Author: Innocent Loverboy (Page 1 of 29)

Hotel Story #2

October 22, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

The first time I stayed in a hotel with a girlfriend, I was 18. We had plans to spend an entire Easter holiday period together – that’s two weeks, to my non-UK readers – one week with her family; one with mine. We decided to bridge the gap with a night in a hotel.

The universe didn’t make it easy. Whatever search engine we were using before everyone switched to Google threw up a few answers and we sort of picked the first one which wasn’t too expensive, part of a chain, near an airport or with a resident distraction. I ‘phoned the one-star hotel near King’s Cross and reserved a double room. Not needing to do so, I didn’t give any details apart from my name… a fake name.

I had gone into this with limited cash and the idea that we had to be more or less anonymous. At the age of about 14 or 15 I had had a fantasy about being one half of a pair of young lovers who had a lot of sex even though the police were trying to stop them. Their orgasmic moans were a clue to their location – usually down a dark alley or on a rooftop or something – but they were never caught. Now that I was actually in that situation (even though we were publicly a couple and everyone knew we were having sex), getting a hotel room without anyone knowing so was about as close as we were ever going to get to becoming The Sexing Twosome™ (yes, there was a name, just in case I ever pitched it to TV. Now that I consider it, Netflix may jump on that idea…).

We took a train down to London and felt each other up for the majority of the journey. By the time we found our one star hotel, we had decided we probably ought to have sex before going out to find food.

The concierge told us that they didn’t actually have the room I had reserved, but there was a twin room available, so would we like that?
“What the fuck?” I didn’t say. “We’ve specifically booked this room so we can go at it like jackhammers, even though we’d be doing that anyway but we got carried away with this harebrained idea and now we want or sex room!”
After not saying any of this and leaving, my dreams of finally becoming The Sexing Twosome™ started to seem impractical. After all, the suave, debonaire male partner was a dynamic young go-getter with problem-solving skills, and I was an awkward, gawky idiot who had just been put in his place by an aging concierge in a hotel which didn’t even seem to contain lights.

“So what do we do now?” she asked, clearly expecting this awkward, gawky idiot to pull some magic solution out of the air like I’d done the first time we had sex.
“Abuh,” said this attractive genius. “Let’s… uh… I don’t know.”
At which point I noticed the rest of the street we were standing on.

The two star hotel next door had nicer Romanesque columns bookending the entrance, but it had the same vibes inside – dim lighting leading the way down gloomy corridors; uniform grey carpet tiles everywhere, a slightly neglected air, clean though it may have been. (London is full of these. The first part of this story has one particularly memorable one.) After being assured that they were never going to be full, I paid some cash and was handed a huge piece of vinyl with a key attached to it.

I remember walking down the corridor holding hands. It was quiet. Nobody else was around. Everything was calm, but sad. A place of sorrow without torment.

Our room, as it turns out, was actually quite nice. Spacious, airy, bright and with a sizeable double bed… which, as we suddenly realised, was the reason for our presence in this dreary corner of London. We put our bags down; I went to make a cup of tea…

My penis was inside her within five minutes. Half an hour later, with a plastered grin and full of cum, she felt ready to walk again.

We went in the wrong direction, got completely lost, and almost didn’t find somewhere to eat. I think we ended up in McDonald’s, which – as I noted multiple times that night – was also the name of the one star hotel who had abandoned our room.

In the end, we had to walk a little to get back to our temporary place of lusty residence. As we mutually admitted, we were tired, we’d had food, and we’d already had sex. We went back to our room intending to go straight to sleep.

And then we had sex three more times that night.

The police never found us.

Waiting

October 4, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

I’ve been
Waiting a long time
For this
Moment to come, I’m
Destined
For anything at all

“Oh, interestingly, exciting news.”

My mother pulled on the brakes and her bike screeched to a halt just before the entrance to the alleyway. It led to the park – this I knew – and I also knew I wouldn’t be able to say anything as we rode down it single file.

“Oh yes? Do tell?”
“Well…”

When I stopped, the iconic plinking sound which accompanied my cycles finished their usual tune (which I can still hear – the spokey-dokeys from Monster Munch were placed on randomly, and since I liked the melody, I kept them on that way), and fell silent.

I cleared my throat.

The problem was – and I realised this a fraction of a second too late – that I didn’t actually have exciting news. At the age of ten, nothing in particular seemed to count as exciting. Getting a new Usborne Puzzle Adventures book was an event. Maybe I’d get a SNES game once a year, for birthday and/or Christmas. Those things were exciting.

But I still hadn’t experienced anything which could be categorised as “exciting news”. My mother’s disappointment when I followed my declaration up with a joke she’d heard before was palpable. I went home glum that afternoon, feeling somehow that I’d cheated myself out of a genuinely exciting event. There wasn’t one, of course, but if I hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t have upset myself.

