my Uber, with the heat beating down on the main road and no sign of ameliorating, my driver had all four windows open. At forty miles per hour this created a pleasant, if artificial, refreshing breeze which whipped and twirled around my head. Hair flying back and forth. Eyes closed. Mouth open (slightly). And thoughts, twirly whirly swirly thoughts, to match.

Because sometimes all it takes is a moment.

Back in Nottingham, my days were punctuated more often than not by Rodge and Shell having sex. They were a couple, or at least they were for a while. They continued to have a lot of sex even after they’d broken up. What with my friend Blaine the human sloth being loved-up with his girlfriend, and our French housemate having an apparently real (but possibly invisible) boyfriend, I remained – despite hot drunk girls walking randomly into my bedroom and holding urban parties just around the corner – the only single one in the house.

A memory danced into my head along with the windspren in the Uber. Rodge, who usually ate about six or seven slices of cheese on toast after his morning shags, had someone who was pretty, loud, fairly uninhibited and clearly highly sexual, judging by the noises they made (whether or not she was a girlfriend or just a regular lay). Blaine, despite sleeping 16 to 20 hours a day like a male lion, clearly had something going on with Sarah. The French girl was French.

I had no such arrangement back then, and I do not now.

In my 20s I lived with my parents and had girlfriends who I did not live with. I spent a lot of time with them – specifically with my second girlfriend, who lived in Oxford and that’s less than an hour away by train – but our visits were more an attempt at moving towards cohabitation than regular drop-in shags (no matter how much sex we actually had). I may have had a couple of run-ins with others – like Alicia, or Lilly, or even snowdrop – but that was always me visiting them.

Someone pretty visiting me for sex was an idea that beguiled me back then. The desire I had for it, from a fleeting memory on flying winds, buffeted its way back into my brain. Twenty years on and here I was still thinking about it. Living independently in a London flat with a wife who doesn’t have sex and a job to which I actually go (not to mention a disability which may make it difficult to actually have sex).

The idea of someone coming over for a little morning delight still manages to entrance.

Why? I asked the wind. Why, when I am married, busy, lazy, disabled and less than conventionally attractive, does the back of my mind even entertain the possibility? Soft porn and erotica have the trope. But they’re fiction, of course. I read blogs which have some of the same stories… but they don’t happen to me. They never have, the wind told me. And they never will.

I’ve never had my incel moment and I don’t intend to start. I don’t consider myself to be owed anything. I certainly don’t expect to have more or a right to sex than is to be reasonably expected. Hell, I don’t expect it any more. I don’t mind not having sex, I really don’t…

…but the back of my brain lets the wind tell me differently…

…because sometimes all it takes is a moment.

I’ve definitely been to Oovoo Javer

June 16, 2026 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

To get to, and from, work every morning and mid-afternoon, I get money from the Access to Work scheme which just about pays for an Uber. It’s both a useful and entertaining experience, even if most of my communication with Uber drivers appears to be focused on “yes, you can go into the staff car park; no, I’m genuinely staff”.

The majority of Uber drivers in my area are, by and large, very nice people, which is good, because on outward appearance they all appear to be gruff older men who could easily turn racist at the drop of a hat. Those listening to LBC on their radio are the ones that I have to watch out for.

In any case, friendly as my drivers are, I’ve never hopefully been on the look-out for the fabled “hottest Uber driver you’ve ever had”. My sexual orientation dictates that it should be someone at the very least a little bit femme, and since I have had around three female Uber drivers in the five or so years I’ve been doing this job. My favourite female Uber driver – a friendly, chatty woman in a hijab who uses a fresh vanilla car scenter – is lovely, but not exactly what I’d call hot.

Of course, it’s all subjective anyway. What’s hot to one person may not be so for another person.

And then this happened.

The last time I took an Uber there was a fair amount of commotion on the roads. I had to wait eleven minutes for the app to find me a driver and then another eleven for her to turn up – which is increasingly a thing that happens, but it does mean I get to chat informally with our new receptionist, who I like. Eventually, after explaining patiently that yes, the gates do open, you just have to wait a bit, my Uber pulled up. I said my goodbyes, signed out, stepped into the sun, and…

“Hi!” said a stunningly pretty, young Polish lady who materialised out of thin air. “Do you need some help? I’m going to help you, okay?”
Without waiting for an answer, she floated over to the back door without her feet touching the ground and opened it as gracefully as one could be graceful when opening a car door.

I wasn’t breathing as I got in. I didn’t feel like I was worthy.

The journey passed in a haze of sunshine and “new car” scent, aided and abetted by long, shiny blonde hair, a perfect nose, radiant eyes, a lovely smile and a very good choice of nail varnish. Her chat was bright and breezy, and even the way she drove was smooth – I’ve gotten whiplash from the sleeping policemen before. In this case, they may as well not have been there. Jumped out of the way, perhaps, like in the Knight Bus.

