I picked up my Nokia 3310 and opened the Messages menu to see the name of the pretty blonde I used to talk to. Her messages were usually teasing without going to the point of being ribald – having only physically met her once, I had no idea exactly how far she would go in the flesh. From the impression I got, it was pretty far.
I’m sure we all went that far in the end. But she was an early bloomer.
is it true that when you’re horny about me your phone locks
That was all it said. I pressed the button to scroll down to check if there was any more to the message. Of course the screen didn’t move one iota. Maybe it would move up. Nope, no movement there either.
I went into an immediate and very brief blind panic. My ‘phone may have broken. There was no way I would be able to afford a new one – the things were expensive. I’d inherited this one from my sister. What would I do without it? I’d never be able to text people. Not that I texted many people, but I had pretty blonde friends who sent me things like this. It was almost like my ‘phone was locked.
…oh.
…oh!
…OH!
The last horse crossed the finish line before I texted her back.
Got me! That’s hilarious!
It was, at least, better than the ASCII art of blowjobs that another, slightly grosser female friend used to send me.
just sending something funny to my friends. but good to see ur horny about me đ
I mean, I hadn’t been horny about her… up until that point. But I’d made up my mind to keep that text – it was a clever trick, however it worked. I would send it to Esque at one point, who would be similarly amused.
But I was particularly restless for the remainder of the night.
Do people really want to have sex with men just because they have a larger-than-average penis? It seems like a fairly suspicious trope to hang an entire plot on. It’s also probably not very realistic; I’ve got an UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS and I went through an incredibly long period of nobody wanting to have sex with me.
I find it a more realistic assumption that women may want to have sex with Ron Jeremy because he’s Ron Jeremy. He’s big, he’s famous, he’s funny, he’s more talented than you think he is, and he does a rap in Emmanuelle in Wonderland, but we’ll ignore that.
The fact that he’s on this playing himself is also an incredibly Ron Jeremy thing to do. Massive dick or not – this is the ultimate self-insert fanfiction in televisual form, matched perhaps only by Nicolas Cage in The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent.
Appearance:Black Tie Nights, Series 1: “The Legend” (2004) Characters: Sandy & Ron Jeremy
I took better snaps than this, but the nose thing is difficult to resist.
I had to look Black Tie Nights up as I’m not over-familiar with the concept, but from memory: it’s an anthology series with the link being a dating agency, the eponymous Black Tie Nights, run by Cooper Snow and Olivia Hartley (Tiffany Hendra and Amy Lindsay respectively). The stories revolve around the people who hire their services – a bit like Bedtime Stories, although this one doesn’t have Kim Dawson as Belle continually getting her kit off. As much as I enjoy those bits, you understand.
In this episode we get Ron “Ron Jeremy” Jeremy, bored with women sleeping with him because he has a huge dong, asking the agency to find him someone with whom he can find a genuine connection – he wants brains as well as beauty – and a personality to match. (If only he could manage that without having sex he’d be a perfect candidate for Too Hot To Handle.)
Sucks to be him, then, as everyone still appears to be interested in his dingaling. This scene even begins with Sandy (Danielle “Kennedy Johnston” Petty, who in keeping with the script should be playing someone called Kennedy Johnston, but isn’t) feeling it. Ron, of course, is classically erudite:
I don’t want to sound crude or anything, but most women cringe a little when they put their hands on it.
Ron “Ron Jeremy” Jeremy as Ron Jeremy
There’s some more dialogue after this, which I won’t repost here as it contains preconceived notions about both Mediterraneans and mathematicians, but it’s all delivered believably enough, and I am somewhat entranced by the way Petty’s nose moves as she’s talking. She’s certainly very pretty, but it’s the nose I’m really interested in.
No, I can’t explain that any further. Let’s press on.
The actual “sex scene” bit of this sex scene starts at 00:30 of the slip I’ve got, but it moves along fairly swiftly. There’s a kiss, disrobing, and oral sex by 00:52. All very efficient.
This is how John Cage composed music.
I’ve never seen Ron Jeremy do softcore before and I do have to say he’s not too bad at it, although for the majority of this he doesn’t do much apart from remain between Sandy’s thighs, and the camera remains trained on Petty, who has a lot more to do: moan, flail, kick, and play the piano backwards.
Oh yes, I should have mentioned this earlier: Ron is eating Sandy out on a piano. Part of her rĂŽle here is to play random jarring notes with her flailing hands, which both add to and distract from the actual scene music (a generic thing with a drum beat and piano chords, nothing special, but it’s not meant to be). Danielle Petty herself is also being musical in her own way, and by 01:58 Sandy appears to be having an orgasm, which would usually be the end of a scene.
But hey, this is Ron Jeremy and his associated enhanced badoinkadoink, so there’s more.
Just out of shot is Jackie Weaver telling them that they have no authority here.
