Innocent Loverboy

Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Eviction

So here’s why I’ve been a bit weird lately.

I mean, you may not have noticed, exactly, but I’ve been less present than I would have otherwise been. I haven’t been at work for two weeks now and I could have written a blog post every single day. In fact, that was very much my intention.

Full disclosure: this is my third attempt at writing this; the first two times I started crying soon after starting. Hopefully I can hold things together for a bit.

As most of you may know, we live in a first-floor maisonette not far from the rest of my family. It’s also right next to the train station, and I mean that; I can watch my wife get onto the train from my bedroom window if I’m up early enough. I salute the steel dragons on their way towards London if I’m in the kitchen making tea.

It’s also more of a home than anywhere else we have ever lived. Our stuff fills every corner, from the mountain of books we own to the piles of yet-to-be-sorted-clothes to the sex toys we don’t really use and the DOXY I genuinely use for massaging. This is the place we lived when I had my accident, when I started my new career, when I started my new blog, and of course it’s our marital home.

I feel safe here.

Up until about a month ago, the downstairs maisonette was rented by a family who nominally only consisted of two, but regularly brought about ∞ other people to their barbecues-in-the-rain and irresponsible parties-during-lockdown. We didn’t bother them and, for the most part, they didn’t bother us. When they were served an eviction notice we were given a cast-iron assurance that the same would not happen to us.

I met the landlord a couple of weeks ago. I’ve never met him before. He was doing up the downstairs flat (which was a real mess; stained carpet and walls, cigarette stains, blocked drains et al.) and thanked me for being a good tenant. I appreciated the compliment, but was genuinely confused; isn’t what I’m doing just the bare minimum, paying rent and reporting problems?

On Tuesday I started the day feeling quite chipper. I had a very unsatisfying wank in the morning to facilitate a second jizz rush, but once that was all done and I was back from the hospital, I had the whole day in front of me. Nothing to do but enjoy myself. I could put on some music, play the game I’d bought, and maybe even indulge in some sinful food. I was on holiday; this was allowed.

And then my ‘phone rang.

“Hey, it’s [name] from [our letting agent],” trilled a clipped voice. “I’m calling to let you know that the landlord is going to take back the whole house and we are serving you a notice of eviction.”
“WHAT?”
“You’ll be receiving it in the post as well as by e-mail and you need to sign a copy and send it back to us as soon as possible.”
“WHAT?”
“Your lease will run out on the first of July so you need to be out by then. If you move out beforehand or want to remain after that date you need to tell us.”
“WHAT?”
“We’re awaiting your signed notice of eviction, okay?”
“NO, I’M NOT OKAY!” I said, finally finding my voice. “IN WHAT UNIVERSE AM I MEANT TO BE OKAY ABOUT THIS?”
“Have a good day,” she ploughed on, and hung up, leaving me to sit there like a statue.

Once my limbs had started working, the numb feeling I had been experiencing was replaces by a new sensation: panic. Almost suddenly, I was aware of just how much stuff we have. There is stuff everywhere; there’s more stuff under, on top of, or inside the other stuff. I was even going through a system to organise and categorise the stuff.

Yes, they say we have until July, but what if we find a place sooner? We’re seeing a flat tomorrow which we’re both fairly sure we’ll say yes to, and that’s available from the end of April! It would take months to move all of our stuff, even with help, and my arms don’t work any more so I can barely do anything!

For the past few days my life has been alternating between trying to stay calm, looking for flats which don’t cost £4 bzillion to rent, fighting off a creeping sensation of betrayal (I have no idea what I’ll say to my landlord if I ever meet him again), and occasional moments of blind panic at all the stuff I keep realising we have. Yesterday it dawned on me that we have three full laundry baskets, and Glod knows what I’m supposed to do with those – we only have the one clothes horse, and need that space for things we wear to work and…

…you get the idea.

I hate being evicted. It’s happened to me far too many times before, and none of them have been any fault of mine, or my wife’s. Dodgy landlords and shysters who work from their cars have robbed us of four – now five – rented places. We’ve had to move seven times, acquiring more stuff with every move, and even after five years in this place, there are still some boxes we have never quite gotten around to opening.

This seems nothing short of insurmountable. It will take a miracle to find a place and ten times that to be able to move all of our stuff.

And so I suppose I have one word for why I haven’t been very talkative this week.

Scared.

Orgasms, on

Is it just me, or do you also think about orgasms more when you aren’t really meant to be having them?

I’ve been having a few orgasms recently – on my own, of course – but I’m becoming more and more aware that I’m not really allowing myself to enjoy them. They’re fun, of course (why wouldn’t they be), and they also afford me the luxury of being able to revisit some of my favourite triggers, whereas I haven’t had the time otherwise.

It’s just become a… a thing I do, really.