I almost fell asleep en route back (I do that a lot), but I jerked back awake when she pulled up outside my flat all too soon.

I was grateful for her opening the door for me, specifically since I could have sworn she teleported there from her driver’s seat. She hadn’t been there a second ago.
“Do you need some more help?” she beamed. “If you want, I’ll let you hold my hand…”

Oh, in the name of Aslan, yes, I want to hold your hand. I mean, I might explode into a cloud of silver glitter or something, but what a way that would be to go. They’d be talking about that for weeks.

“No, that’s very kind of you,” I wheezed as I hoiked my body out of the door and stood up while every single joint in me realigned with a sickening crack, “but I’m fine, I’m fine, thanks. See? I’m standing. I’m okay.”
“You’re sure you don’t need any more help?” Full beam smile. At this point I notice that she’s wearing a crop top. You can see her navel, which is pierced. A spotlight falls on her from above and heavenly choirs sing in rich chorus.

Yes, I do. I need help to more out of your radiant brilliance. I could bathe in this absolute perfection. Yes, I’m aware I’m married. This is different. This is pure, aesthetic beauty.

Of course, I didn’t say any of that. I may have bowed a little in thanks. She did a little stretch before swanning her way back to the driver’s seat, giving me one final view of every curve and contour of her body. How I got back into my flat without entering a state of nervous collapse, I’ve no idea.

The Uber app asked me to rate the driver.

There aren’t enough stars in the world to give this luminescent goddess of delight.

Soft Porn Sunday: Mia Zottoli & Eddie Jay

June 7, 2026 / Innocent Loverboy / 3 Comments

[Walks into the room and up to the front; turns his radio mike on. Nervous smile. Clears his throat. Stretches arms wide in a welcoming gesture and…]

Good evening, good evening, good evening, good evening, good evening, and welcome to Erotic Independent Film Club – EIFC. I’m Innocent Loverboy. You join us here in the fantastic [name of cinema, theatre, back room of pub, community hall or wherever] here in Soho. We are, once again, here to share in our love of erotic cinema, and I’m here to talk too much about it.

[Pause for audience laughter.]

Our presentation tonight is… oh, boy. Yeah, this took me a huge effort to find, and I’ve been trying to do so since I started EIFC back in [year]. Why, you may ask, did this take me so long, when DVD and Blu-ray are both so prevalent? Well, for some reason – and I don’t know the reason; it’s genuinely a mystery – the studio didn’t release an uncut version on DVD. The only version with intact sex scenes was the limited-edition VHS, which came in a cardboard case…

[Holds up the case.]

…and VHS doesn’t really lend itself too well to HD. Nevertheless, this is what we’ll be watching. I could, of course, be showing you the cut version, but this is Erotic Independent Film Club, and a few seconds of nudity I don’t really think counts. We don’t even get the sex scene music, and that’s unforgivable!

[Pause for audience laughter.]

Those of you who have read my blog may have noticed that I’ve featured this film a couple of times, notably the lesbian cornucopia that happens partway through I’m sure you will enjoy… but there’s a lot more to this slice of skinema than that, and I’m both pleased and relieved to be able to share this with all of you!

[Genuine heart-warming smile.]

This is EIFC, I’m Innocent Loverboy, and I am proud to present – at long last – the full, unedited, as-God-intended version of…

Appearance: Dungeon of Desire (1999)
Characters: Princess Gwen & Prince Eric

Okay, I gypped you there. This isn’t EIFC and it isn’t a live event, nor do I have the VHS of Dungeon of Desire. But the rest is kind of there… I have been looking for it for a long time; I’ve seen the cut version a few times (in fact, I own it); the long version that I remember from Bravo on my Gran’s Cable TV may well be lost to the mysts o’tyme. But last week I managed to source the sex scenes. I even had to sign up to a website to get them.

So here’s what I’ve been fapping to.

The setup

Pity poor Princess Gwen, for her life is a humdrum one.

I mean, is the message, although Gwen (Mia Zottoli) does spend most of her time engaging in lesbian sex with her lady-in-waiting (Stella Porter), with the rest of it spent bathing, relaxing in large beds and eating good food. What a terrible life she must be leading.

Mia Zottoli and Eddie Jay in "Dungeon of Desire" (1999) — Princess Gwen and Prince Eric trying to hide behind her.

You see, Gwen is madly in love with a prince she barely knows, in true Disney fashion – Eric (the late Eddie Jay, credited here as Ed Johnson, which I’m assuming was probably his real name. He died in 2013.). In decidedly un-Disney fashion, her main aim in life is to shag him; this is hampered by Aura (Venessa Blair), the archetypal “wicked queen”, who is keeping them apart.