“CLANG,” says the piano as entwined hands herald the start of a doggy style scene done in a curious way reminiscent of the Zoom call I was on the other night. It does eventually switch to a full-screen shot in which they mostly appear to be doing it standing up, accompanied by a muffled “whuh” from Ron which made me chuckle. More vocalisations from Sandy, a bit of thrusting from Ron and continued dischordant piano banging are the order of the day for the remainder of the scene, and the whole thing ends with another presumably screaming orgasm (she certainly is screaming).
While she comes down Ron plays a little six-note melody on the piano, which I suppose is one way to finish.
So what do I think about this scene? Well, I certainly like Danielle Petty as Sandy. She’s attractive, flexible, gung-ho, and, upon my life, is this woman loud. Whether or not the script called for it or the actress herself decided to scream like a banshee I’m not sure, but the amount of noise she’s making here really does make you believe she’s enjoying herself.
Ron: ” RON JEREMY HUNGRY! RON EAT EAR! OM NOM NOM!”
The piano thing isn’t exactly new – ten years prior to this the same thing was done in Emmanuelle: QotG – but it certainly adds something to the bump’n’grind, even if that thing is decidedly avant-garde. The scenery is pretty good too – a nice collection of things in the room, from peacock feathers to glassware to some very nice-looking lamps. Overall, it works.
However…
There really isn’t a lot of Ron Jeremy in this scene. He’s certainly involved enough, but doesn’t get a lot to do except pleasure Sandy, and for half of that you don’t even see his face! While I will admit that I’d much rather see her body, and this is softcore so we’re never going to really see his Jonathan Thomas Esq., this is Ron Jeremy! Wouldn’t you think there’d be a little more focus on him? He’s the main character!
Still, can’t complain. This is playful and sexy and there’s a piano in it, and I’ve never seen Ron do softcore before, so now I’ve experienced practically everything.
[And with thanks to the reader who suggested this scene.]
A few weeks ago I dialled NHS 111 and ended up in an ambulance to the closest A&E. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, of course; I hadn’t, however, fallen down somewhere or had another heart attack, so there’s that. This time I merely had something swell inside my lung, but additionally this time, I wasn’t given a bed. Four days in hospital and I was in little more than a chair.
Being in hospital does weird things to my sex drive. Sometimes I go in and I’m suddenly really desperate for sex. Dodging into the patients’ toilet to masturbate, pulling my curtains to get a bit of privacy, or scrolling through porn on my ‘phone. Once I had a sponge bath from a friendly HCA just to feel something.
It works the other way, too. Last time I was admitted I spent a couple of weeks not really considering anything to do with sex. One does have to wonder what may have been written in my notes if I wasn’t expressing any sexuality. One of the lowest tier of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs and I wasn’t showing it. For shame.
This time I went in was different for that secret third reason.
Since mid-January I have been feeling decidedly unsexy. I’m not having sex with anyone besides myself anyway, so that’s not really an option, but even if the opportunity were to present itself, would I even take it up? My usual repository of softcore has been found wanting. I have a lot to say about Pandora Peaks which remains unsaid. I’ve tracked down a copy of Emmanuelle 7 and haven’t yet finished watching it…
…eventually I reached a point where I couldn’t even think about having sex without beginning to feel nauseous. Sex, my body had decided, was something that other people did. I was well and truly over it.
And I began to disconnect from ILB.
Being ILB is almost definitely the part of my identity that I’m the most comfortable with. I sit here, I drink cups of tea, I write my blog, I watch porn and I flirt with people. I’m good at that – it’s been my life since 2007 and I’m content with that. Not being able to feel the sexy any more puts a stopper on practically everything; how does one consider sex when one no longer desires it?
Isn’t that the point of sex, that it is by nature desirable?
But I wasn’t feeling it. And I was feeling it even less when lying back on my reclining chair in the emergency ambulant care unit, eyes closed, in the same clothes because I hadn’t been given any new ones, and the same shoes because they didn’t ask me to take them off, feeling dirtier than ever because there was no shower.
On the day after being discharged from hospital, I’d usually feel too horny to move and demand of myself an orgasm to help me loosen up. I’d have more regular orgasms towards an arbitrary ‘back to work’ date. Maybe this would help me to centre myself – maybe not. It all depends. But I’d have my dick in my hand at some point.
This time, however, I did not do any of that. For a few days I barely left my bed, being willingly lethargic under the hazy funk of wilt and malaise that threatened to take me. No longer would I stagger to my laptop, drop trou and go to the moon and back. Hours turned into days. Days into weeks. Fortnights. Three weeks. A month…
Last Thursday I decided that I had had enough, and I forced myself to wank. This wasn’t acquiescence – it was force… I wasn’t even watching my usual stuff, deliberately watching something harder, almost brutal. If I was going to come, I was going to have to BEAT it out of myself. But come I did, and the following day too… twice, as it turns out.
