Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Month: September 2020

Keeping the British End Up: The Amorous Milkman (1975)

I started to watch this one with more than a little trepidation, I will admit, on account of the fact that I had only seen it once, and even then, only half of it. In fact, just about the only thing I remembered about it was the alarm clock with a little doll that dings out erections as it chimes (really) and sex being replaced by a train going into a tunnel (which doesn’t actually happen – something of a false memory there…).

What I didn’t recall was the plot, if there was one, and therefore I went in relatively fresh before reviewing…

The Amorous Milkman (1975)
Director: Derren Nesbitt
Starring: Brendan Price, Diana Dors, Julie Edge, et al.

First off, the sound quality is terrible. There’s a huge amount of background hiss throughout the whole thing, although this probably has been recorded from some VHS tape somewhere (I can’t imagine there’s ever been a DVD release), and even then, this probably didn’t have the hugest of budgets, it may just be there, as a feature. I’m going to ignore that, though.

The Amorous Milkman poster crediting Julie Edge as the star. Why?
Julie Edge is credited first. Why?
Answers on a postcard!

This one’s called The Amorous Milkman and is yet another of these comedies that has the name of a salt-of-the-earth working-class type job in its title, on account of the fact that you probably wouldn’t be able to tell that from the huge milk float our title character rides and the bottles of milk he delivers throughout. In fact, Brendan Price is even credited at the start as “The Milkman”, as if the character doesn’t have a name!

The title and premise are somewhat misleading, however. Davey (Price) is a young milkman who lives in a tiny bedsit, complete with erection alarm clock, who can only wake up with the sound of an aeroplane seemingly close by (too close; you’d think he lives in the airport by the noise itself!). He’s also very British, warming up a copper kettle on a gas hob to make a cup of tea in the morning. His first line also contains the word “bloody”.

British, you see. Cor blimey, guv’nor.

"The Amorous Milkman" in questionable yellow typeface.
And it was all yellow…

There’s even a British sex comedy opening, with a jaunty theme tune over a “morning routine” montage (including walking down all the stairs in his building using the same shot multiple times – a cunning bit of trickery also used by student filmmakers everywhere) and the titles superimposed in yellow (also a colour they use a lot…). And off he goes with his milk.

One would expect, I think, for the rest of the film to be fairly routine, with Davey delivering more than just a bottle of milk to the succession of bored housewives he meets along his route. Indeed, it does seem to be setting that up quite nicely, introducing us to Rita (Diana Dors), unsatisfied with her stuffy second husband Gerald; Janice, who we first see in the bath; a drippy young lady who patches Davey up after a bad fall; and a dog owner.

After a huge roaring bark which I could swear was also used for Knightmare‘s Festus, Davey falls over and hits his head. Of course, it turns out that this fearsome beast is just a small King Charles spaniel, but then we all saw that one coming, didn’t we?

Davey & Janice
She’s an attractive girl.
He’s got a mullet.

The thing is, that he doesn’t actually seduce any of these women until much later. The Amorous Milkman spirals from campy sex comedy into something of a drama about romantic misunderstandings, what with Davey managing to get engaged to multiple girls (Janice, and sexy brunette Margot (Nancy Wait), not to mention Julie Edge’s Diana, also a love interest) while not having sex with any of them.

In fact, in a similar vein to Adventures of a Taxi Driver, there’s even a dodgy friend, and a crime caper bit which ends up with Davey standing trial for indecent assault! Once again, this is a comedy which ends up trying to be something else – I would have preferred repetitive sex scenes with a number of housewives, to be frank!

A mass of writhing bodies meant to represent an orgy.
The orgy. Yes, I know.

Like a lot of ’70s sex comedies, however, there isn’t really a large amount of sex. There are, and I did remember this correctly, brief snatches of sex between Davey and other women lasting about a second long (and often in an odd colour like red or blue – maybe to make it more “memory”-ish), and there’s plenty of inoffensive nudity too, such as bars with topless waitresses, a party will a full-on orgy going on, and an art nouveau film-within-a film scene, where the flick they’re actually watching reminds me of real soft porn!

Pornception!

In fact, at one point during which Davey does manage to get into bed with Margot, very little is actually seen – and what there is is intercut with wartime footage… namely:
(i) a warplane
(ii) soldiers
(iii) more soldiers
(iv) Hitler
(v) a battleship firing
(vi) another warplane
(vii) pipers playing an Edinburgh tattoo
(viii) explosions
(ix) …a flamethrower? Why?