And why? Who knows? Let’s have them both escape, meet up in the garden and fuck!

Is an abridged version. There are some bits with time-travelling glamour models, a wizard, a few guards and a magical message in the sky written in Trebuchet MS (could be worse – at least it isn’t Comic Sans). But that’s not really relevant by the time Eric starts taking Gwen’s clothes off.

The pay-off

So let’s recap. Gwen and Eric are in the garden, having been led there by Trebuchet MS. It doesn’t take long before their clothes come off – Gwen’s top first, followed by Eric’s shirt. All by 00:15 – very efficient! It doesn’t take that long until they start having sex, either – there’s hardly even any foreplay, a mix taking us straight to the main event as early as 00:19!

Mia Zottoli and Eddie Jay in "Dungeon of Desire" (2000) — It’s not quite a mullet, but there was an attempt.

One does have to wonder what the reason for this is. The plot does suggest that their clandestine bonk IN THE MIDDLE OF A PUBLIC GARDEN IN BROAD DAYLIGHT needs to be quick and dirty, since they’re not really meant to be aware of each other at all… or it could just be the fact that this scene is a minute and a half long and they wanted to squeeze in as much of Mia Zottoli as possible, and I am completely on board with that.

For the first half of the scene Gwen is sort of semi-riding Eric while also caressing various bits of her own body, accompanied by an odd mix of instruments including a frenetic drum beat, a bass line which sounds like it’s from early-noughties indie rock, muted guitar thrumming and occasional synth melodies, assembled as something which is almost music but not quite.

I genuinely don’t mind this. Mia Zottoli is always excellent value and she’s not holding back here, merrily rocking back and forth and looking like she’s genuinely enjoying herself. I can’t really comment on the actor playing Eric because he’s dead, but to his posthumous credit, here he makes for a very believable naïve young prince.

The bait-and-switch

The second half, to which the score adds something which I think is meant to replace lyrics in the Nickelback single this is destined to become, is a little different – here we are presented with something curious which may evolve into missionary sex, although it never quite does. Gwen’s legs are apart and Eric is between them. but he doesn’t do anything except kiss, and in shots from behind, we can see his bum clearly far enough away to indicate there’s no penetration there.

Even for softcore, that’s a little weird, but it completely makes sense here because…

The twist

Mia Zottoli in "Dungeon of Desire" (2000) — Gwen and the bed from “The Virgins of Sherwood Forest” get to know each other.

…IT WAS ALL A DREAM!

Okay, maybe that’s a bit too dramatic. Yes, it is all in Gwen’s head and she is sadly fantasising about this as opposed to actually experiencing it; she is, however, merely remembering the last time she had sex with Eric (portrayed earlier in the film via basically the same scene!), which she desperately wants to repeat. She’s so blue that she turns down sex with her lady-in-waiting because she’s been dickmatised or something, I don’t know.

Anyway, although it happened like an hour ago or something, here it’s all in her head, but of course their story ends with a messy, dirty sex scene in front of a fireplace, so you haven’t got much longer to wait to see more of that.

And that’s what’s meant by the term “royally fucked”

This was an odd scene for me to choose, now I look back on it, because there are other, better sex scenes in Dungeon of Desire (ten! In a one-and-a-half-hour movie! We are spoilt!). This is, however, the one that sticks in my memory the most.

Thanks once again to my ability to spot the stupidest little details, like the way Gwen’s tiara constantly threatens to fall off her head but never quite does, the contrast between Gwen’s lighter and Eric’s darker skin tones, the effort they’ve put into the garden set…

…or, perhaps most cheekily, how they’ve managed to put this together and present it as a new sex scene, despite it being mostly reused footage!

But I just can’t hate on this. It’s been years – decades, even – since I first saw this. It’s not flawless, for sure, but it’s packed full of nudity, plenty of sex, some amusing attempts at humour and even a story that works, and that’s exactly what I want from my soft porn.

Dungeon of Desire, I love you ❤️

Soft Porn Sunday: Jennifer Leigh Hammon & James Horan

May 17, 2026 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

It’s not often done particularly well, but when it is, there’s a lot to be said for the erotic thriller genre. It certainly filled up Channel 5’s Friday evening slot, at the very least… and it kept a fair few studios afloat. I’d struggle to think of anyone who would watch one of these for the thriller elements, but when you think about the stars – ladies like Lisa Boyle, Shannon Whirry, Kim Dawson and Shannon Tweed – it’s difficult not to love the attempts to shoehorn in a plot.