None of there were pretty. Or stunning, or even particularly fantastic.
But they happened.
They happened, and in doing so they opened the sluice-gates for something more. Once again I could feel like a sexual being, and so what if I had to try I could bully myself into it and holy fuck i was going to do so i was just going to come so much and so hard and bloody hellfire i’ve missed this i’ve missed it so much and and and
…
…and yesterday, I calmly sat down, watched some of my favourite glossy smut, read a few words, and experienced blessed relief once more.
[Inspired by, although not officially a part of, a prompt from Laurie Penny’s “write like a person” project on their Substack. I found this prompt too tantalising to resist…]
Hear me out on this one.
I would like, gentle readers, to cancel the following phrase:
“If you have to ask, you’ll never know.”
I say this, obviously, as somebody who has been the recipient of said phrase a few times. I try to avoid saying such things to anyone – the same is true of things like “that’s tough” or “serves you right”. I’ve been against these phrases since primary school; I rarely got them, but every time I did, I was incredibly upset.
The reason I’m so strongly against “if you have to ask…” is that it genuinely makes no sense. I’ve heard it from people who have taken offence to something I’ve said, and that’s when it was usually deployed… the reason I asked, of course, is because I wanted to know what I said was offensive! If I need to apologise, I’d like to know why!
Example #1: “It’s a performance school and amateur dramatics club that [my sister] attends.”
She didn’t talk to me for hours afterwards and I got an “if you have to ask…” from her after a while. In the end, I had to relate all this to my mother, who also had no idea. As it turns out, my sister had professional aspirations to the stage and had a crush on her dance tutor. My use of the word “amateur” – true though that may have been – was what had upset her.
If she’d just told me that, I would have known.
Example #2: “You’re allowed to like the porn you like, but why do you like [specific subgenre of porn]? You don’t want to do that in actual sex. It’s kind of weird.”
Okay, fair. I shouldn’t have said “weird”. But I had felt secure enough in our relationship to ask my girlfriend this; it was, after all, the first time we had been watching porn together. I hadn’t been able to say much so far, because I’d been busily licking her out for the past half hour.
Secretly, I think, I was a little jealous. I knew that she had done [specific thing that happens in subgenre] with a former sexual partner. None of my other girlfriends have had any former sexual partners, but I was dealing with this quite well. Exploring the topic in porn I took as a suggestion there was something I couldn’t give her.
Anyway, after sulking at me for while, she deployed the “if you have to ask…”, which further threw me off. Ten minutes later she said, completely out of the blue, that she had no idea why she liked that porn; it wasn’t even something she wanted to do, and it just scratched a particular itch.
If she’d just told me that, I would have known.
Love shouldn’t be a game of Mao
I may be innocent, but I’m not genuinely an idiot. If I’ve upset someone and I want to apologise, then I’m going to need to know what I’ve said. If I’m asking, I want to be told. Why ask if you don’t want to know the answer?
Seven of spades. Have a nice day!
Humans – scratch that; all animals, really – are curious creatures. We want to know things. The average adult human can ask around thirty questions a day (young children do so much more), only about half of which warranting an answer. Questions are a way one gets to understand the world, or the people that inhabit it. “Why?” is the eternal one. It’s one that needs an answer. Nobody really asks “why?” without expecting a response.
Yes, some of the things you are going to say may not be what people want to hear, but “what did I do wrong?” isn’t a rhetorical question. It’s one that deserves an answer.
In the card game Mao, you aren’t allowed to ask the rules. A huge amount of enjoying a game of Mao is trust. New players may be thrown by older players seemingly inventing rules as they go on. One has to trust that there will be a codified set somewhere. There is. It’s just part of the game.
Life shouldn’t be like that. I managed to upset the girlfriend I mentioned above once by asking her to marry me. It’s fairly evident that didn’t, of course, marry her, but at the time, I was somewhere between thrown and distressed by her response. I managed, after many tears, to ask her what I’d done wrong.
“If you have to ask, you’ll never know.”
Then how am I going to learn?
One doesn’t simply finish school at 18 and have, by that point, learned everything. Every day is an opportunity to learn something more – I’m 41 in a couple of months’ time and I’m still expecting to not yet know some really interesting stuff. Many of the most engaging eighty-year-olds I know still don’t themselves.
Withholding information from people because you “just think they ought to know” is just cruel. If I ask you why, assume I am going to want to know. In fact, if I ask you why you may wish to assume I don’t know. I myself like to answer questions – I’m not keen, however, on guessing.
Let’s all be a little kinder, shall we, and recognise questions and answers as the way of sharing knowledge and information they are intended to be – and not, as many seem to assume, as veiled attacks?
Because, after all, if I have to ask, then yes, I do deserve to know.
