Innocent Loverboy

Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

TMI Tuesday: ILB Laid Bare

I spent a large amount of time hating myself for not writing a blog post. It is, however, Tuesday, and I remembered quite late in the day that there is a quick and easy meme available for my disposal that I used to do every week.

What I didn’t realise was that I have, in fact, been incredibly introspective all day, and so my fun little confessional meme is presented here as a visceral, raw exposé of my deepest flaws.

Let’s Play!

1. What’s for breakfast?

This morning I was genuinely sinful and actually ordered McDonald’s breakfast. I had it delivered to my flat and everything.

There’s a reason for this.

Last night I didn’t sleep well. In all honesty, I’m not sure if I slept at all. I went to bed at about 9:30, convinced that I felt tired, whereas in actuality I genuinely wasn’t. I was labouring under the impression that I would just fall asleep – which I didn’t – and, that, if not, I could entertain myself until I did. Which I couldn’t.

What did happen was that I spent hours mentally beating myself up about the failure of my first relationship. What happened, how I handled it, and the eternal question – why? I should have moved past this, of course – I was 18 when this happened – but it comes to me at night. Terrified to move into another room as I felt the creeping night surround me, I huddled there in my bed, unsure, uncertain and full of self-doubt and unresolved trauma.

And that’s why I ordered McDonald’s. Because I needed something quick, easy, and indulgent.

2. Three words you don’t want to hear during sex?

“Call me names.”

I’m genuinely not good at dirty talk, and especially not on command. My second girlfriend used to say this during sex, and it immediately put me on the spot: I didn’t really want to call her anything, in case it was the wrong thing – even during sex, one can be insulted.

The worst thing is, of course, that I’m meant to be good with words. I just can’t be that good all the time.

3. Stupid shit you shouldn’t do but do anyway? List two.

Only two?

(i) I pee in the basin, and then wash it up afterwards. I’m genuinely self-conscious about the fact that I occasionally miss the toilet and end up with pee on the floor, which of course I clean up, but it seems like my control is getting worse. Sometimes – like immediately following orgasm – it doesn’t even go in a straight line; it’s more like a spray. The basin is, essentially, safer.

(ii) I spend a huge amount of time every day fantasising about being in a band that doesn’t exist.

I’ve got it figured out in my head. Mane Jr. is on drums. Robinson plays bass; Lovely is on the keys. Weightlifter is at the front shredding lead guitar and singing backing vocals, while Mane thrums rhythm guitar and sings lead vocals. I’m at the back with a couple of synthesisers and card table full of percussion, adding all the strange ethereal sounds and adding backing vocals to boot. I’m also the producer, and I do the spoken word introduction.

This band doesn’t exist and it never will. Those people can genuinely play those instruments as well, so it’s not impossible to imagine.

To me, though, it’s practically real. If a song comes on on my iPod, it’s us playing it. If I hear something in a shop, I start working out who would do what part. If it doesn’t fit into a set, maybe it’s something we’d try in rehearsal, or do spontaneously in the middle of a street, like Glee.

But it’s never going to happen, so I’ll never live it. I have to do so in my head, and I do. Every day.

4. One thing you love to hate?


I genuinely don’t get it. It won all sorts of awards and everyone seems to love it except me. I find the film genuinely boring – it’s nothing but fight after fight after fight – and yet nobody else seems to say this!

This isn’t the only film I have an adverse reaction to. I dislike Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I didn’t like the American translation of Howl’s Moving Castle, and I’ve never liked Titanic, even when it first came out. Nobody agrees with me on these.

But then again, I like the Star Wars prequels, so I’m not one to talk.

5. Today is a great day for…


I’m supposed to be on holiday.

But I am finding it impossible to relax.

If you figure out how, let me know.

Back in the game.

I haven’t had sex in years, and in that time, I’ve begun to wonder if I have, to any extent, lost my touch.

I need to contextualise a bit. I don’t think much of myself; I have been told by various people that I have an assortment of talents, but by others that I am completely talentless. My natural state is to consider myself the latter, although empirical evidence suggests otherwise. I am, by nature, self-critical – a lot of bloggers on this here side of the web are – and it takes an especially good day to convince me that any fortuitous circumstance coming my way is down to anything but sheer dumb luck.

The same can’t be said for sex, because for a long time I was certain that I was good at that.