The reason I mention this is that, with a healthy amount of spare time, I could be putting more appreciation into a nice orgasm, something that’s healthy and joyful and free. I dream about it often, thus:

ILB is masturbating on his back while spread-eagled in the middle of his bed. He has plenty of time to do so, and while doing so, is lost in glorious visions and imaginings. Eventually, one particular word or phrase is what tips him over the edge. He ejaculates spectacularly, his cum hitting his stomach and chest. He takes a deep breath in, lets out a juddering sigh/moan combination, and then takes the calm as an opportunity to drift off to sleep still covered in his own mess.

Or something like that.

I mean, it’s not impossible. I’ve done it before; I’m just too nervous to let myself do absolutely nothing (except let the cum trickle down my side like a nail polish video). I can relax when I’m tired, but if I’m too tired not to relax then how am I going to have the energy to bring myself to orgasm in the first place?

Maybe I shouldn’t have read Catch-22 after all. I’m seeing them all over the place now.

I’m making that my goal for next week, then. Listen to my body and act on what it’s trying to tell me. Relax, don’t stress so much, have an orgasm and enjoy it. You have the power here, ILB. Just use it.

Still, I’m going to have to wait – I have another fertility test on Tuesday and I’m not allowed to come at all until then. I shall just have to distract myself otherwise for the next couple of days.

Okay, so where’s that Star Wars box set?

Burning Bridges

[An old friend once wrote a blog post with “Burning Bridges” as the title, so maybe the credit for the above goes to him.]

I’m not really brave enough for this.

Something I’ve noticed – mostly at Eroticon, but in conversation with others too – is that there is a bit of a difference in how European and American bloggers handle controversy.

What?

Evidently I’m not talking about everyone here, but I’m not the only one who sees this: American bloggers are zealous. They see something that needs to be called out and they’ll do so. Immediately. To the outsider it may look like a bit of a knee-jerk reaction, but it’s just the blogger getting something done before it becomes more of a problem. This can be good, evidently; the now-infamous Screaming O talk at Woodhull is a great example.

But to me it seems a little dangerous. If you’e going through life constantly looking for something to call out it seems a touch paranoid. And, of course, if you find something and leap on it without any prior research, then there’s always the problem that you’ll do more harm than good.

European bloggers are a touch more reserved. If one of us seems something troubling then we are more likely to try and fix it quietly than start a massive social media pile-on. I’m a European blogger and I’ve never knowingly tried to start anything, although if there’s already something going on a few of us will probably join in (the Inigo More post is a good example of that).

But what do I, a nervous British blogger, do when I notice something that I find abhorrent? Do I fall silent in favour of silence meaning security? Do I call the cavalry and initiate a brawl I don’t wish to happen or participate in? Or do I take on the issue myself, possibly solving it but just as possibly making matters worse?

Specifically, do I want to risk burning a bridge, even if it’s one I wish were no longer there?

It’s difficult.

So what?

A couple of months ago I noticed a fellow sex blogger – one I’ve met, befriended and previously had a lot of respect for – posting something questionable on Twitter (or 𝕏 or whatever it’s called now). I scrolled through her tweets – maybe this was satire and in response to something else – but saw a few more. And then I opened her replies tab.

Oh boy.

Most direct quotes are too sickening to post here, but they are all things that make me tremble. Constant references to trans people trying to brainwash children. References to refugees as “gimmegrants” and migrants as “illegals”, saying we need to get rid of them all to “protect our country”. At one point she verbatim said that

this wokey nonsense has got to stop

in response to a story about a trans person wanting to be called by their preferred pronoun.

And then I knew I needed to do something. Other than remove them from my blogroll, of course, which I’d already done.

Now what?

It’s difficult enough to deal with this stuff from Tory bigots and you already expect it from known transphobes like Graham Linehan and JKR. It’s much more difficult, however, when it’s from someone you used to like, and even moreso when it’s a sex blogger… whatever has happened to our community, the fact remains that we were all nominally banging the same drum.

This is not what I would usually expect.

Earlier on today I finally posted on Mastodon and Bluesky saying the following:

I don’t want to stay silent any more. But I don’t want to cause a fuss.

A sex blogger most of us know has been airing and sharing abhorrent views on X and this has gone unchallenged.

Most of you are following her.

Message me if you want to know who.

@innocentlb

Some of me wonders whether or not this was the right thing to do. Part of me wanted to do the “American” thing of putting her name and details verbatim on all my platforms, but I didn’t want to do that. Another part wanted to do the “European” thing of quiet outrage and soft indignation, but ethically I felt like I couldn’t do that.

So I took the middle road: I offered the information, and to those who asked I posted her blogging pseudonym and Twitter @, offering screenshots to those who had no access.

And so far this has seemed like the best course of action. I didn’t know how much uptake this would have, but it has been more than I expected. I was envisioning one, maybe two, curious people, but as I type this, more than eleven people have asked. All of them have gone on to respond, once they’ve seen the content, in the same horrified, disbelieving way that I did.