A few years later, as a teenager, I found myself, once again, waiting. The sort of exciting news I thought I might get had evolved, in a way, although I still didn’t know exactly what I was waiting for. Nine times out of ten, of course, it was me waiting to get a girlfriend. I would tease the audience with silhouettes of practically all the girls in my life, keeping them guessing.

I didn’t know, of course, but then neither did the audience. We’d find out at the same time. That would have been exciting.

Age 17 was probably a little too exciting… or, at least, it was at the beginning. Very little of it could be categorised as news, however. I had my coach journeys and my girlfriend and my sex – not to mention the A2s I was taking (in a much better mood than my ASs – and I got better grades in a better mood!). But I still felt, in a way, like I was waiting for something.

I still had no idea exactly what it was. As far as I was aware, I had what I’d been waiting for. And yet, still, I felt like I should be waiting for something. Something which I could tell the audience, or at the very least my mother, was “interestingly, exciting news”.

I’ve since gone through four relationships, had at least ten forms of gainful employment, visited the most distant country of two foreign continents, been seen on stage and screen and read in print, saved at least two lives, and learned more about sex than I ever thought I would.

I’m still waiting.

かわいい

September 21, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

[Do I need to update my PHP? Probably. I'll just add that to the list of things I'll never do. I've still got an account on Ello and haven't gotten around to shutting that down yet.]

I’m standing outside a Buddhist temple in Kyoto with sweat rolling down my forehead. It’s subtropical in southern Honshu in August and I hadn’t quite factored this in. My mother made me pack a coat; I’m not sure why she did either.

Heat or no heat, I’ve been enjoying myself. We spent a whole week in Tokyo buying retro games and drinking the VERY MANLY pink peach froth they do in Japanese Starbucks. The occasional diversion to maid cafés, a stripshow and possibly-the-biggest-sex-shop-in-the-world aside, our first week had mostly consisted of going to various places to shop.

And I was completely fine with that. I can’t pretend that I wasn’t there for that, too.

Kyoto is proving different. Walk down the street from our hotel and lots of the suburban houses have a little Shinto hokora sandwiched between them. Eventually you’ll reach the local onsen, which we’ve already been to. I’ve never been naked in front of 47 before. He’s practically my brother and we had to go to Japan to reach that step. He didn’t seem fazed by my UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS.

Anyway. We’ve just had a rickshaw ride through a forest of bamboo and there’s a large Buddhist ex-monastery now used as a temple of worship and/or tourist trap. We are tourists and have fallen into said trap. 47, who (as it turns out) is a competent photographer, is quite keen on taking pictures. My DM forbids me from taking anything not at a Batman angle. He’s got the ‘phone and he’s taking the snaps.

I stand in front of the path to the temple and strike a pose.

“Kawaii!” says a cute female voice.
I look in its direction and see the cute female attached to said voice. She was walking down the road with a group of other Japanese women holding parasols, but she’s stopped now to call something kawaii. And she’s looking straight at me. She then repeats it again – “so kawaii!!”

This must be a mistake. Or a joke, or a dare. Maybe 47 has paid her to tell me I’m kawaii. Of course, perhaps she genuinely does think I’m kawaii, or at least the pose I’ve chosen to strike is kawaii. Perhaps it’s the T-shirt I’m wearing, or my messy black hair, or how awkward I look. Japanese friends have occasionally spoken of the appeal of an innocent-looking gaijin. (Whether or not I’m actually innocent is, of course, conjecture, but it’s in my screen name, so I’ll take it.)

Of course, maybe I’m not kawaii. Maybe she was saying kawaikunai – かわいくない – and I’m not cute.

She must have picked up on my sudden self-doubt because she switches to English.
“Cutie!” she clarifies, with a smile brighter than the surface of Venus. “You’re a cutiecutie!”

OK, that’s new. I’ve never been called a cutiecutie before. My mum called me handsome once. A girl at a gig said I was very pretty. A staff member at Rebecca’s college once said I was “a bit of a honey” and one of Soldiergirl’s friends said I “looked like an angel”. But being a cutiecutie was new. Being declared one immediately after being told I was kawaii twice was definitely new. And being told so by a pretty Japanese girl is basically the sort of thing I’ve had dreams about.

After this, you know, take me away. I’m done. It’s not going to get any better than this.

She gets a grin and an arigatoo in response and bounces away riding her own smile. 47 takes his snap and we start to make our slow, sweaty way down the path.

“I’m kawaii, apparently,” I say under my breath.
“You are!” says 47, with some finality to it.

I don’t stop smiling for about a day and a half.