I don’t have a lot of pride, but I do take pride in the fact that I am a very attentive lover. I try – and I can but try, even if I’m not always successful – to attune myself to my sexual partners’ needs and turn-ons, doing the things they like and hopefully finding something mutually beneficial for us. If not, but if she enjoys it, then that matters a huge deal for me.

Even without that concept, I have been told by all eight sexual partners that I am good at what I do. The five out of the eight who have had sex beforehand have all responded favourably, and out of those five, three of them told me that I was the best. One of those liked to scream it at me while I was railing her against my bedpost in my old house.

Going for years with nothing but my hand for company has left me wondering if, should the opportunity present itself, I would suffer performance anxiety during sex (or iron fist, which has been a problem for me before), and that I would cease to be the best, or even particularly adequate. As oral sex is bae, this was my main worry: that my lack of experience, rapidly disappearing energy or the disability that I’ve been diagnosed with (or all three) would impact negatively with my abilities on my knees and between her thighs.

My sex princess would tell you the opposite, and here’s why.

There isn’t a lot of nudity in our house, and that which there is is mostly from me. My sex princess is hardly ever naked – ironically, given their former blogging moniker – and, when they are, it is a sign that they are horny. The fact that they walked into the bedroom on Sunday night completely naked was just such a sign, and their delightfully vague insinuation that we should do “sexy stuff” was enough to make me intrigued.

Would this entail touching them with my fingers until they are worked up enough to finish themselves off?
Would this mean that I wield a Doxy and stimulate their clit with it until they finish?
Would this mean that I masturbate in front of them while they watch and admire?

None of this, they attested. They wanted to be licked.

I will now repeat the fact that I was incredibly nervous about this, but once my head was in position between their beautiful thighs (my knees comforted by a duvet that had fallen from the bed during our cavorting), it seemed to matter very little. In so many ways, it was almost as if we had never left off with the sex – their scent, their shape and their taste were all as familiar as they could be – comforting and dependable.

Her pussy lips flushed as I tapped my way along their slit, like they always used to. As I circled their clit with my tongue’s very tip, they moaned and arched (as they do) while the clit itself stiffened and buzzed, its pulse reverberating through my nose as I slid my tongue further south. I’d forgotten how good that felt. They gasped, moaned and grew rapidly more slick with lust as I began to flick my tongue back and forth across their gorgeous, soaking wet vulva, controlling my breathing as best I could, truly savouring the moment.

“Fuck, that’s so good,” said their voice from somewhere in the ether. “Keep doing that.”

It’s a common misconception that “keep doing that” means “do something else”. I, however, didn’t do something else, and carried on lapping my tongue in tight circles across their clitoral hood.

And, as it turns out, that was the right decision, and one that made me feel like, once again, I am indeed skilled. Or, at least, I am at oral sex.

Once they had finished screaming, I went through to the lounge, licked my lips, took a long draught of Sprite Zero…

…and then, with a silly grin on my face, I set up a COVID lateral flow test, which I took as my entire mouth still brimmed with the taste of girlcum.


When I’m at work, I sit in the break room every lunchtime and think about how much I’d like to go home and wank. It’s not my only thought – usually I’m thinking about how unsatisfying the work lunches are (but they are free, and that’s what matters) or shooting the breeze with my colleagues. Today, I spent most of the time astounded that one of my workmates had never heard of Waltzing Matilda.

But most of the time I’m just unspeakably horny, which isn’t helped by the fact that I’m scrolling through Twitter or catching up on the blog posts I’m missing. It’s the only time I check my ‘phone during the day.

And so I think to myself, I want to go home and pleasure myself. In the moment that is all I want to do. Perhaps I’ll have a particular scenario in mind – is there a porn scene I want to revisit? Is there something I want to read or remember to help me get to where I need to go? Maybe there’s a fantasy writing itself for me. Or perhaps, like today, I’m remembering the warm splash feeling of a vagina contracting around my shaft.

I want to go home and pleasure myself.

On the bus on the way home, when I have my head down pretending to sleep, I have other thoughts.

Princess from Battle of the Planets looking particularly hot right now.
I mean, yeah, I may be horny, but I’m still not going to wank to Princess, no matter how bad-ass she is.

I no longer wish to go home and wank. Now I want to go home, eat a chocolate chip cookie and watch Battle of the Planets. In fact, I realise, I have hot chocolate available now, and maybe I can have hot chocolate and a cookie and Battle of the Planets and nobody can begrudge me for any of that.

[Short interlude while ILB actually goes to make himself a hot chocolate. Here’s some hold music.]