And what?

As far as burning bridges is concerned, it’s very rare that I’ll meet and get on with someone that I’ll end up never wanting to see again. I’m a social person and I’m genuinely quite protective of the friendships I’ve made. Fair enough, it may be different with 47 or Robinson or H or Mini – they are friends in real life, there’s much more physical contact there. Nevertheless, I’ve met this blogger; I’ve talked to her; I’ve hugged her, even.

But even I have my limit, and in this case – rare though it may be for a European blogger, even more so for a British one, and perhaps much more so for me – it has been hit by this person.

I am not going to post her identity here.

But my offer still stands. If you want to know, ask. I hope you do. I hope it makes its way around. And I hope everyone ends up knowing.

Above all, I hope she realises she was wrong. If she does, and she apologises, and makes more of an effort, then maybe it won’t have been worth burning that bridge after all.

All I can do is hope, in the end.

Ask ILB: Why don’t you have a Patreon?

Just before Christmas, with a very limited amount of disposable income, I splashed out a bit and joined a couple of Patreon. I had specifically made a point of not doing so until I was sure I could continue to pay for one ad infinitum, and in the end I made the additional rule of limiting myself to two. I joined Robyn‘s on account of the fact that (i) they are a dear friend and (ii) the stuff they do is smoking hot; I also joined GOTN‘s, which – as it turns out – is a very good investment, even when you consider the fact that I’m not really a fan of audio porn.

If you are looking for a Patreon to join, you could do a lot worse than considering the above.

Someone I know asked me the other day if I have a Patreon. I don’t. There’s a reason I don’t.

What would getting a Patreon entail?

Just in case you weren’t at Eroticon last year, it’s worth mentioning that GOTN herself did an excellent session about running a Patreon and that I actually took a lot of genuine notes about it (my ‘con notes usually amount to things like “a man got his hair cut at this point”, “sandwich tweet means absolutely nothing” and “Zac just stuck her tit to the table”; this was more involved). I even made a list of things I could offer if I did start one:

(i) Abandoned drafts. This is a tricky one since I tend to post pretty much any old shit, but the idea is there. There are a couple of old things I went back to years later and refined, and this practice might also be something I could offer.

(ii) Audio recordings of my blog posts. This is something pretty much everyone does, and since most of my posts are written to entertain, they may transfer well enough to the spoken word. I regularly read them aloud to an invisible and non-existent audience, and I’d do so if I ever got to read at Eroticon again.*

(*I never will.)

(iii) Group conversations. This worked really well the first time I experienced one, at GOTN’s virtual birthday party (exactly one week after my birthday, although I didn’t mention that!). Since I am a chatty ILB, I’m fairly sure I could do that. I’m still not sure the game of “I Have Never” I want to play with sex bloggers is achievable over Zoom, but…

(iv) Flash fiction. I genuinely don’t write a lot of fiction, but I do have a Word document full of the stuff that I’ve never done anything with. I even have my almost-complete novelette set on Rockall. Could serialise that.

(v) Songs. Just to make sure people leave my Patreon in droves.

So why don’t I have one, then?

That’s a more complicated thing to answer. But I do have a reason. A few, even.

The first is that my blog isn’t a commercial venture and never has been. I don’t really count Patreon as being anything more than supporting artists independently, so it’s not the same as – say – a paid-for ad or a sponsored post. However, were I to be effectively putting some of my content behind a paywall I’d be taking a machete to what I produce. I don’t really think that’s fair.

The second is that I’m not even sure anyone would be interested. I’m not as high-profile as some of my blogging mates who already have one, and I’m not even as high-profile as I used to be in the earlier days before the saturation of the sex blogging community. There’s nothing particularly tempting about me or my writing… specifically when all of it’s available for free on my blog to begin with.

And that’s the real reason behind it. I post all my content on my blog and I always have. It’s never occurred to me not to, and when it comes to reading bits of it out, then who am I kidding? I’d do that for free.

I’m genuinely not important enough

I’ve never, ever even really considered joining Patreon, even if my wife told me to when it was first a thing. I have an account and, for what it’s worth, I have been enjoying what I’ve heard so far.

It’s just not appropriate for ILB. I’d rather post all my content on my blog like I have since 2007. If there’s fiction I like, maybe I should self-publish. If there are unfinished drafts, then I should finish them and hit the post button. And I can always read my blog posts aloud to myself (the laughter can be in my head). But, in all these things, the truth is that, even with the best of intentions, I ultimately lack the drive.

And maybe that’s the real reason.

No, YOU listen.

I didn’t understand it at the time and I still don’t.

You were very quick at the time to turn this into something I did. This was something YOU did. It wouldn’t have happened at all if you hadn’t done it and you know that. I’d like to think you had known that at the time, but I’ve no way of corroborating that.