There are even some attempts at groanworthy verbal comedy (“I hope I didn’t hurt your pussy” – it’s a cat, you, see, a cat, there’s some Mrs Slocum levels of smut there) somewhere, but if I hadn’t written it down I probably would have forgotten it!

A sex scene, dimly lit.
It’s the most you’re getting.

My guess is that The Amorous Milkman is the result of a curious experiment, throwing sex comedy, romantic misunderstandings, Shakespearean farce, courtroom drama and a milkman into the mix, filming it all and seeing what sticks. Then again, it’s actually based on a novel (by the director), which I haven’t been able to obtain, so I can’t simply go and check if this is just a filmed version of said novel to begin with!

My head hurts.

For all I’ve said, though, this flick isn’t actually bad. It’s not good, but it’s not terrible. Frankly, I was expecting worse.

And I’m really glad I don’t live in his bedsit.

4(nal) secs

I was three pints of Diet Coke into a raucous game of “I Have Never” when somebody – I forget who – said that he had never given, or been the recipient of, anal sex.

A few people drank, including the pretty French teacher who was leaving the following day, the Asian doctor who had treated my head injury less than 24 hours prior, and the Liverpudlian girl who was better at rugby than the 200+ other people in the centre. After a few seconds, I drank too.

I always drink – for this isn’t the first time it’s come up during such a game – for anal sex, but in truth, I’m not entirely sure if my experience counts. I certainly had my penis inside an anus, and it was certainly enjoyed by both parties involved, but (aside from what might be termed the ‘technical’ side of things) I don’t think it really counts as anal sex – mainly because of its duration: four seconds.

It’s not even as if I’m at all squicked out by anuses (anii? No, I had to look it up – anuses) at all. I’ve given analingus (and would again). I’ve penetrated anuses with my finger (my second girlfriend liked to have one finger in each hole while I licked her clit, so I became pretty adept pretty quickly). I’m not shy, or ashamed, to touch. I’m aware it’s sensitive and I’m aware some people like it.

Having said all that, my arse is a no-go area. I’ve even had offers, but I’ve said no. I’ve had enough gastric problems throughout my life to know that I don’t trust my intestines very much, and I know from experience that, even if I use the toilet, clean, wash and then get bizzy with it, my rear end isn’t a very pleasant place to be around. I’m not really expecting to be on the receiving end of anal sex anyway, but yeah. I’m the giver, in this case.

Right, yeah. My experience.

My four seconds of anal came after forty or so minutes of incredibly vigorous vaginal sex, so there was plenty of preparation there. She had, incidentally, had somewhere between three and five orgasms (I’d stopped counting after two) and had been fingering herself in both holes while running a bath in order to clean up. I hadn’t had an orgasm, myself (I had earlier in the day, of course), and right then, I was still hard.

“Can I help?” I asked unsteadily, as I walked into the bathroom having regained the use of my legs.
“Certainly,” she quipped, bending over with her hands on the edge of the bath. “Go on.”
“Really?”
“I’m waiting.”
And I shuffled forwards, angled myself into what I thought was the correct position (having only seen this in porn, and never really given it more than a passing thought), and carefully slid my shaft into her anus, keeping a hand on each hip to hold myself in place.

[Disclaimer: Don’t actually do this. Anal sex takes a large amount of preparation, careful planning, toilet time beforehand and lots of lube. Louise was incredibly wet in all areas and more than ready at the time, and we were two horny teenagers, but it’s more than worth putting a warning here.]

My memories of being inside – brief as the actual experience was – amount to the fact that it was:

(i) tighter than usual (I could feel everything)
(ii) warmer than usual
(iii) completely baffling for me
(iv) clearly very pleasurable for her, as she let out a low, deep moan very unlike her usual high-pitched shrieks of joy during sex

Ed Miliband using the classic phrase to dramatic effect.
Uh.

I didn’t actually say anything, or do anything else. I was very stiff from all the sex and didn’t really trust myself to thrust. If memory serves, all I really said was “uh,” which was pretty much everything, as I pulled out immediately after I went in, and nothing happened afterwards. Louise gave me a giggle, and a kiss, and then went to get some towels.

With nothing else to do, I got into the bath.