Having said that, I haven’t seen Allyson Is Watching since the noughties, so let’s refresh my memory. Allyson (Hammon) goes to LA to take acting classes; okay, I remember that bit. I also sort of remember Horan’s character, arrogant drama teacher ~~John~~ Eric Constantine, and Caroline “every episode of Passion Cove” Ambrose as beautiful sex worker Bridget.

I fail, however, to remember much else, so evidently the voyeurism, masturbation, coercive control, rape, missing person and murder subplots either completely passed me by – or they have faded from memory. More likely, however, I probably just got an erection and then went to do something else. I did that a lot.

Appearance: Allyson Is Watching (1997)
Characters: Allyson Roper & ~~John~~ Eric Constantine

This scene takes place between innocent Allyson and the aforementioned Constantine, as opposed to her drippy boyfriend Peter or any of the other creepy men in this thing. It starts with James Horan doing his best low, gravelly Barry White impression to deliver lines like

I want you very much.
That’s all you need to know.
And I think…
I think…

Jennifer Leigh Hammon & James Horan in "Allyson Is Watching" (1997) — Hands together, eyes closed. Let us pray.

before they kiss. Because of course they kiss. It’s probably just Allyson going mad with desire after all this scintillating dialogue. To Constantine’s credit, and in a hat tip to the advocates of consent everywhere, he does break the kiss to check if this is okay. Allyson asserting that it is “very much okay” does two things: clearly state her feelings, and give the keyboard player a cue because they start the music at this point.

I’m in a band in which most musicians start playing on a “best guess” principle. This is pinpoint accuracy with a speed which is honestly a little scary.

Anyway, the keyboard player does a few things which sounds like they are practising their scales while they have a go at another kiss before Constantine disrobes at something approaching the speed of sound, Allyson starts kissing down his semi-hairy, semi-barren chest, and a drummer appears out of nowhere, so by the time Allyson is in her underwear, we are accompanied by something existing in the territory between late-night Ceefax music and the opening theme to any syndicated TV programme set on a beach.

Decisions were made.

There follows a montage of Allyson and Constantine just sort of touching each other. I mean, I like touch but – in all honesty – they look a little confused, like they’re not sure which bits to touch. There is, of course, a perfectly nice sofa on which to have sex, but it takes a minute and a half for anyone to sit on it (Constantine; Allyson then kind of semi-mounts him and then her bra comes off). Considering how quickly this escalated, it’s taking them a while, innit?

We then get a shot of Jennifer “Star Trek: Voyager” Hammon’s boobs, which are pleasantly normal-sized as opposed to the enhanced spheres of enlightenment we got on other female stars of the time. It’s only a brief shot, though, because Constantine does a sort of kamikaze dive into them – seriously, it’s completely reckless, he’ll bruise her sternum. He starts licking, anyway.

I’m not quite sure who did the interior design, but there’s a fridge in the corner of the room, which may be handy for getting the snacks afterwards.

Where was I? Oh yes. At 02:12 there’s an attempt at a soft porn blowjob, with the necessary application of too much hair and some very odd looks on Constantine’ face – I guess he’s meant to be enjoying it, but who can tell? Allyson takes this moment to do a series of really creepy grins. At 02:50 she finally gets around to taking her pants off, then he does, and then they start fuckin’.

The sex is just about what you think it’s going to be – it couldn’t be anything else. We get continuous mixes of Allyson riding Constantine, with a sort of “let’s do whatever” with the camera approach (close-ups, pans, roundabout shots, shots designed to enhance Jennifer Hammon’s bum, that sort of thing). It doesn’t really deviate from this formula; apart from Allyson getting faster and something that might be an orgasm…

…might be, it’s difficult to tell; it’s an ending, in any case…

…there isn’t really any variation. There wouldn’t be time to do so, anyway, with fifty-nine seconds of sex (that’s my new band name); I’m just finding it a bit of a stretch to believe either of them are reaching ecstasy through a minute of mediocre bouncing. Channel some of that urgency from the beginning of the scene and use that, maybe? It would work better!

What I haven’t mentioned is that the whole thing is overlaid by the (very) sporadic sex noises (which are very quiet in the audio mix), occasional giggling from Allyson (or Jennifer, possibly!), and someone going increasingly ham on the keyboard. It’s so insistent in the last twenty seconds that I’m wondering if the keyboardist got bored and started trying to fill space!

Allyson ends the whole thing with a laugh. Good to see you’re taking the whole thing in good humour, Allyson.

And that’s the scene.

As I said in the introduction, and I say this in the full knowledge that very few people will have read down this far, it has been decades since the first and only time I saw Allyson Is Watching, and this is the first time I’ve revisited it since. I was bored by this scene, and while that isn’t really the movie’s fault – the direction and camera work is fine, the music is hilarious, both Hammon and Horan are trying their best, and there’s even been some effort put into the décor! – it is, essentially, a had-to-be-there one.