Nevertheless, you took my reaction – which was much milder than I would have usually reacted – and turned it into a “thing I did”. You can out of it looking like a person who had been wronged. Nobody heard your side of the story and thought anything else.

The thing is that it shouldn’t have been a “story” to work through. It shouldn’t have happened. YOU shouldn’t have done it.

I didn’t mention this at the time, but it shouldn’t have even been an option! You didn’t offer me any sort of explanation, other than that you just did it, and when I asked why you did it when you knew how badly it would upset me, you said you didn’t know and then hinted that you wanted to upset me.

Worst of all, you turned this into something that I did, and called your mother who then tried to advise you to finish things with me because of something, I remind you, that YOU did.

This was a long time ago, yes. But it still comes to me in my dark moments or when I think too much. I see things on social media now that bring it back to me. I can’t let it go because it’s not something I did that I can make peace with or justify. This is something you did. You never justified it because you didn’t think you needed to.

I didn’t even get an apology from you and you expected one from me because of something I didn’t even do.

I’m writing this here because I’m fairly certain that you don’t read my blog any more. To all intents and purposes you have moved on. I mean, sure, we all change over time; I’m now 39 because it was my birthday yesterday. But I will never forget this – I will never forget what you did and how I reacted. I wish, I wish, I wish that it had never happened. Not just for my sake, either.

When you got up to walk away I thought for a second that you were getting up to come around to my side of the table, give me a hug and a kiss and tell me that you were sorry for what you did when you knew how it would affect me. I didn’t realise you were storming off until a few seconds too late.

I will admit that later on that day I asked you to never mention it again on the condition that our lesson learned at the time was that this sort of thing was unnecessary.

You said

What we have learned today is that you are pathetic.

which is not really what I wanted to hear. In fact, you said it twice, with a huge smile on your face.

Was this you trying to hurt me again?

I’m writing this on my blog because it’s my creative outlet, and hey, this is about a relationship, so it kind of fits the theme. But I want to tell you this:

I am not pathetic.

And you know that. You just didn’t want to admit it because you didn’t want to admit you did anything wrong.

But it still hurts, and that’s why I’m saying this.

Soft Porn Sunday: Susan Hale & John St. James

Sometimes something just… appears to me. Usually in a moment of quiet. I’ll be happily doing nothing, but then I’m blindsided by a thought that gets pulled out of my mental Rolodex seemingly at random. Sometimes it’s pleasant; often it’s not. And occasionally it has special deep significance.

Which makes it curious, then, that I don’t think more about Platinum Blonde. I’ve certainly mentioned it a couple of times before. Look at the cast list and you’ll get a veritable Who’s Who of early-noughties softcore: Holly Sampson, Shannan Leigh, Micah Bradshaw, Susan Hale, Timothy Stempien, Mia Zottoli, Shauna O’Brien, Stella Porter, Tre Temptor… and it’s even directed by Cybil Richards, who did most of them. You’d think I’d love it.

And then there’s Susan Hale, whose real name is Darby Daniels (except I’ve never actually heard her being called that). I certainly like her. I even recognise John St. James from Emmanuelle 2000. All that. and I like softcore and I like sex and I like plot, and it’s a wonder that I haven’t even thought of doing this one for this here meme.

And yet I haven’t. Until now, I suppose. Why is this? Well…

Appearance: Platinum Blonde (2001)
Characters: Janice & Hank

In case you’re not familiar with the plot of Platinum Blonde, don’t worry: it’s not too difficult to grasp. Angela (Sampson) is an angel – the titular platinum blonde -whose task is to watch people having difficulties with their love lives, get them to have sex and then watch that… or, in other words, she’s a professional voyeur. Her charges are all unlucky in love, and/or sexually starved, and she intervenes, does something very simple and watches the resulting shag, then leaves.

Susan Hale and John St. James in "Platinum Blonde" (2001)
Not pictured: an angel of the Lord, appearing to Hank at this moment.

That’s it; that’s the entire plot. The piecemeal nature of the flick – since it contains multiple different vignettes, each one a different story – makes it perfect bite-sized viewing. You could come in at any point and it would still make sense. It could be a loop. In fact, given the nature of the setup, it could have been a series.

Anyway, Hank is having an affair.

I’ve never really seen the appeal of St. James. I mean, yes, he has a lot of sex in Emmanuelle 2000 including some with Emmanuelle herself, but why? His characters never really seem to have any redeeming qualities whatsoever and he’s not even conventionally attractive. Here he is playing an especially unfavourable character – a serial cheater on his other half, who somehow manages to have sex with the genuinely attractive Janice (Hale) and she… enjoys it? What is this, Bizarro World?

Andi Peters and Edd the Duck

I suppose what’s really different about this is that it takes place in a broom cupboard (or possibly a walk-in wardrobe). I do suppose that’s easy to film, given that you can put a couple of clothes racks in front of a sheet of white MDF and, bang, it’s a set. We also sort of start in medias res, as well, by which I mean they haven’t taken any clothes off yet, but they’re certainly about to.