Inhale

August 14, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

“It’s too cold to open a window,” she said, “and our room reeks of sex.”
“I quite like the scent of sex,” I demurred.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong!” she protested. “I love it and I always have! In our case it’s a mark of a job well done!”
“High five!” I didn’t say. To this day I’m still not sure whether I should have.

I wasn’t entirely sure about the distinct scent of sex when I first encountered it. It reminded me a little of pee, but then again, the first time I had sex I’d never really had an orgasm awake before, so I didn’t quite equate that to the bouquet of cock. Once I’d tasted vulva, of course, I got that in the mix as well. My wife offers up the term “musty,” which I guess is as good as any.

I’ve always found it to be quite heavy. Sex permeates the air around it and occasionally the whole house. While not unpleasant, not exactly, its distinctive aroma manages to carry both stigma and pride in the same breath. Not bad for a few olfactory particles.

“We could open a window,” I said suddenly. “We don’t need to get cold. Hey, we don’t need to lie on the bed. We could get into the bed. The duvet’s warm enough.”
“But it’s the middle of the day,” pointed out the Seamstress. “Why would we be in bed in the middle of the…? I mean, unless we’re doing what caused this in the first place…?”
“…for the third time today,” I supplied helpfully. “But we don’t need to have sex. We could just be in bed to get warm.”

There was a long, hazy pause.

“No.”
“No?”
“I disagree.”
“You do? You don’t want to open a window or you don’t want to get into bed?”
“No, I want to do both of those things,” she clarified while beginning to take her dress off. “But I don’t agree that we don’t need to have sex.”

[Incidentally, this is my last post for a while. For the next two weeks I’ll be virtually incommunicado while I’m enjoying geeking myself silly in Japan. Catch you on the flip side, bloggiverse.]

Buzz Buzz

August 7, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

Buzz!

It’s 8am and I’m sitting in my computer chair, cycling through several open windows and tabs while drinking tea. Naked.

I’m not naked for any particular reason. I just haven’t really organised myself into the whole “getting dressed” bit yet. This is much earlier than the other times I’ve been getting out of bed, and my thoughts are slightly scrambled. Nevertheless, it’s my flat, it’s my life, and they are my blinds, and they are closed. There’s no reason I shouldn’t be naked.

Buzz!

Or, at least, there shouldn’t be. I’d slightly overlooked the fact that my wife is particularly fond of ordering things off the Internet. I’m still not entirely sure if they use all of them. Paying rent is an adventure.

I stumble to the door and buzz the caller in. I hear his footsteps in the corridor outside, silence for a while, and then the breathy sigh of someone exasperated at having to wait. I’m going to have to open the door, but I may well get done for public indecency. I can’t put it off any more, though. I open by just an iota.

“Delivery,” says a gruff voice.
“Right,” I say, extending my bare arm around, just enough to grab the parcel without giving him an eyeful. The human body is a beautiful thing, but perhaps not at 8am when you’re not expecting it. If he’s going to be into it, I apologise, but I’m not going to assume… or, in fact, ask.

It’s 10:30am and I’m horny. I still haven’t managed to get dressed, but in this situation, that’s an advantage. If I’m going to bring myself to orgasm I’ll need unfettered access to my penis and a nipple to fondle. This is, for want of a better term, exciting. I haven’t masturbated this early for a fair while. I feel like a horny teenager.

In fact, I’m incredibly horny. My cock is beating in my hand, I can feel my heartbeat thudding through my chest, my eyes are closed and I’m very near the point of no return. This is going to be an orgasm for the ages, the sort of thing that’s referenced in future history books and someone will write an feature about in McSweeney’s. I’m a sexual dynamo and nothing’s going to

Buzz!

fuck, fuck, fuck!

I stumble to the door and buzz the caller in. I hear his footsteps in the corridor outside, silence for a while, and then the heavy sigh of someone exasperated at having to wait. I’m going to have to open the door, but this time I have a huge erection to deal with. If I open up he may well mistake me for a coathanger and not hand over the parcel. I open by just an inch.

“Delivery,” says a tuneful voice.
“Right,” I say, extending my bare arm around, just enough to grab the parcel without taking his eye out. He’s ruined my orgasm… I could, of course, get back to it, but the moment has passed. I’d need to start again at the beginning, and by this time, I can’t even remember what I was wanking to.

It’s 12:37pm and I’ve just finished cleaning up from the orgasm I’ve had. I dump the tissues in the bin and I’m wondering what to do next when I realise how sleepy I am. I’ve been up since about six and I’ve just had an orgasm. To hell with the rules; I’m going to have a nap.

I consider napping on my sofa. It’s not really designed for that. The fact that I’ve fallen asleep on it before was more accidental than design. I could, I rationalise, go back to bed. I could even sleep on the other side, since my wife isn’t here, and I sleep better facing that direction. Marvelling at my own genius, I trudge sleepily to the bedroom, lie down, pull the covers over myself, close my eyes and

Buzz!

fuck, fuck, fuck!