What do I mean by that? Well, in some cases, there are sex scenes that happen as a necessity to advance the plot (and I’m all for that; there’s a limit to the number of times characters have sex simple because they can!), and this is one of them. I know it’s about Allyson and Constantine working out their sexual tension or whatever, but it’s very much by-the-numbers for a sex scene, the pacing is odd, I found my mind wandering…

…and this didn’t arouse me one iota!

Desperate Dan

May 9, 2026 / Innocent Loverboy / 4 Comments

I’m not needy, or desperate. That’s important to get out of the way first. Despite people seeming to assume I am one, the other, or both… everyone has their own opinion, of course…

But I’m not helping myself much.

I know that, for the correct reasons, I married into a relationship with absolutely no sex. Our marriage is a happy and supportive one, with a lot of mutual care, affection and shared humour – I can’t imagine being with anyone else, despite having had three serious relationships before this. In fact, I knew there wouldn’t be a lot of sex well before our engagement.

I am (and have always been) a very highly sexual person – I’m ILB, for Glod’s sake – but, outside of cheating (not an option), opening up our marriage (also not an option) or starting a secret relationship with a fictional person (sounds too much like a novel plot to be an actual thing), there is the very real possibility that I will never, ever have sex again.

This isn’t really a problem, but it’s becoming more of a problem when bits of my life are steadily beginning to abandon me. I can no longer play the guitar; I have no regular social outlet either within or without the sex blogging community; I also have no opportunity to read into a microphone. Without music or comedy (despite vivid, but sad, fantasies about doing both) – and that’s not to mention my day job, which has changed so radically in the wrong direction that it may as well have been called something different – I am something of a shell of what I was ten years ago.

I can play video games. And I can read books. But that’s basically it.

Sex is an important part of my life and Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs will tell you so. I’d like to think that, in a way, I have a healthy enough sex life to tick that box. I don’t get to share my sexual energy with anyone, but I wank enough to give myself the release I need, and I buy porn, so the performers get something out of it too. (I’m quite focused on the porn I buy, actually; I’m still looking for an uncut version of Dungeon of Desire…) It’s not something I can do all the time, but when my wife isn’t home and I feel the urge and I’m alone…

So, this is all okay, right? Everything’s above board and nobody’s getting hurt, right? So why is this post titled “desperate” when I’ve just explained there isn’t any desperacy?

Simply put, despite all attempts to explain to the contrary, a little bit of my brain is trying to tell me that, after a decade and a half of no sex, a part of me is desperate. If I’m not watching porn (or reading a blog or erotica or writing something…), what works the best for me is a rapidly expanding list of “what-ifs”. What if I’d kissed her? What if I’d said something to her? Told her something else? Asked for her number? Bought her a drink? Become Galian Beast? They all end with having sex.

And then there are all the dreams I’m having in which I’m still in a relationship with my second girlfriend. While I’m of the opinion that she has Completely Moved On,™ the fact remains that we were the most sexually compatible couple that I’ve ever known – certainly ever been in – and the knowledge of this edges into my dreams, and my fantasies. If we’re going to have sex on the floor while listening to Adrian Henri, then I’m going to use that.

I’m sad afterwards – I remember how I reacted when that relationship ended and I’ve never felt closer to death than in that moment. But I don’t think about that when I’m about to come, do I?

Then there’s the trash fire that used to be called Twitter. 𝕏 is full of angry right-wingers and bare-faced abuse, but I use it to follow Zack Polanski and a number of fellow Greens, or at least that’s what I tell myself. The truth, of course, is that 𝕏 is also populated by an increasing number of horny, seductive women of about my age. While I’m aware that their constant “need cock now!” posts are mostly engagement farming, and that most of them are married anyway, once I’ve filtered out all the MAGA ones, what’s left is almost certain to pique my interest.

I suppose some of the desperate feelings are mostly out of guilt. It’s real people making me horny and the ones in porn (or on Chaturbate…) that are making me orgasm. Five of them I’ve slept with and only one of them is my wife.

I know this shouldn’t be a problem. It’s a me problem. Something that makes me think I am, in fact, desperate for the kind of sexual connection I’m not getting, although I’m not an incel or a meninist so I can’t even use crass ignorance as an excuse. I probably don’t even need an excuse, although I probably am desperate for one.

I probably shouldn’t have written this post as much as I probably shouldn’t be inventing stories or wanking to memories of my exes or following married Americans on 𝕏. It makes me sound awful, and it makes me feel terrible.

But I don’t like not knowing. Or being unsure. Or being left in the dark.