Susan Hale and John St. James in "Platinum Blonde" (2001)
Fun fact: Susan Hale always wears the same nipple hoops. They show up in every film she’s in.

Except they kind of don’t. They dance around the issue a few times before actually doing anything. Janice is more interested in kissing Hank’s stomach and he’s more interested in making weird faces. About a minute in and we finally do get to see a bit of skin.

Susan Hale and John St. James in "Platinum Blonde" (2001)
Softcore cunnilingus is never realistic. But it’s usually more than this.

This wouldn’t be such an issue if it wasn’t at odds with the storyline. They are having an affair. They are meeting in a broom cupboard. You would think this would be quick and dirty sex, like, drop trousers, hitch up skirt and go at it. That would be more realistic, and more urgent making it maybe a little hotter. Here, they’re just pissing about before actually having any sex. What, do they want to get caught or something?

In any case, Janice is naked first before Hank gives her some incredibly unbelievable oral sex, before she magically grows her top back, pulls his baggy Y-fronts down and gives him some more unbelievable oral sex during which he makes a face which makes him look like Ernie from Sesame Street. They then go back to kissing and…oh, is this sex? I’m not sure.

is it can be seks time nau plz?

So, at this point – two minutes into the scene and less than one before it finishes – they finally get around to having sex…

Susan Hale and John St. James in "Platinum Blonde" (2001)
Of course the real star is the baseball cap (middle top). What an absolute G’.

…or, at least, that what I think they’re meant to be doing. The entire thing is standing up (incidentally, Susan Hale’s character in Virgins of Sherwood Forest also has sex standing up, so maybe it’s a thing). Some of it is standing scissors, some standing doggie (or maybe it’s rear entry. No, that’d be too hardcore-y). It is fairly standard (or it would be were they not standing in Harry Potter’s childhood home), but they’re actually doing the seks and Susan Hale is pretty and she has great hair and it is overall fairly entertaining.

I could get used to this.

Except it then sort of finishes. It peters out a bit – they break apart, have another kiss, and then there’s a fade to black (a real one, not a scene transition). It just seems like it’s… well, it’s time to finish, I suppose. There’s no particularly discernible point of orgasm or interruption by anything or anyone. It just ends.

Because of course it does.

This is the voice of the Mysterons

Susan Hale and John St. James in "Platinum Blonde" (2001)
I can’t quite get past the fact that Hank is looking at something he found on the shelf… a rare collectable, perhaps?

I could look at this scene for what it is and enjoy it. It doesn’t quite deliver on every level, but it’s quick and there’s sex and it has Susan Hale in it and at least it’s original in its own way. You know, I could get behind that. Put this in the general rotation and I’m sure I could come to it. I’ve probably done so at least once.

However, what I’m not okay with – and this is a big thing – is whatever the fuck is going on in the background. The scene is overlaid by a loud, intrusive synthesized piece of electro-rock, which would also be okay were it not for the fact they appear to have decided to add vocals.

And so, during the sexiest bits of the scene, we get thrown back to reality unexpectedly by a very deep voice making noises through a vocoder. There don’t even appear to be any actual words. It’s just random utterances with the distortion jacked up to “fuckin’ intense”.

She’s probably a bottle blonde, actually

Which is maybe the reason that I’m not always raving about Platinum Blonde. It has a tendency to promise more than it delivers, although maybe that’s not fair. There are some great sex scenes in it. There are offerings with Mia Zottoli and Shannan Leigh which genuinely work. This one doesn’t, because of the confused setting, the puppetry on St. James’ face and the genuinely threatening alien transmission.

And the worst thing is that there is absolutely no chemistry between those two characters. They’re meant to be lovers, but they appear to be in no way interested in each other. Hank could just as well be having sex with a hatstand.

Do yourself a favour, if you will, and don’t go looking for this scene. See the whole thing instead. This one isn’t really representative of the movie in general – as you may recall, with the number of names in this ensemble cast. It offers more and delivers, just not here.

That, and Susan Hale deserves better. If only to see those nipple hoops again.

Kaf AF

Back in my youth, I had a friend who I’ll call Kaf. He was a good friend, actually – I knew him at primary school and kept seeing him all the way through secondary. I have bumped into him since (of course, since his family home is just around the corner). He’s now a research chemist working on air purification and the reduction of atmospheric NOx – needless to say, we couldn’t tell you this in year 6.

Kaf was, for a while, my most reliable friend, and I always saw him as quite mature: he kept a fiver in his pocket at all times; he walked around the area on his own and had been doing so since the age of ten; he knew how to re-wire a plug as long as he had the fuse for it; he wore a puffa jacket and affected a deeper voice than he naturally had. He also enjoyed a huge degree of personal liberty: ask him what he was doing, and he’d be free.