You’d think, wouldn’t you, that this would be obvious, right? I’ve been doing it every year for ages and I’ve even got a special code for it, and I never fail to record them in my diary and I still forgot to do this post? I have no excuse – it’s not like I haven’t got the time for an orgasm count, or even that this is particularly difficult content to write. I simply overlooked it.
This time last year I was in a rather sombre mood. Nothing was particularly wrong; it’s probably the fact that nothing was perfect, either. In 2025 a few things actually did go wrong, but then again, I did have a few perfect days.
I have written a paltry 28 blog posts in 2026. Granted that does average out to more than two per month, or one every two weeks, but that’s hardly anything when you consider that I’m a blogger who used to write at least one post every day. 2024 Escape Velocity would have been more than 40 posts, which doesn’t seem that difficult! I could have – nay, should have – done more blogging, and less worrying about not blogging! Brilliant. Story of my life!
The fact that my most popular post this year was based on somebody else’s interpretation of somebody else’s idea both gives me an idea of what people want to read and reminds me of the recycled ideas in The Machine Stops. How much that actually tell you about me, I’ve no idea.
It’s my job to tell you about me, SO HERE WE GO…
Finally, The Actual Orgasm Count
Once again I’m about to attempt to decode my handwriting, which is so awful it’s becoming a Cain’s Jawbone-style logic puzzle as opposed to simple reading. In order to make it slightly easier to decrypt, I shall defer to my own super secret secret squirrel code, to whit:
â â 69. This is the number of orgasms that Iâve had this year. Yes, really. 69. You couldn’t have made this up – let’s have a cheer!
Maths tells me thatâs an orgasm per day on 18.9% of the year. Is that good for a 40-year-old man? I genuinely have no idea. But, still. 69! Nobody’s going to take that sort of wanking victory away from me!
đ (not an actual emoji; it’s a sideways =)) or, more often, â! â 22/3; 17/6; 21/7; 7/11 (the date, not the shop); 12/9, 4/12. These are the days on which I had an orgasm which was, in some way or another, remarkable. I didn’t generally add notes as to what I found exceptional about these wanks… apart from…
FX: Three dramatic chords.
28/9Â â This was an absolute record-breaker, earning itself no less than four modifiers, each appended with an exclamation mark and with no further explanation than: Satisfying! Leana! Plentiful! BOING!!!
X2Â â 15/2. You’ll be shocked to find out that this is nothing to do with the PlayStation title from 1996 which is a sequel to 1992’s Project-X. It’s simply the one day on which I had two orgasms – both routine, neither one spectacular, but both giving me the relief I needed. You’ll realise from the date that this was the day after Valentine’s, but I’m not sure what that indicates…
Where are the new codes for 2025, you unoriginal, repetitious talentless hack?
Oh… Mirabel didn’t get one. [squeaks]
There aren’t any.
This wasn’t deliberate. Stopping short of trying to describe the minutiae of every orgasm I’ve had – my diaries are never that resilient and there isn’t enough pen ink in the world! – it would be a knightmare to even attempt to do that, or even thinking up new codes!
Apologies if you were looking forward to this bit…
I really wasn’t.
Then, all things being equal, it seems a very appropriate way to end this post.
That’s why I haven’t been writing much. December has not been easy, despite the fact that it started well enough. My annual about page update and a couple of blog posts aside, it’s been all quiet on the ILB Front for a while. This is some sort of an explanation why.
Simply put, whatever my focus may be at the time, ILB has always been a sex blog – explicit without being rude; sex-positive without being proselyting. I don’t need to be actually having sex to write about it (and, as it stands, I haven’t had sex for about a decade now). I have plenty of sex with myself, of course, and in many ways that is the extent of my sex life – I am completely okay with chatting about sex on the internet, and on account of the fact that I’ve been doing that since 2007, I think that should be relatively self-evident.
She’s here to check my pipe.
Just before Christmas a workman came to replace a pipe in our boiler system. From basically that time we have had no central heating or hot water. I tried a few methods to compensate (blankets in various places; heating water in the kettle… I even turned on my broken and dangerous space heater once, all the electricity in the flat went out…), but nothing has really worked. Yesterday he came back, with a sidekick in tow, and they spent a while taking things apart. We had about an hour of heating before the system overloaded, water pressure maxed out and everything fizzled out.
I’ve just gotten over a chest and lung infection and I’m already feeling once again like icicles are forming inside my bloodstream. That’s how cold it is.
The amount of temperatures hovering just above zero have more or less put the kibosh on the vague “get back in touch with your sexual identity, you blithering idiot” aim I set for myself a couple of weeks ago. I’ve been having sexy thoughts and the occasional dirty dream – because of course I have, it’s me – but gone are the morning erections, the implications I’m prone to picking up in innocuous conversations, and even the excitement in anticipation of porn, and more porn to come. In fact, a couple of days ago I began to feel sick at even the thought of having sex. I turned off my PC and read a book for a while before looking for something to stream… hence the mention of Netflix in the title of this post.