So maybe I am desperate for you to do at least one thing…

…EXPLAIN?!

Death to the aristos!

April 25, 2026 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

When I was at university I had a friend (on whom I had a crush, briefly) who was a “The Honourable”. She would be getting a signet ring for her twenty-first birthday, lived in a large pile in the middle of the country somewhere and had a father who was made a lord within the time I knew her. She also didn’t like giving blowjobs, could make her lips look three times their size with the use of her tongue, knew how to disable a drunk man by twisting his nipples and spent most of a seminar passing notes to me wondering if having four stomachs (like a cow does) would cure my IBS.

I have the coolest friends.

Travelling up to her place for her birthday party was a bit of an adventure, mostly on account of the fact that only one of our group had a car, I was navigating using directions I got off Google, nobody knew exactly where this house was and there were lots of country roads (but we found it – we got lost on the way back, though). The event itself was a curious mix of posh and youth-friendly; I was on a table with people I didn’t know. I ended up telling the story of how I’d been cheated on and dumped the previous year and I got responses like “shit, that’s fucking weak, isn’t it?” in aristocratic voices like the airmen in Armstrong & Miller.

Hired servants brought the food, which was largely uninspired; there was a disco in which they played Space Cowboy (which I’d spent that morning getting dressed to). I was enjoying myself – getting hyped up on free Coca-Cola and thrashing about on the dancefloor like Tim Booth if Tim Booth couldn’t dance. I may not have been an aristocrat myself, but with my fancy suit, naturally BBC voice and lack of concern for what people thought of my dancing, I was having great fun pretending.

The girl with the curly brown hair ended up asking me how old I was.

“I’m 19,” I said. “I’m guessing you are around the same? Although I’m not supposed to ask a lady her age.”
“I’m 30,” she purred. “You’re 19? That’s cute. You’re 19. I’m 30. And we’re dancing.”

Is she drunk? She’s just saying things that seem obvious.

“We are. I’m quite enjoying the funky music.”
“Wheeeee!” was her restrained reply, at which point she radiated away and vanished into the milieu of wasted rich people congregating at the other end of the marquee.
“That was weird,” I said to nobody in particular, and then set about wondering how I was going to get to sleep that night since I’d forgotten my sleeping bag (nota bene: I ended up sharing with Meg, the girl at my university who had driven me there. A drunk aristo spent most of the night trying it on with her and I had to stuff my fist into my mouth to stop myself laughing too much.) while throwing shapes for a bit longer.

For the next few hours the thirty-year-old with the curly brown hair kept drifting in my direction, almost saying something and then removing herself.

You are in the main room of a social gathering for rich people. There are exits to the north and west with a twisty little passage opening to the south.

There is a grinning little thirty-year-old in the room with you!

I had no idea. What exactly was her angle? She seemed a bit put out to find that I was 19. She didn’t want to talk, as she kept stopping herself, and she didn’t want to dance, as she was already doing that. She couldn’t have realistically wanted anything else, as this was a party, and she couldn’t have wanted to sleep with me, as nobody ever wants to do that. So what exactly was it she wanted?

It is pitch dark. You are likely to be eaten by a grue.

I went into the adjoining marquee, lay on the ground until Meg turned up and the night came to a quiet conclusion. Quite a nice ending, all told.

The following morning I asked my friend who the thirty-year-old with the curly brown hair was.

“I’ve no idea,” she admitted. “He’s one of my brother’s friends. My brother has very weird friends. I mean, you heard two of them doing his character assassination – she’s a sister or a friend of a friend or an ex or something. Why? Are you interested?”

Well, are you?

“No. No, I’m not. I’m just curious. We started talking last night and never really got to finish our conversation.”
“Don’t worry about it. Hey, just a question – is Meg driving you back to Nottingham today? If you’re staying, you could meet her again.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m going with Meg. Why, do you want a lift?”
“I’m staying here for a bit, but it won’t be too long. I’ll be back for the new term, though.”
“What, are you getting a private helicopter to fly you or something?”
“Oh, do fuck off,” she grinned.

Ask ILB: Why don’t you play the guitar any more?

April 18, 2026 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

Away above my head
I see the strangest sight
A fiddler on the roof
Who’s up there day and night

I’ve always been of the opinion that musicians, in whatever form, are sexy. Maybe it’s the camaraderie of being able to play music together, perhaps there’s something in the skills you have to play the music. It certainly has a certain number of other effects on me as well – maybe there’s a certain attraction there (requited or otherwise). Maybe you’re just seriously into music.

Or you want to fuck one of the band.

I have given a lot of my life to music. When I was younger, although I never went all the way, primarily I played violin. I did only take it up because it looked similar to the lyre played by Cacofonix in the Astérix books (and my school didn’t offer lyre lessons), but I was still playing it by the time I got to university. The band in which I got called a wanker was a brass one, so I switched to percussion for my three years of ritualistic verbal abuse.