At the time I also wrote a paper diary. It wasn’t the most thrilling piece of literature in the world – although I’d always let people read it – but it was, at the very least, relatively chaste and safe for all to read. The first time I ever wrote something which I thought was a little dodgy came when I added

Kaf was free and we went into town and talked about girls

which I then justified with

(it’s the only thing he’ll talk about).

This wasn’t an unusual subject. Kaf was very interested in “girls”. At the age of 14, I also was, and in fact I’d already had crushes, but Kaf was limerent on a whole different level. He would constantly talk about the girls from the local Catholic girls’ school, with whom he apparently flirted with relentlessly every day (“phwoar!” was his description of one of them). He would occasionally look at someone our age in own and say “she’s fit” far too loud. Daringly, he had posters of Melinda Messenger on his wall and wondered if there was something wrong with me for not wanting one too. After playing Worms 2 I taught him how to use IRC once and he immediately started an online relationship with a Swedish girl we had never heard of before.

I, however, was much less talkative around the subject. I had a little sister and a fair amount of female friends, but I knew very little about “girls”. It happened that I certainly didn’t know that they were the reason for the puffa jacket and affected deeper voice. He wasn’t an unattractive guy, either: he was Greek Cypriot, had well-kept dark hair and a physique built from all the football he played. He was also a little taller than me at about 6’1″. I was considering myself average-looking and non-descript, so was much less likely to talk about, as I put it, “girls”.

The conversation wasn’t all that stimulating, either. We were a little too young to talk about sex, but a little too old to send a Valentine to a friend merely because of her gender. I mainly walked along in silence, listening to Kaf talking at great length about his patented ways to “pull”, despite having never seen him with a girl.

But that is why I added

(it’s the only thing he’ll talk about).

to my journal. I was a little nervy, but I did want to assert the fact that I could discuss my awareness of, and attraction to, the opposite sex. Shifting the blame for the topic of our conversation onto Kaf was a good way of assuaging any guilt I may have felt.

Not that I should have. But then I felt guilt for a lot of stuff.

But that was the first time I mentioned “girls” in my diary. They made infrequent re-appearances since, but less and less so as the years went on until I finally asked someone out. I wrote a very heartfelt entry that day, and even then it was still unusual for me to be so gushing (pantomime fairies notwithstanding). When she turned me down, it began the constant flow of “veil of tears” entries, and when I finally moved to LiveJournal a year later, pretty much all my posts were about “girls” (young women, really; we were in the sixth form by then).

Even then, though, I kept feeling like I had to justify the things I was saying. If I had a crush on you, of course I’d write about you. That’s what journalling was for, right? But I had to be respectful. Kaf took it a bit far. I could keep my integrity…

…as long as I didn’t start writing about sex.That would be ALL SORTS OF WRONG.

The Great and Glorious Jizz Rush of February 2024

Back in June 2021, just after I was diagnosed with myotonic dystrophy, one of the gaggle of NHS neurologists casually said something like, “oh, and you can’t have children.” I responded with, “that’s okay, I don’t want children,” and we left it at that. About a year later I realised that this meant that I was infertile. A few months ago I further realised that there’s a test for this, and that it involves permissible wanking.

And so about a month ago I finally asked my GP if I could take a fertility test…

[Excuse ILB; he just spilt tea down himself. Back just after he cleans up. There we go.]

…shortly before assuring her that he would have absolutely no problems providing a semen sample. She didn’t ask or anything; I just felt it necessary.

What I didn’t realise, of course, is that this would all be timed.

It’s the ultimate danger wank. You have to book a timeslot and then deliver a fresh semen sample in or around that exact time. You also have to produce said sample (“through masturbation”, the leaflet says, so I had to do so medically TAKE THAT ESTABLISHMENT) no more than 50 minutes before delivering it to your friendly neighbourhood pathologist. Essentially you have to do Mario Kart, except the kart is an Über and the blue shell is a sterile pot full of jizz.

What they didn’t put in the leaflet, of course, is how you manage to ejaculate into the pot if you have a penis with a nice upward curve like mine does. When I’m erect my penis is seven inches long with an upward curve like one half of a parabola (providing the vertex is my crotch). It’s easy to hold, feels good in the hand, makes it easy to stimulate a G-spot inside a vagina and (I’ve been told) looks, feels and tastes good.

It’s also got foreskin, which is something to fiddle with in bed.

Now that you’re all trying to imagine what my penis looks like, let’s get back to my original point: how do I ejaculate into a cup unless the cup itself has magical suction to avoid all the spaff falling out, suddenly have the unerring aim to develop a semen jump getting it all in there, or detach my dick and put it back on upside down? In the end, I had to cheat a bit: made sure to shoot once into it, and then came all over my hand and let that fill up the rest.

I mean, I’m sure there was enough. You’re not meant to come for two days beforehand; I took a week.