I can’t think of anything to blame but the cold.
So that’s what I’m doing.
Yesterday afternoon I more or less forced myself to masturbate to orgasm, with the excuse that I was alone in the flat and had some time to myself. While this was, on the whole, a good idea – it certainly felt great and my orgasm was plentiful following days of not doing so – it still felt like there was something missing. Whatever it was. There was a vital piece of the whole process absent, and even my labyrinthine brain couldn’t figure out what it was. I’d been wanking and I came… so what was the issue there?
And yet, hours later, I went to bed solid as a rock, something both unheralded and unyielding.
This morning both workmen came back to check my pipe was leaking correctly. It isn’t – there’s still a variation in pressure. The central heating is back on (although it is still very chilly in my corner of the lounge), but intermittently. It’s almost like a binary switch. Stop, start. Stop, start. Stop, start.
I suppose that’s as good an analogy as I’m going to get. My sexuality is like my flat’s plumbing; it, too, is repetitively stop-start. There’s even a disconnect between the top and bottom halves of my body – my fingers are like ice; my penis a red-hot poker. While the re-appearance of hot water affords me the luxury of having a shower, the thought of taking my clothes off in order to do so is nothing short of terrifying. Would one do so, I wonder, in an Arctic floe?
More so lies the question: do I want to have sex with myself? It certainly felt OK. Not right. Not really. But OK.
It hasn’t been an easy month, and in reality, it hasn’t been an easy year overall. This is the time to look back and reflect, and the more I look at 2025, the more I see it as a milieu of the occasional bright spot in amongst a grey mulch of nothing much else.
Possibly the word “meh” has never been so accurate.
But still.
Forward we move. However cold that might be. We cannot avoid, so we carry our cold with us.
And if anyone has any woolly gloves, that’s be great, cheers.
Sometimes, the individual moments all come back to me.
I remember Rebecca tentatively unrolling a Sum41 condom over my dick as it steadily grew harder and larger. Louise laughing at me in the pool both before and after sex in her car. Alicia pushing my head back down after I’d licked her to orgasm, so I could do so once again. Lilly running her hands through my long hair talking about how much she liked it. Screaming with pain as I got a charlie horse while doing snowdrop in the doggie position, and then trying to style it out as a moan of pleasure.
And, of course, there are plenty more. I (consensually) brought the Seamstress to orgasm a fifth time even though she said she couldn’t do any more after four. Got a red handprint on my arse after Catherine spanked me a little too hard when I wasn’t expecting it. I specifically remember Jill practically floating on the ceiling after the “we have forgotten about the neighbours” sex during Eroticon, although I also fondly remember the cheese triangles I’d eaten during the event directly preceding it. What a day.
There are, of course, always these little flashes. Little gold nuggets of sex history that return to you in lucid, horny, or even sleepy moments… whether you’re blindsided by them on a lazy Thursday afternoon, or appear in an imaginative flight of fancy during a train journey, or in your mind’s eye when commuting on the bus.
But, of course, they aren’t all there is to do with sex. Sex is both simple and complicated at the same time. It manages to be both beautiful and terrifying in its complexity, and yet seems so easy to do, especially once you’ve started. Given the increasing number of small children that have started appearing alongside the couples in my friendship group, it seems that rather a lot of people are finding it quite easy, as well.
However – and this is what I was thinking about last night, so the reason for this post – that’s not all. Sometimes I find myself thinking about how sex can become something of a routine. You’re in a relationship so it’s de rigueur that you’ll be having sex every night, or every x times a day, or whatever your average is. Of course, you may love sex and the fact that it happens so regularly, and to be honest, that’s ideal, more power to you, go ahead and fuck.
I’ve always been the most excited by the bits before sex happens. Those little moments when you’ve passed the point of no return, and it’s definitely going to happen; the only question that remains is how long it’s going to take before it does. When it’s the first time with someone new, of course, that can be even more of a turn-on. I’ve always found the dichotomy between the comforting familiarity of my penis inside a warm body and the thrill ofa journey into the unknown!!! to be a particular moment of joy.
But that’s not what this is about either.
Sure, sex is great, and excitement is great (if it pays off – spent excitement on a let-down is never too fun). But the best sex I’ve had – the very best – has always been the sort of sex that makes me feel the same way as I did the first time.
Whether it’s the second time we’ve had sex, or the seventh, seventeenth, forty-seventh, or hundredth (I’m sure it’s happened several hundred times by now), if I’m still getting the tingly feelings of anticipation, excitement, or wonder before we have sex, amazed though I am that anyone would even begin to think about having sex with me (never mind actually doing so!), then that’s the best kind of sex.
Whether it’s planned or not, whoever it’s with and when, where, why and how it’s happening… they all matter. But if I’m excited about you, and if it’s a long-term relationship I can be after years, then that sex is always going to be the best.