When I get home I find my girlfriend half-asleep on the sofa watching The A-Team, so I watch some of that instead. I muster up what remains of my energy to make something for dinner. It involves pasta and vegetarian bacon and grated cheese. Very simple; an idiot could make it. I’m an idiot, so I make it. They are very grateful. I watch more of The A-Team while they decide, at some length, that they would be happier in bed.

Then I watch Battle of the Planets with some pistachio nuts.

I have long since made the decision that I’m not horny any more. It has faded, I tell myself. My horn has faded and it won’t be coming back.

The executive decision is made to take my clothes off after I turn off the TV. I’m not sleepy – although the hot chocolate now is making me so! – but I need to wash what I’ve been wearing, and it’s easier to do that if the clothes are in the washing machine.

I take my clothes off, put them in the machine, and then return to the living room.


And I’m not not horny any more.

Film Fun

[Inspired by something on Twitter I contributed to. Not my fault.]

When I was about 3, I wanted to be a film director. The educational psychologist who did a paper on me (because I could read the words “manila envelopes” before nominally being taught to read) found this out by simple virtue of the fact that I told him. I found a copy of his report recently, and although I don’t remember this, it sort of makes sense.

Every now and again I wonder what would happen if I did direct a film. When I was sixteen and novelising a dream I once had, I was already considering the soundtrack to the movie adaptation, over which I’d obviously have creative control. I’ve continuously come up with alternative ways to make a Justice League film which doesn’t suck – the solution being: make it silly; have Smash Mouth playing over the opening credits; put Booster Gold in it, you cowards. I almost – almost – wrote a screenplay adaptation of children’s musical Bully! when I realised how that would work.

And then, of course, I had ideas when I was younger. Eighteen-year-old me thought up a dark comedy heist type thing set in my university hall (I can still visualise the poster); twelve-year-old me had a fantasy film completely plotted out. Eight-year-old me wanted to do an animated musical and was convinced Disney would listen to him.

In my early thirties I wanted to write a new instalment of the Emmanuelle series. I mean, zounds, I still do, really.

But this is a sex blog, so we can probably see where this is going.

Recently I’ve been having intrusive, vivid and highly detailed sexual fantasies. This is thoroughly unusual for me, since I usually rely on previously-available media (in whatever form) to arouse me, under the pretence that Horny ILB doesn’t have the available brainpower to construct something viable enough to fap to. Recently, however, he has discovered that he has, and therefore constructs start to form in the brain. If they’re successful enough, of course, the penis also gets involved.

A little like the films I once wanted to direct, these fantasies are under my control to a certain extent… but, like a film adaptation I will never do of a book I have yet to write, some of these stories are delivered to me fully written. Occasionally, they are based on reality, but mostly completely fictional: an eclectic mix of “what if…?” speculation, potential leads that went nowhere which actually go somewhere, mental visualisations of things I’ve read in blogs and/or social media, and occasional faceless, meaningless, dirty smut.

Sometimes these fantasies involve people I know. Occasionally they don’t. Mostly, however, they seem to feature people I used to know – those who have faded out of my life over time – possibly on the assumption that they are safe to fantasise about. I don’t know. Don’t ask me to explain my own brain.

But that’s the thing about fantasies. They are many and varied, and if done correctly, they can be thoroughly entertaining. Like films.

Mostly, these play out with very little prompting or effort from myself: like I said, fully written. Occasionally I’ll write these out, but mostly I just keep them to myself, to enjoy when I need them. The more problematic ones are things which I actually need to direct: elements like characters, setting, scene and plot are all there, but they need assembly in order to completely work.

Sexual Meccano, with hopefully titillating results.

So, yeah, maybe that’s not the career path I eventually did go down. But it still affords me the opportunity, after a fashion, to direct a story…

…even if there is only ever one man clapping.

Poetry: The Pleasure of Agony

I used to write a lot of poetry.

It was, for a while, my ‘thing’. I’d sit in the library at breaktimes and write angsty love poems while Einstein and Lightsinthesky tried to solve the puzzle of what the inside of a black hole looked like. I never, for a single moment, considered actually approaching the girls I was writing poetry about – that was well beyond my capability – but I did put a lot of my pain into words.

Yes, I was that guy, before you ask. And, no, it wasn’t terrible poetry, it just wasn’t good.

Because it’s National Poetry Day, I’m sharing here one of the first poems I ever wrote, about one of the first crushes I ever had.