Billy Whizz from The Beano. Art by Vic Neill.
Me, in the hospital.

I chanced a look at the clock. 9:15 and my appointment was at ten. I ordered an Über with one hand while pulling up my pants with the other, secured my trousers, jumped into a pair of shoes without putting on any socks and Billy Whizzed it to the pick-up point. The driver was very kind and didn’t ask what I was cradling under my jumper and T-shirt (you are meant to keep it at body temperature, otherwise the sperm all die). Pathology, of course, is at the other end of my local hospital from the main entrance, so I barely touched the ground as I carried my precious cargo through the maze of confused patients and amused healthcare staff.

I got there with five minutes to spare. The nurse who took my semen sample was completely unfazed, almost as if people bully wank themselves into a cup and deliver it to her every day.

“You’ll get the results in about a week; call your GP and ask,” she said amiably, “but if you want help with conception…?”
“No, I’m fine, really,” I said through the residual post-orgasmic fog. “I’m just going to… go… now…”
“Sure. Thanks for being early.”
“You too,” I said, not yet aware that that made absolutely no sense.

And now I wait to find out something that I already know.

I’ve had more satisfying orgasms.

Soft Porn Sunday: Kendra Tucker & Timothy Di Pri

I’ve got a long memory. Not for everything, of course, and it’s misled me a few times, but I do have an ability to recall, if not entire conversations, at least the key facts. This, of course, is quite useful when one of your main activities involves soft porn, and (of course) the majority of entries to this here meme come from that memory.

This, of course, works the other way: there are things which I think I know, but can’t quite recall enough to actually find them. I remember a sex comedy, possibly in a foreign language, set in a country house with a major-general and a butler named Albert… clips from it were used on L!VE’s Exotica Erotica wraparound… but as for quite what it’s called…!

And then there’s the third option. Something I remember which seemingly can’t be found. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’ll never quite find Blonde, Busty, & Keane. This one, however, was findable. It took me hours to do so, and there’s been no commercial release, but find it I did. For that reason, and that reason alone…

Appearance: Love Street, Series 2: “Grading on a Curve” (1995)
Characters: Lloyd & Amelia

Title card reading "Grading on a Curve" in strange bendy alignment.
The text is curvy! Um… get it?

I have vague memories of Cinema Products Video’s short-form erotic series Love Street, although I had no memories whatsoever of the incredibly slutty opening theme played over a montage of whatever they had to hand (having just watched it for the first time since I was a teenager, now I can’t get it out of my head!). Nor do I remember any of the other episodes. This one, however, both had an indelible effect on me and formed the basis for many of my masturbatory fantasies through the years.

Zounds, I’m a pervert.

A thirty-something actor trying to pass as an eighteen-year-old.
This is our hero, the absolute twonk.

The main character in this one is tennis pro Lloyd Lupton, played by Timothy Di Pri, who you may remember from playing the professor in Justine and both Theo-204 and Theo-205 in Emmanuelle. The episode itself, however, makes a huge deal out of the deuteragonist, Amelia Stratford (to the point of having her naked in a bath under the opening credits). Lloyd is taking his wife Elizabeth (Elis Imboden) to one of those student reunion things Americans do, unaware of the fact that he’s about to bump into Amelia, the maths teacher he used to sleep with.

Two young people having sex looking very smooth.
Lloyd’s arse and one of his conquests. Teenagers don’t grow hair in America.

We then get a flashback in which Lloyd (Di Pri again, playing one of those thirty-something teens you get in US high school programmes) is a student who is incredibly gifted at tennis, flirting and sex. There is (and this is the bit I remember) a montage near the start of Lloyd laying a number of women (including, but not limited to, Dee Steele, Shawnana and Russel St. Clair), mostly on a sofa in his living room. He is, however, disliked by all his teachers, especially Mrs Stratford, whom he charitably describes as “tight-ass”.

How charming. I can see why he gets all the girls.

There follows a questionable set-up with questionable acting, in which Lloyd offers Amelia some tennis lessons in exchange for a bit of private maths tuition. You can probably tell where this is going, but she actually does tutor him maths, and they don’t start having sex until they both foolishly play tennis in the rain for some reason, and then take off their clothes.

Because of course.

Two people having sex in a shower. The woman has her mouth wide open.
What she’s shouting here is “DEUCE!”, despite the fact that she clearly has the Advantage.

The scene that follows is, effectively, another montage of Lloyd and Millie getting to know each other sexually in a number of improbable places: on the tennis court in the rain; in the shower immediately afterwards; on Millie’s bed during which they have some awful teacher/student banter – you know the type, grades are mentioned and such; on a dinner table Lloyd has been setting; by a fireside… somewhere; in class because of course; on Lloyd’s sex sofa. As he puts it himself in voiceover:

It was crazy. We started making love every chance we got. And every place we could think of. Yup, even on the ol’ couch. What?