But I always wanted to be a rock star… so, at 15, I started to teach myself guitar.

Hey now, you’re an all star

Like a few things that keep reminding me who I am, like James, Woodcraft, Knightmare and Surrender Cinema, playing the guitar has been a huge and crucial part of my life. While I never really made it into a rock band – well, not one that played gigs, anyway – when all became too much, there was something incredibly freeing about being able to pick up, play, and sing along.

From my humble beginnings when I only knew one Tom Lehrer song, through to janky James covers and eventually any one of the 250+ songs I’ve written myself, there has been a strange mix of comfort and excitement in being a guitarist / vocalist. I was never good at either, and it isn’t as sexy as bass and playing music never made anyone want to fuck me…

…but it was part of me.

And there was nothing quite like those “wow” moments when you played a song perfectly all the way through.

You’ll never shine if you don’t glow

Who is the greatest drummer ever and why is it David Baynton-Power?

A couple of years ago I noticed that playing the guitar was becoming a little difficult because of the loss of mobility in my arms. I made my way, with a little effort, through the annual musical meetup that I go to (just about the only time I ever get to play with an audience), sang with 47 and bought a guitalele for want of something easier to play.

Last year I did the event singing along to backing tracks and once or twice actually playing guitar. I had a quarter-sized acoustic my cousin no longer wanted and surprised everyone, myself most of all, by being able to strum my way through a couple of my songs. And people applauded, too.

On the first of February this year I wrote some lyrics, sat down with guitar in hand, tried to strum a chord and…

…I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t hold the strings down. Couldn’t get my hands in the right position, Couldn’t even drag my thumb over the fretboard to get as much as a single note out of it.

I’d lost it. I’d lost the skill. My body had failed me.

And it brought to an end twenty-six years of being able to do perhaps the one thing of which I was most proud.

Gone.

My world’s on fire, how about yours?

Before you ask, yes, I have tried all sorts of things, and no, none of them work. Yes, I have a keyboard and yes, I have lots of percussion lying around; no, I can’t play the piano. Plenty of well-meaning friends have made their own suggestions, ranging from pedal steel guitar to Appalachian dulcimer. I’ve even tried an autoharp, and will never be able to afford an omnichord, and I can’t even play any of those, so I’m stuck where I am.

Tomorrow is the first musical event I have where I’m genuinely unsure if I’ll be able to play anything at all. I have printed lyrics, a few hand instruments to hit and shake, and a set of pitch pipes used to tune a violin and that’s basically it. I don’t have the confidence to attempt anything else. I’ll have to sing all my songs a capella with occasional beats on a cajón if somebody brings one.

…I can’t sing either.

But this is where I am. A lost musician unable to create music. “Frustrated” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Why are you fishing for sympathy, you talentless self-victimising hack?

I’m not, actually. Writing this post – a decidedly not sexy one – is just a way of getting my feelings out on screen. The last year has been a difficult one for me, simply because I was scared to pick up a guitar and discover that my ability to play one had abandoned me. I didn’t play anything at all during the off-season – if I didn’t know, it wouldn’t affect me, right…?

Right…?

Writing this out hasn’t really made anything feel better. Not really. It is, however, a way to get my feelings out and I suppose that was my aim.

Oh, and if you ever actually hear me sing, I’m really sorry. Nobody deserves that.

Give it time…

April 3, 2026 / Innocent Loverboy / 2 Comments

The thing that I notice first is that it’s amazing I’m up at all, when one considers the fact that I was out of bed from some time approximating 3:45am until 11:59pm the previous day (and awake for even longer…). Assuming as I had been that I’d be asleep for all-of-Thursday, I woke up… eventually. So here I am, awake, moving about (to a point), drinking lemon squash because the milk has gone off and so I can’t do coffee.

I haven’t yet put pants on because I spent the whole night thinking about porn and really ought to get whatever that is out of my system.

It’s a relaxing experience, wanking to porn. The more ‘classic’ image – greasy old man from Slough or spotty teenage herbert hunched over in front of their keyboard whacking off to a pair of boobs it took their 56k modem a while to download – isn’t my experience. I like to take my time – if I have 47 minutes to spare before my wife gets home, then I’m going to use my 47 minutes. After all, I tell myself, the journey is just as fun as the destination.

That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.

So, as I cue up the porn that I had been thinking about and take my dick in hand, I’m anticipating an enjoyable time. I have an afternoon to have a lazy wank and, considering how horny I already am, this will be a blessed relief from what has been, frankly, one of the most baffling weeks in recent memory.