Go back a few years and this is the date where various “top sex blogs/bloggers” would tend to appear – individual bloggers had their own (some probably still do!), there was one on the since-maligned sexual content aggregator Kinkly, and there was a list of 100 – sometimes regarded as THE list – initially by Rori Sweet, who handed it over to Molly Moore.
Rori’s badges were usually colourful and decorative.
Havingbeenonthelistmyself – yet never quite making the top ten – last year I floated with Molly the idea of running the list myself. Our mutual agreement ended with the consensus that, whoever runs it, a list of one hundred sex bloggers simply isn’t viable.
Blogging, as a medium, has started to fade. Nobody can really, hand on heart, say otherwise. During GOTN’s Patreon hangout last night, the topic came up, and while she struggled to come up with names, I tried to write some down myself. It took me about an hour of searching both the web, and my memory, to compile a list – and, even so, it was a mission to come up with ten, never mind a hundred!
Yes, I know it’s not great, but this is the sixth draft and it’s all you’re getting.
But still, I present here a list. This is inspired, of course, by THE list formerly curated by Rori and Molly, but it is not a continuation of the same. It’s just some active blogs I like, and hopefully, that you’d like too. For the purposes of inclusion, I set myself a rule: the blogger has to have posted at least once in the past year. Yes, once. That’s the bare minimum, I think. With that in mind:
ILB’s List – Active Blogs
1. Emma from Love, Emma The reason I’m so fond of Emma is that she has a frankly enviable workrate. Her content is frequent, and varied – from love to sex to toys porn, she writes about it all. I read through my blogroll pretty much every day, and there’s usually new content from Emma. Her voice comes through in these posts… and it’s a very knowing one, too!
2. Sundial from Going Down with Sundial Still something of a newbie, although not so much any more, I’m fairly sure we’ve all read some of Sundial’s stuff over the past year. Her blog is a good example of how quality writing can outshine personal preference – I’m not into open relationships, ENM, BDSM or threesomes myself, but her writing is presented with so much flair that it’s impossible not to love.
3. Christine from Light in Grey Places I first met Chrissie at Eroticon, and was so taken with her I was delighted to see her again the following time. Her blog is a completely unique one, openly sex-positive with a focus on discourse through her Christian faith. Her posts aren’t frequent, but they’re so in-depth and carefully researched that you lose hours reading them! (And, no, I’m not just saying this because I’m a Christian too!)
4. Amy Norton from Coffee & Kink Amy comes and goes, but she still manages to get posts out there, which is always admirable. At first glance you may be forgiven to assuming C&K is primarily a sex toy review blog, but a few clicks through and Amy’s world becomes a diverse, rich and fascinating one. My favourite post, which I sadly didn’t bookmark, was one about the threesomes she’s had, which genuinely made me laugh!
6. Robyn from Robyn Eats Everything Almost quit blogging within the past year but didn’t quite get around to doing so. I am very pleased, because I adore this person and everything they do. Robyn may not be as active on their blog (although they are on social media), but there’s a wealth of flirty, funny and filthy past content on there, and reading through it is a good way to spend an afternoon. Or any time, really.
7. David from The Big Gay Review Big though I may be, I’m not gay, nor am I into review blogs since I’m not a huge sex toy fan, so why do I like this? Simply because David is an incredibly talented writer. His reviews are fun, but my favourite posts are the little series of ‘sexy thoughts’, random musings on sex and sexuality from his own unique perspective. (Sex blogs used to be full of that stuff, and it’s always nice to find some more…)
8. Bacchus from ErosBlog Bacchus has been blogging for so long that there’s always something new to find on “the sex blog of record”. Whether it’s a joke, a story, an image, a thought, or just a porn star with a pretty smile, it’ll be there somewhere on ErosBlog!
9. Cara Sutra from Cara Sutra Can I really call what Cara does a blog any more? Even years ago, what she did was more like an online magazine, but she remains a blogger, with a well-maintained repository of content there. I will admit to feeling slightly overwhelmed by Cara’s site – there’s so much there I get lost sometimes! – but I admire her and her work ethic, and having met her a few times, I’ve always enjoyed her company.
10. Violet Fawkes from Violet Fawkes Like Cara’s site above, I find myself sometimes adrift in Violet’s content, but it’s most certainly good content. Her writing usually focuses on sex-positivity with a self-acceptance focus; while it may initially seem like there’s a lot of this online, there genuinely isn’t that much! Violet’s honest, wholesome and self-affirming writing really helps you believe what you are reading.
Honourable Mention: Girl on the Net You’re here so I’m assuming you’ve already read this. GOTN is my (and realistically probably a lot of people’s) favourite sex blogger, for reasons so numerous I’m not going to have space to go into here. I couldn’t write a list without mentioning her, and the reason I’m not giving her a number is simply because she already made #1 on The List back in 2014… well, that, and she defies convention, really.