You are agony,
Yet the agony you bring I have to endure.
If I’ve decided that I love you then I’ll have to face the consequences.

Trying to look at you, then trying not to.
Trying to cry, then trying not to,
So I can try to look at you again.

The dark is rising,
And all I can think is:
Let them hit me, hurt me,
Let them batter me, beat me,
Let them do this to try
To make me cry.

You will lead me to salvation
By pulling me through the
That you don’t mean to bring.

It is through this agony
That I am sad,
Yet at the same time
I am so happy
Happy within the agony.

You’ve Been Framed!

At some point in my teen years, I inherited a cardboard picture frame. It was a very simple affair – one sheet of glass, several bendable metal tags, four cardboard sides – but it was appropriately chunky, good to the touch, and – and this bit is important – it was resilient.

My picture frame could be deconstructed and rebuilt a seemingly infinite number or times without falling apart completely, and I had a colour printer in my room, so hypothetically I could have put a picture of whoever (as long as there was a picture of them available….) in my frame. Understandably, a print-out from a basic inkjet was both more fragile and lower-quality than a genuine photo, but since I didn’t really have many photos, I had to make do.

Like I said: resilient.

Media tells us that a picture frame on (or near) one’s desk often has a picture of one’s significant other in it. I decided to repurpose my frame – which had been empty up until this point, acting as a decoration in its own right – for this purpose. The problem, being, of course, that I didn’t have a significant other.

For the next few years, therefore, my picture frame would inevitably be occupied with a printed-out picture of my current crush – who, inevitably, I would have a picture of, somehow. Its longest-standing resident (the girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on who I have mentioned here several times) was (and still is) a friend, and was particularly close to my sister, so there were plenty of picamatures around for me to steal borrow (there was also a flatbed scanner…).

Whichever picture was in my frame (which was getting increasingly battered as the years went by) served as both a decoration and an indication of who I was crying about in the foetal position on my bed every night. I wasn’t particularly shy (and was admittedly a little blasé) to my friends, or my parents, about the indication of the picture(s), and as my token black friend said about the time Soldiergirl was in it, “oh, she actually is really quite hot.”

I almost always had Wednesday afternoons off during the sixth form, and it became a sort of ritual that I would check, think about, and change my picture frame between coming-home-from-school and going-to-see-my-clinical-psychologist. If I had the same crush, it would stay the same; if there was someone new (or if I had more than one crush), I would flip the picture. I even put a picture of someone I saw in a newspaper there once, because I thought she was pretty.

Usually, the act of putting a new picture in the frame was a maudlin, wistful act – here’s yet another person that I can’t have – but, as time went on, it became more of a relief. With Soldiergirl, it was nothing more than jubilant, and in the very end – when my first actual girlfriend went in – my eventual feeling was one of absolute victory. This was someone who would go into my frame and stay there, and this time, I used Superglue to fix all the bits back together.

As much as I hated year 12, year 13 was one of the best years of my school life. And, as my picture frame stayed on its shelf gathering dust, I was out having adventures, no longer seeing life through a lens.

It was still a comfort, though, to run my hands along its thick, rough cardboard frames.


[Apologies for not calling this post “KAOS”. I was fully intending to, so as to both reference soaking and Donkey Kong Country 3, but DKC3 has nothing at all to do with this. With that out of the way, however…]

The following is a true story:

It wasn’t late. Maybe about seven, or eight. Perhaps it was later. I seem to remember it being dark outside, but then again, maybe it was winter. In any case, the room was bathed in light – probably through the efforts of several very valiant bulbs.

By this point I’d gotten past the sort of mental/physical block that had prevented me from ejaculating during sex. For a few months now – following the initial horny, experimental period – I’d been coming inside her practically every time we had sex. Although we were both content with the fact that what felt good was the journey, rather than the destination (and the fact that she had more orgasms than me), we both enjoyed it when I climaxed.

Our “post game” reviews usually got around to the subject. Rebecca would describe what my penis was doing as “pulsating” and refer to herself as being “full of cum”, an image I found both disgusting and delightful in equal measure. In any case, that’s what I was doing now, and I’d had a lock fitted on my door, so when we were at my place, we were – to all intents and purposes – free to do so.

And that’s what we were doing.

Although I’d penetrated her a few minutes ago, and we were very much in flagrante delicto at this point, there wasn’t a lot of movement going on. My dick was rock hard – you could have hung a towel off it by this point – and her inner pussy muscles enveloping every millimetre, contracting around my breadth so well that I could feel every pulse, her heartbeat channelling through my shaft as I lay atop her. Beads of sweat were dripping from my forehead, a few running down her cleavage as she moaned and sighed.