Lloyd
A maths teenager and student having sex in her classroom. Yes, really.
At the very least close the blinds!

Why, when there are more complete sex scenes later in the very same episode, did I pick this one, of all things? The dialogue isn’t great (even if Lloyd’s improvised “oh shit!” makes me laugh), the main actor isn’t particularly attractive – and his character is a dick – and there are some glaring continuity errors. Where are Lloyd’s parents? Where is Millie’s husband? Wouldn’t somebody notice they were spending 100% of their time together? Isn’t having sex in a classroom in the daytime risky?

Why sleep with Lloyd, when Millie is both ten times sexier and not a philandering dickbag?

All the important questions.

Well, I like this scene because of the piecemeal nature of it. I’m not always a fan of this, as it can break a sex scene, but there’s enough waiting before a setting transition to give you enough sex to get a sense of and the scale of their affair. Bits where Millie (who appears to be in control most of the time) rips her shirt open and the animalistic, messy nature of their shags point to the fact that there is a lot of desperacy in their liaisons.

An actress playing a teacher learning tennis, in a very short white dress.
A rare shot of Kendra Tucker wearing clothes. Although she’s not wearing too much in this scene, either.

Kendra Tucker is a delight, too. As Millie, she cheerily laughs, smiles and moans her way through this, clearly enjoying herself both as a bored teacher getting some loving and an actress getting a paycheque. She’s almost believable, too, as a character: implausible though this whole thing is, her acting is sound and she’s very much trying. She’s pretty too, of course.

The entire montage is overlaid with a strange, but unobtrusive, music track consisting mostly of a drum loop with occasional synths and bass guitar. I can’t quite get over the fact that the “James Bond chord” is used fairly early on, but I suppose I can overlook that. They use grand piano music in a later scene, so maybe they spent all their budget on that.

End credits for a TV episode with a glaring spelling error.
FIRE YOUR END CREDITS WRITER!

I’m aware that this all sounds very silly. It also seems that there is something about to go wrong – and there is, of course there is. It continues to be silly for the rest of the episode, and the whole thing ending with a wet tennis ball falling on the ground really sums up the lengths to which they will go to stretch a theme. Whereas teacher/student liaison tends to be a staple of porn, and it’s an easy enough thing to set up too, this handles it in a bizarre way.

It’s sexy in its own way, and I suppose I did go to immense lengths to find and review it, but I wouldn’t call it brilliant. Just passable, fun, completely unbelievable and good for an orgasm.

That’s all I want, really.

Wake Up!

“Hey. Wake up.”

I rolled over – not an easy task in a single bed – and ended up lying supine.

“I’m awake,” I murmured. “Haven’t gotten any sleep. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” she replied, at which point I realised she was standing up. “I just wanted to point out that, well, that you’re hard. It’s very… apparent.”

She wasn’t wrong. I was hard, and what’s more, I had been for a while. We had had sex, of course, a few hours ago, but my body had decided it was ready to go again. I wasn’t going to wake her up for sex, but as it turns out, that’s what she was doing.

“The thing is,” she continued as she slipped off her tee, “you have a very big penis and that’s a very nice erection, and I really don’t want to waste it.”

There was a beat.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” I eventually came out with. Mr Smooth, right here.

“You don’t need to.” (She stepped out of her girl boxers and kicked them aside.) “You never need to say anything.” (She climbed back onto the bed and straddled me.) “You just need to do the things you know how to do.” (She lowered herself to sit astride. My cock, which was very hard, as you may have realised by now, slid inside her in one stroke.)

I took a deep, shuddering gasp as every single bit of me decided to wake up.

“And this,” she said as she started to ride me with a wicked grin, “is what I like to do with a very nice, very hard penis.”
“I’m not objecting,” I said as I started to meet her bounces with little pelvic thrusts. “You have a very nice… well, a very nice everything.”

As sex goes, it wasn’t very long. But then it didn’t need to be. A few minutes of bump and grind. All the right noises with all the right bits going all the right places. She was lying on top of me when we finished, and that was the way we stayed for a while longer. Her breasts squashed against my chest. My penis still buried inside her. Warm, wet, spent.

When, eventually, she nestled back into the covers and pulled one of my arms around her, she mentioned something about being able to go to sleep now.
“But I was awake. I said I was.”
“But I’m all warm, and satisfied, and full of cum, and I’ll sleep well tonight.”
I laughed, but she didn’t respond. She had gone to sleep. I wish I had that superpower.

Seven or so hours passed, during which I had sex dreams about her.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” said someone at some point.
“Mmmmm?” was my suave reply.
“Tea? Do you want tea?”
“Xibu ejezpv tbz?”
“Come on,” she said, while manually opening my eyes and greeting me with boobs to start the morning. “You can’t be that sleepy at this hour.”
“What time is it?”
“Never mind that! We’ve got to have more sex!”

More sex?

“Wake up!”

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