ILB’s List – Legacy Blogs
Ask me to name sex bloggers and I’ll probably end up going back into the past. I have a few legacy blogs on my radar – ones that were written, and have been either abandoned or deliberately ended, but one can still find in situ. If you haven’t read these, they are all worth a look; if you’re the author of one, HELLO!
11. Leah from Leah Lays London This was my first “favourite sex blog” back in the day. Leah, a sweet and sexy young lady, had carte blanche to seek out and sleep with as many people as she wanted, and set about laying London. Her escapades are steamy, hot and presented with the kind of indivisible glee that I find very difficult to resist.
12. Bitchy Jones from Bitchy Jones’ Diary Bitchy was mentioned by name in GOTN’s hangout last night and I could have sworn her blog was still where she had left it… which, of course, it is. Another example of a BDSM-focused blog which I like even though I probably shouldn’t, I enjoyed reading through this once again, even though it’s been years!
13. Scarlet from Scarlet the Harlot Scarlet was a good friend for quite a time and, though I completely understand why she has kind of moved on from this era of her life, in the earlier days she was quite well-known. Her posts are sensitive and heartfelt and she has a genuinely pure soul, despite any indications to the contrary…
14. Rose Monrou from Sex with Rose Rose is, and probably always will be, my best friend in the sex blogging community. More than six feet of beauty, Rose wrote 44 pages of content in her time, so she definitely deserves a place here. If you ever get a chance to meet her too, you should… she’s not someone you’ll ever forget!
15. Robin from The Life of a Little Sex Addict This is a curious one and no mistake. Is any of it even true? I wondered back then and still do, even though I hope it is. Robin was never particularly open with her identity, or even her location… but that didn’t matter, as her posts are direct and filthy! Some of them are brief and, fair enough, her grammar isn’t fantastic, but this blog is a guilty pleasure that I am freely admitting to here.
Honourable Mention: Cheeky Minx from Love Hate Sex Cake I’ve always liked Minx and the stuff she does, and we’ve had a mutual appreciation thing going on for a while now. She hasn’t, sadly, posted since 2021, but her blog contains her wistful musings and photographic self-portraits in abundance. Her writing manages to be yearning, yet somehow sorrowful, and her inner beauty shines through in a way to match her outer one.
And that’s the end…
It took me a good few hours to write this and read through all the blogs I’ve mentioned here – extant or not. Tempting though it may be to go on an angry rant about the decline and fall of the blogging medium, and blame it all on monetary gain or grinding commercialism or the Online Safety Act, it just seems pointless right now.
I fully intend to keep blogging for a long as I can. In my older years I have slowed down a little, and this year (in particular) I have been quite lax in posting. I’m most certainly not going to make escape velocity this year… but then, I don’t need to do that to validate myself. Blogging has always been something I enjoy – I’m not out here doing it for clout or self-congratulation or monetary gain – and that’s why I read other blogs. I enjoy reading them and getting a little insight into the minds behind the words.
That’s the reason that I made a list. I wanted to share what I’ve found with you. Gentle Readers. I hope that, by following the links here, you’ll discover something new, and hope that sex blogging, despite all the pitfalls we have suffered recently, can never truly die.
I’ve never really been too sure as to how I feel about Kim Yates. As much as she is a very attractive lady, and her acting is sound, I’m not entirely sure whether or not I’m very much of a fan. Admittedly, she has done less that a lot of her contemporary peers (although more than some – for her co-star here, Brucio D’Luria, this is his only credit outside of his “other” name Bruce Lurie), and maybe it’s the scenes themselves that aren’t to my taste. Let’s see if this one can change my mind.
Appearance: Nightcap, Series 1: “Forbidden Lust” (2000) Characters: Kim & Tom
I don’t really know Nightcap either. Having a look on IMDb seems to suggest that I should, with a stacked cast including Tane McClure, Nikki Fritz, Stella Porter, Regina Russell, David Christensen and “good ol’ Jason Schnuit”.
All the hits, darling. All the hits.
Even the concept sounds appealing. A rotating cast of regulars, plus sexy guest stars, in a continuing drama series in which every episode ends with hot lovemaking. What’s not to like? And yes, it still managed to pass me by; living in the UK does that. I’ve never seen Zane’s The Jump Off either. We wouldn’t have gotten Emmanuelle in Space were it not for L!VE TV.
Anyway, this episode has a very simple plot, so here we go. Tom (D’Luria) has been sleeping with his best friend’s wife and feeling hella guilty about it. Eventually he explains his woes to series regular Nikki (McClure), and ends up on a date with – and then shagging – Kim (Kim). Wildly original casting there, guys.
At least her underwear matches in terms of colour…
One thing I’ll say for Nightcap: it doesn’t mess around with starting off. From what I can see in this scene, either Kim and Tom don’t own too many clothes or they’ve not bothered to show any disrobing. There are only seventeen seconds of foreplay as well – and even that’s nothing more than touching and a bit of body heat.