Neither of us were moving.

It wasn’t as if this was a regular occurrence. I was usually quite energetic during sex and, by this point, I’d usually be merrily thrusting away. But, at that very moment, I was just caught up in enjoying the feeling.

Enjoying the feeling. My head spiralled backwards. Three very powerful words. I’d heard Esque using them a year or so prior – also to describe sex sans movement – and that was what I was doing. Lying there, completely inside her, bathed in sweat and light and heat… and enjoying the feeling.

I can’t believe this, a tiny voice somewhere in my brain said. (Even after a few months, the fact that I was having sex at all was difficult to believe.) I can’t believe how good this feels. Even though I’m not moving, I’m making love, I’m making love, I’m making…

Silently, swiftly, and even without the accompanying hip thrust that soft porn would have us believe happens every time, I came. Rope after rope of warm, thick cum shot deep inside her, and although she made no sound, the glint in her gaze – for we had been staring into each other’s eyes throughout this whole adventure – told me that she had felt it too.

Latter-day internet knowledge tells me that this is a process known as ‘soaking’. I did, however, manage to finish without anyone jumping on the bed in close proximity. This may well be a skill that I wasn’t aware I had up until now.

Let’s add it to my CV and watch the offers come flooding in.

[Partially inspired by GOTN’s filthy post around the same topic. Go read that too.]


Y’all wanna hear a story?

I’m 18 and waiting to get my weekly coach to Birmingham. In front of me is an older woman struggling with her purse who is simultaneously holding onto a young girl with learning difficulties, possibly some form of unspecified MLD. At one point, her grasp slips. The girl grasps me and hugs me tight around the waist. Instinctively, and without flinching, I hug back.

The older lady is incredibly grateful (and I’m not sure why… what did she expect me to do?). I say it’s no problem, I’m happy to help. I take a seat behind her on the coach.

A very pretty girl sits next to me and gives me a small, warm smile. I smile back. On the way to Birmingham, we hit some very heavy traffic and stop at a service station just outside Oxford. I hate Oxford.

I’m 23 and waiting to get my weekly(ish) coach to Oxford. I’ve been back and forth between Waterloo and Victoria several times before realising that there’s a 24-hour coach service from Victoria Coach Station. I pay the driver and sit down. It is very quiet and very dark.

The only other passenger, a few rows of empty seats away, is a very pretty girl who my brain tells me I have seen somewhere before. It’s very late, so I decide that I’m tired. I put my iPod in and zone out for the duration of the journey.

It’s after midnight when we pull in. I’ve decided by this point that I don’t need to get a bus, or a taxi. I feel safe in Oxford at night. Walking the streets alone, in a calm bubble. I love Oxford.

I’m 27 and have just sat down on a late(ish) train to London. It will take hours to get there from Yorkshire, but I have both my iPod and a book. I also have my BlackBerry, so I can check Twitter if I want to.

On the seat next to me is a very pretty girl who’s struggling with her purse while simultaneously holding onto a cup of tea. I offer to hold her tea, but by that point she’s okay. She pulls out a pack of Hermesetas and drops two into her tea, which the then stirs and takes a sip.

“Hey!” I say, surprising myself that I’m talking to a stranger. “That’s the sort of sweetener I use!” This was, in fact, true. I still use them, in fact.
“Oh, yes, yes,” she says. “Big fan.”

She gives me a small, warm smile. I smile back.

It’s after midnight when we pull in. I’ve decided by this point that I don’t want to get the Tube all the way back to the station I live near and walk home. I grab a night bus that takes me all the way. I love and hate London in the same breath.

I’m 36 and have been browsing Twitter. I am about to close the browser tab and think about turning in for the night. Just before I click, I notice an RT from someone I don’t know. There’s a picture of a very pretty girl with long, blonde hair.

I have brief thoughts of Louise, Karolina, Kirsten, and other attractive blondes I know. There have been a few. This one doesn’t remind me of anyone, in particular. I don’t know her. I close the tab.

But I’ve seen her before. I’ve met her, even. Where?

And then a thunderclap sounds in the back of my mind. A lightbulb goes on above my head, and I start to write. I love writing.