So, no, I can’t pretend to be an expert and I’m not entirely sure if what we did counts. My memories, like the summer heat and the air around at the time, are hazy. But if we’re playing I Have Never, and anal sex comes up, then I’ll take a drink. Nobody really asks any further questions, but if they do… well…

…that’s what my blog is for.

Fiction: Glimpse

It was quick. Very quick. A flash in the pan, as one might say. But I saw it. I definitely did see it. I can replay it in my mind, even now. Over and over and over again, it comes back to me. I know what she did, and I know how she did it. And even in my memory, the very thought still sets me on fire.

I shouldn’t have seen it. I know I shouldn’t. I wasn’t meant to be party to such a visual treat. I was at the back of the room; she was at the front. I was meant to be busy with something else – I even had an arm curled around the girl I was with. She had her head buried in my chest, listening to my heart beat. I’m pretty sure it was lulling her to sleep. It does that. And I know, deep down inside, that this was the girl I was meant to be concentrating on. I was. I really was.

But, while bending down to nuzzle her hair, my eyes flicked upwards. I caught the slightest glimpse of the girl in the other corner of the room. What she did was extraordinary – a spark of wanton electricity. I’m glad I had somewhere else to look, but nevertheless, I’d seen it. I couldn’t un-see it. My mind was trapped, caught in a loop. My thoughts went places they shouldn’t have gone. I felt dirty. Stained, unclean, wrong. But so, so good.

My girl murmured that my heartbeat had sped up. Not without cause.

[The above was originally submitted to the Eroticon 2012 anthology! Eight years later, here it is, dug up and dusted down, and presented for the first time here – hooray bonus content!]

Tonic

I wish, and I say this with earnest sincerity, that I could bottle the feelings I have in my less lucid moments, for voracious consumption when fully awake and actually aware that I want to have sex.

It’s probably not as cut-and-dry as that; nor is it particularly practicable, I am aware. Both the sleepy daytime dreams and cosy quasi-wakefulness betwixt sleep and death probably warrant lustful feelings precisely because I’m not entirely in control of my body, and devolving somewhat into something more primal. I’m fairly certain that there’s even some amount of credence to the idea that my sexual desires, buried as they are in my unconscious during the day, find their outlet when I’m not wrestling them back.

It’s frustrating, then, that I have feelings like I did during yesterday’s rest (wherein I hit upon the idea of sex as a sanitary, clean, purely recreational activity with no ramifications whatsoever – stemming from idle thoughts of a social media friend and ending up, as ever, with the message pervasive in Emmanuelle), resulting almost invariably in RAGING HORN plus glorious visions and imaginings, that have all but vanished by the time I actually attempt to act upon them (as I also did yesterday).

[Check me out, English graduate over here, writing the previous paragraph as one complete sentence, including parenthetical remarks (twice) and unwarranted tense change.]

These feelings – and the visions that come with them, that also act as an aide-de-camp to arousal (I had a particularly vivid sensory hallucination recently, so much so that I could feel the vaginal walls contracting around my cock) – would be of a lot more use if they could be bottled, preserved, and used during masturbation, or even sex itself. They’re the perfect blend of lust, whimsy, and the like of laissez-faire attitude that makes for fun and fancy free sex.

Unfortunately, I’m fairly sure that a major component of these semi-fantasies is that they involve being very sleepy, and as much fun as sleepy sex can be, I probably wouldn’t be a fan of dropping off during (although it does happen!).

But if I could just, as I said above, bottle those feelings, and keep them for when they are needed… why, if I could do that, I’d own this town.

ILB and Gender: a flailing study thereof.

[CW: Body and/or gender identity dysphoria. I’ve never done a content warning before, but this one seemed like an important enough topic to mention.]

I’m a boy. I’m a boy now and I always have been a boy, and I’m both comfortable with and aware of the fact that I am, and was, and will be, a boy. I’m still not entirely au fait with the identity, and the connotations of, “man” – but I am one… or, at the very least, a boy.

This may not be a surprise to you, especially if you’ve read this blog for the past thirteen years and have noticed that it’s called “Innocent Loverboy” and that my abbreviation of ILB makes reference to me also being a boy. But, go back a couple of decades, and it would be a surprise to me.