[ILB is of the opinion that, in real life, longer foreplay is much better. His personal opinion used to revolve around the idea that if you haven’t licked her to orgasm at least once before penetrating her you’re not doing it right. While that may no longer be the case, he still yearns to lick someone to orgasm prove his theory. In softcore, too much of it frustrates him.]
I wonder if that’s a real plant? Nah. Must be AI-generated.
Anyway, yes, 17 mere seconds in and Kim magically loses what’s left of her garments and is merrily riding away, with a nice fluidity in her body and acceptable camera work. We also get a wide shot of the room at this point, which looks both functional and like something neither of them could ever afford. Bed without pillows doesn’t look too comfortable, but again, Kim and Tom don’t appear to mind this rather obvious gaping flaw. I wonder if they’re distracted by something.
Kim does quite a lot of sex on top during this scene, and she does it quite well. As I’ve said before, her movements are quite fluxional; there’s a rhythm to proceedings, and she has nice boobs and a well-defined stomach, which both… help?… I don’t have much to say about Tom though, at least initially. Not only is D’Luria a generic square-headed warm body to fill space, the camera doesn’t even seem to like him! We barely see his face here. I’ve had to take a screenshot to prove he exists!
Tom. To prove his existence and show that he isn’t a deepfake or something.
At 01:16, the scene mixes to Kim in the reverse cowgirl position, so she can ride without looking at Tom’s face, and once again we get similar movements with a few added shots of Kim’s bum. That’s all I have to say about this.
There’s a welcome switch at 02:04, however. For the first half of this scene, Kim has been very much the star, but we get another mix (clearly the preferred mode of transition) to good old-fashioned lusty missionary. This time it’s Tom doing the movements, although he’s just moving back and forth. While Kim manages to keep the audience’s attention throughout (through some clever positioning of her legs), he’s not doing such a bad job, and both do look like they are very much enjoying themselves.
It ends with a fade to black because OF COURSE IT DOES.
He’s enjoying himself; she’s practising the can-can.
There’s very little to dislike here. It’s short, but does a lot with its 02:47 runtime. The setting is quite chic, the sex is intense and even the acting – as far as I can tell – is believable. Even the soundtrack is good; I originally found it a little bland, but a drum beat comes in halfway through, which helps to drive things forwards. They’re even making all the right noises.
So, as it turns out, I do quite like Kim Yates. She still isn’t, and probably never will be, my favourite softcore star – but, in this specific scene, she is sexy, she is active, and she shines!
I didn’t remember her bed being this large, or even the volume of her parents’ house, or the fact that it was suddenly a mansion in the middle of nowhere. Despite our years of separation, she was the same as ever. I had no idea exactly why she was putting up with my cartoonish buffoonery, but since she was decidedly DTF, I didn’t really care either way.
“Aaaaaaaaah,” she said, having toked from a spliff about the size of her forearm. (I’m actually quite intolerant towards the stuff, but I wasn’t going to object to her partaking in a massive attack of the chron, on the condition that I got to call it that.) “That’s the stuff.” “Absolutely,” I said. “Didn’t you want to have sex after this?” “Oh, yes, yes I did,” she agreed agreeably. “But we can’t do that with my parents in the next room. Let’s go to the summerhouse.” “Oh, good idea!” I ejaculated, despite the fact that I wasn’t aware there even was a summerhouse. Their garden wasn’t even big enough for anything more than a shed.
This is what suburban houses in Oxford look like.
We made our way through various bits of the set from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari to get out into the garden. The promised summerhouse was a bit like a cross between the TARDIS and the bus from Spice World, insofar as the fact that it was bigger on the inside and happened to be fully carpeted, wallpapered and furnished, including a bed which had clearly been put there for the purposes of having sex.
We lay on the bed for a while, mutually wondering why we weren’t yet doing anything, when we had decidedly come here with the intention of Doing Something. In the end, when no sex had happened, one of us – I think it may have been me – came up with the idea of going back into the house and sneaking up to her room.
This then happened. She was good at sneaking in, cat-like, and entered her room silently. I was a little less successful, by which I mean that I managed to trip over a metal bucket, landing hard on a door to a cupboard full of metal tools which cascaded downwards with a cacophonous concerto of clangs, and although they all somehow missed me, both hands managed to land on top of a brazier which just happened to be there…
It was my swearing which eventually woke up both parents. My blistering hands soothed under a running cold tap, I drew myself an icy bath which I sat shivering in, both hands submerged, when her mother came in, still wearing the dressing gown I remember her owning. She didn’t seem surprised to see me in her house.
“What’s going on, young man?” she asked, to which I couldn’t really give a concise answer.
I mean, could you, given the above sequence of events?
“I burned my hands,” I said, showing my braised red palms.