…dilly, dilly

“Is that lavender?” asked my new co-worker, upon entering the room yesterday. It most certainly was, or at least an approximation of the same: my other new co-worker (in effect, my new boss) bought some AirWick plugins last week, and they’d been left on all weekend.

“It is!” smiled my new boss (she smiles a lot). “Do you like it?”
“Uh… no,” said my colleague apologetically. “I’m, uh, allergic, actually. I don’t like the scent, even when it’s not the actual plant.”

And she backed out of the room.

“I like lavender,” I sighed happily, “it’s relaxing.”
“I can get some different scents,” said my new boss. “It doesn’t have to be lavender. What else do you like?”
“Well, my ex had patchouli,” I answered, “throughout the entirety of her flat. It was in every room. Patchouli reminds me of…” Sex.

I didn’t say sex, and even if I had, it would have been the truth. What wasn’t quite true was that she was an ex. Alicia had been my 43-year-old lover when I was in my early twenties. But I’d decided to mention patchouli by that point, and I needed to find a way to refer to Alicia without being too revealing about my (former) sexual proclivities. “Ex” seemed as appropriate a term as possible.

Patchouli reminds me of sex for the simple fact that I had a lot of sex in a flat completely suffused with it. Alicia and I had quite a lot in common, in terms of political views, fondness for hummus and tea, and a love of musical theatre, but the thing that was most apparent was how well my penis fit inside her, and so my patchouli-filled existence was mostly spent horizontally.

Sometimes on top of her, sometimes underneath, sometimes just lying in a pool of girlcum. Horizontal, in any case.

But I couldn’t bring myself to say that to my new boss. We may get along well, but I’ve only known this woman for three days.

“Patchouli reminds me of… her flat,” I decided upon. Which, now I think about it, is a less impressive statement than it could have otherwise been. I could have gone nostalgic, wistful or humorous, and yet all I did was refer to the flat belonging to a lady my new boss didn’t know existed.

My new boss gave a friendly smile and a nod which was code for something like, “cool story, bro, now go and do some actual work”.

Best I could hope for, really. She doesn’t need to know I’ve ever had sex.


Throughout my teenage years most of the glossy smut I used to consume came courtesy of my gran’s Cable TV package. She was very much into sports, so most of the channels she watched weren’t to my particular taste, but after hours, I used to indulge – when I could – in whatever was on L!VE, UK Living, Bravo, or even Sci-Fi (although Sci-Fi also showed Knightmare for a while, so I was well-acquainted with them).

Channel Five changed everything.

With terrestrial new kids on the block – and those who actually showed soft porn, no less – actually recording some suddenly became an option. It was impossible to do on cable (and I never quite realised why), digital encoding was years away, and I had plenty of blank VHSs to exploit. While the softcore shown on Friday nights was of varying quality – the original Emmanuelle was good; Buford’s Beach Bunnies… less so – the fact that I could actually use magnetic storage to obtain these films (and, hypothetically therefore, watch them at my leisure) was something new.

New and exciting.

While I remember the first time I recorded something – it was called Lap Dancer and didn’t have nearly enough sex in it – the thing I remember the most, of course, was… destroying the tape.

Although I was diligent in committing to magnetic storage a lot of the flicks I liked, at this point I was going through my “porn is wrong and I’m watching it so I must be a pervert” stage. Practically every week I would give up, and as a result I’d tape over whatever I’d taped with an afternoon of CITV or something – assuring myself that I was now cleansed, and never would watch any ever again.

And then I’d record more the following Friday.

Things came to a head the week after recording Rosie Dixon: Night Nurse. Feeling appalling every time I saw the tape (labelled “Muttley” since I’d originally been intending to use it for Wacky Races), in the end I decided I needed to get rid of the VHS, thus spiritually cleansing myself and rendering myself unable to do it again (without stealing one of my parents’ VHSs, and they all had something on them). In the end, I went to my mortal enemy Stu, who – despite hating me – also knew a lot about destruction.

Using one of Stu’s methods, I managed to lever open the cassette, pull the tape out and snap it in half, and then – for good measure – stashed the remains in the tiny alleyway that ran by the side of the house, in a drain. Hopefully, I told myself, the rain and run-off from the pipe will finish it off. And I’ll never do that again.

I wasn’t wrong, on this occasion. I didn’t do so again. I discovered downloading soon afterwards.

But it didn’t stop, on one occasion, a distraught, horny teen ILB, standing in the rainy, wet alleyway trying to find a way to repair the tape he had so artfully destroyed.

Zounds, I can be so desperate sometimes.

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