It was a surprise to my parents. They were expecting a girl, initially, who they were going to name Lucy (a name that ended up unused, as my sister got their second girl name choice instead – it suits her, actually). I was both the first born in their marriage and the first grandchild to my mother’s parents, so I got a fair amount of attention for the first four and a half years of my life until my sister arrived in 1989 and I suddenly became yesterday’s news. I had started school about a year beforehand and, up until then, I just assumed that all the stuff I did was boy stuff, because I was a boy.

One of the taunts I endured throughout primary school concerned the fact that I was, in fact, a girl instead. Other boys in primary school were doing other boy stuff that seemed radically alien to me – they were pretending to fight (and fighting’s wrong!), talking about Teenage Mutant NInja Turtles (which is a violent programme! they shouldn’t be watching it!), making mentions of wrestling (which is an awful practice!) and – worst of all – playing football. I mean, football. I didn’t see the appeal.

I still don’t, and never will. Football – really?

For a while, then, around about year 3 or 4, I rationalised that, because I didn’t do the institutionalised boy stuff, I may not have been a boy after all. With the exception of Robinson, all my friends were girls, and I played ‘girl games’ in the playground with them which involved getting boyfriends and the like. I even got termed a ‘girl’ by one of the teachers who subdivided the playground into boys (football) and girls (everyone else).

As far as I was aware, I was a boy – but feeling like I shouldn’t be. I felt like I should be a girl. I remember telling Robinson that, on my planet, everyone was half boy and half girl, including me. I knew the term ‘tomboy’ and asked my mother if there was such a thing as a ‘tomgirl’ (a term used in year 7 by Lightsinthesky, until Spanner corrected him and added that the term was ‘Sally’. I’ve never heard that used again.).

According to my bullies, I fitted the brief (until year 7, when a whole new set of bullies decided that I was more suited to being gay, and thus came a whole host of new taunts, including an insult that isn’t really an insult).

After about a few months, however, I decided that I was indeed a boy and it didn’t matter if I liked girlish things – in fact, I wasn’t really, at all. I liked ‘me’ things – fantasy and adventure stuff, magpie collectables like Smartians and Orangey-Tangs, Saturday morning television, Super Mario games and playing the violin. I’d watch Knightmare and go to Woodcraft on Friday evenings, and I’d go to church on Sunday. I’d play on my SNES every day and do as well as I could at school.

I was me and I liked me things. At that age, I thought to myself, does it really matter if I’m a boy or a girl? I’m me. I knew, even then, that if I didn’t want to be a boy, I could change. I just needed to ask my mum and she’d arrange it. By year 6, I was fully entrenched in my gender identity, and when I stood up in assembly and said loudly and clearly, “I’m a boy, and I don’t play football”, I got a round of applause.

It’s an identity I carry to this day. I’m a boy, and I don’t play football.

Fast-forward to 2020 and now I’m much more aware of the idea of toxic gender identity assumptions. Gender, a social construct which is bollocks even if you accept the fact that there are more than two identities, is a fluid, shifting idea the size of a universe, and even if I’m confident in what suits me, I’m aware that there are many people who were assigned one that doesn’t suit them. That’s fine too.

But the world still hasn’t moved on, even with this new knowledge. Shops still do ‘for him’ and ‘for her’ sections. Toxic masculinity makes me feel uncomfortable with my chosen gender, and hyperbolic misandry makes me feel attacked. These things that people think – girls like fashion and gossip and Disney Channel movies; boys like sports and fighting and Batman – only go to reinforce these ideas. (Enbys don’t even get stereotypical things, because they don’t exist.)

We all know they’re wrong. We do. So why does it still happen?

Those of you who have read my erotica may have noticed that I have almost always written from a cisgender female point of view. I find it easier to write that way, and the novel(la/ette) that I’m (meant to be (not)) writing is entirely narrated by my female protagonist Melissa – and that’s fine, I’m not pretending to be a girl, I’m just writing fiction from the point of view as one.

I think that’s okay. It doesn’t make me a girl. It’s just fiction…

…is what I would think if it mattered.

But it doesn’t matter, and it shouldn’t matter, and it never should have mattered. If I wanted to be a girl when I was 9, then sure. That’s how I felt at the time. I changed my mind later on, because I’m allowed to do that.

I’m a boy, because I chose to be a boy, and no matter what my genitals are, that was my decision.

IT’S NOT A DIFFICULT CONCEPT!

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