I need this – it will centre me. Give me the thorough grounding that I only get from being ILB. And it will relax me. I need that too. Plus, I have hours. I don’t need to orgasm immediately. Could go through the porn for a bit and then see what’s happening on Chaturbate ’cause I have an account now. I even have some erotica to read, and there’s always my imagination. If my dreams are going to invent situations like being in a relationship with a pair of very different girls – sisters, in fact – then I’m sure I can wrangle my thoughts into something hot…

…I have options, basically.

And that’s what I’m telling myself.

But of course, if you really, really, really need to finish, because that’s the release you’re looking for and you can always go back to bed afterwards, then the fact that you have all that time dickmarked doesn’t all have to count, right?

Because that’s what I’m now telling myself, with increasing desperacy, to justify the new fact that, less than fifteen minutes after I started, I’m rearing back, fluttering my eyes closed, and releasing a week’s worth of jizz all over my fist, stomach, and feet.

Being told we’re also-rans does not make us Joseph fans

March 23, 2026 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

A conversation with myself:

I’ve not been sleeping well. I’m aware that’s nothing new. In fact, with the new medication and CPAP machine I’ve been sleeping more than usual. It’s just that…

It’s just that what? I know what you’re talking about. You’re just going to have to say it out loud, or it doesn’t count.

The dream?

The dream. Tell me about the dream.

Where do I start?

At the beginning.

It started with her writing a poem, although you could hear it. It was like an audiovisual thing, with lots of colours and wavy text. And it made a noise – like a swish, swish sound… like that beat I made for one of my songs, you know the one?

I know the one. So she wrote the poem, it moved around and it had your beat. Carry on.

Right, so the poem was about her exes, including her husband, the one whose name I don’t know. It was all about them and what they’d done for her. They each had a stanza, but it was all free verse, so there wasn’t any rhythm, or rhyme.

You’re sure it wasn’t prose?

No, definitely a poem. I’ve read her poetry; it’s all like that.

So what was the problem? You are definitely one of her exes. Was it something she said about you?

No. That’s just the point – she said nothing at all about me. I didn’t get a stanza, or a line, or even a sentence. I was ignored. Deliberately. I felt so expendable, so forgettable, like an also-ran. I felt like that just after she dumped me, and I felt it again last night. My stomach hurts just thinking about it.

You weren’t mentioned at all? But what about the side text?

There was side text, I suppose, explaining it all like that in Seamus Heaney’s translation of Beowulf. Just little bits of prose. My name was in it all of once, and even then it was to fill out a sentence.

Which sentence was your name in?

…it was well-timed, like with [Boyfriend X] and [ILB] and [Boyfriend Y}…

In a list? Ouch.

And the other boyfriends in that list were expounded upon in the poetry, and the notes. I may as well not have existed at that point.

You know that’s not true, right? Think about it. You were a couple for almost three years. Throughout that time you shared a very intense love, a degree of loyalty and commitment you rarely see, and you were probably the most sexually compatible couple around. You complemented each other perfectly, both in life and in bed.

But then it just stopped. She stopped loving me.

I don’t think she ever really stopped loving you.

It hurt. It hurt so badly. It still hurts.

I know it does. The question is: why are you still having dreams about her? If it’s been ten years – fifteen, even – since you last saw her, why is she still relevant in your life? What is your brain trying to tell you?

I wish I knew. I haven’t even mentioned those other dreams.

The ones where you’re still together and she’s cheating on you?

Those. I’ve already gone though life feeling unlovable. In those dreams I feel unwanted.

Do you think she cheated?

No. No, I’ve never thought that. I’m just well aware she could have if she wanted. I always saw her as very desirable. She was pretty, clever, witty, high-achieving, and she even used to be cool in her youth, so I heard. She could have had anyone else. And she was excellent in bed. I almost always felt like nothing compared to her.

Well, that’s the reason, isn’t it? You felt like, as you say, nothing, and therefore you dream about her treating you like nothing. You have internalised the hurt, and your brain is interpreting it as distressing situations, manifesting as your greatest fear of loneliness? You tried as hard as you could, and still failed, and so your brain casts you as the forgotten one – as you say, an also-ran.

I was. I think about that a lot.

She hit you once.

I think about that a lot too.

I can’t say anything else. I don’t have an answer to any of this. Maybe I never will. Maybe you won’t either. Perhaps this is just one of those things that happens, you know, that you did or didn’t do, like the girl you had a crush on who you turned down or the girl you didn’t kiss. Everyone has those stories.

She didn’t.

Maybe she did. You just remember things. Not everyone has your labyrinthine memory.

But there’s still a problem, isn’t there?

Yes, there is. And how do you feel about it?

Honestly?

Honestly.

Hurting.