I stumble to the door and buzz the caller in. I hear his footsteps in the corridor outside, silence for a while, and then the raspy sigh of someone exasperated at having to wait. I’m going to have to open the door, but this time I genuinely don’t want to. I’m still naked, of course, but that’s a secondary concern.

“Who is it?” I call through the door.
“Delivery,” says an African accent from the other side.
“Can you leave it outside the door?”
“No, I can’t. I need to take a picture of you holding it and send it to…”
“All of me? Will my arm do?”
“That is fine.”

There are a few agonising seconds of silence.

I open by just a sliver. He hands me the parcel. It’s big and heavy and I drop it. I genuinely have no idea what this is. It feels expensive. I hope I haven’t broken… whatever it is.

On my way back down the corridor, I trip over the pile of three packages left lying there. I manage not to fall on my face by grabbing onto the bookcase my Jar Jar Binks memorabilia collection sits atop. One Jar Jar falls off his kaadu and glares at me in an accusatory manner.

“It’s not my fault,” I tell the affronted Gungan. “If people didn’t keep buzzing the doorbell, I’d be able to sleep.”

I slip back into bed and prepare myself for what promises to be a more fitful slumber than that which I had originally promised myself. At the very least I could be fairly certain there wouldn’t be any more buzzes. Surely they couldn’t have ordered more than three things.

Buzz!

It’s just my ‘phone this time, but it doesn’t block out the loudest profanity I think I’ve ever ejaculated.

Tomorrow I’m going to make sure I’m out of the flat.

Soft Porn Sunday: Amber Newman & Brian Heidik

July 27, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

When I need it, it’s always there for me.

Appearance: Virgins of Sherwood Forest (2000)
Characters: Ondrea & Alvin

One of the things I like the most – that scratches an itch as I rub one out – is how I’m always noticing new things about the scenes I like. Things I think I know backwards still find ways to surprise – there’s something about the décor, the dialogue, the characters, mise en scène, or even the motions of the sex itself that will find a new way to beguile me.

Virgins of Sherwood Forest is one such film. Up until recently I didn’t notice that Horatio puts one foot up on a chair during what is admittedly my favourite sex scene ever. In this one… possibly my second favourite sex scene ever, although I wouldn’t know about that… there are certainly a few things I have noticed. Let me share them with you.

Amber Newman & Brian Heidik in "Virgins of Sherwood Forest" (2000) — He’s chewing straw, you see, like all farmers ever.

This is the first sex scene in the film (and it happens very quickly, as well – thanks, Surrender), and it’s a classic. The framing device for the story involves a music video being made for “a rock star who’s here but you can’t find”. Said rock star, Alvin (Brian Heidik, credited here as “Dave Roth” and now working as a used car salesman), genuinely doesn’t want to be found. When he eventually is, it’s by sexy sexy sexy makeup artist Ondrea (yes, seriously, Ondrea, not Andrea), played by sexy sexy sexy sex on legs level sexy Amber Newman, who is very sexy indeed.

THING I’VE NOTICED: Ondrea is named after a real person, the actual makeup artist for Virgins of Sherwood Forest. The more you know…

After a bit of moderate flirting (not bad acting, actually, from the actors involved here; Brian Heidik is believable as self-centred Alvin) ending with the incredibly cringey lines

ALVIN: Have you seen my six-shooter?
ONDREA: You’re not wearing a gun.
ALVIN: Well, who said anything about a gun?

the result is a foregone conclusion. While the rest of the crew tie themselves in knots looking for Alvin, he’s busy making love to Ondrea backstage, and who can blame him? She’s played by Amber Newman.

As sex scenes go, it’s fairly routine, but as I’ve said above, it’s the little details that make it. Alvin and Ondrea share a knowing smile; he pulls her to him, they melt into a kiss, the music chimes in and they start disrobing.

THING I’VE NOTICED: Alvin pulls her forwards by her belt buckle (which is later unbuckled). It’s a way of indicating his intentions without saying.

OTHER THING I’VE NOTICED: The first stab of electric guitar coincides perfectly with Alvin cupping Ondrea’s bum, and her slap keeping his hand in place!

This is rock music, actual rock music, and even though there are no lyrics, I can totally believe this is one of Alvin’s songs. As a bonus Thing I’ve Noticed, when they cut back to the crew on set, the song is playing through the speakers, so there’s no interruption to it – very clever!

I also like the way they get their clothes off – Ondrea even removes her hair clip at the very start. It’s swift, but steady – not too short, not too long. It’s even broken up at points – Alvin lifts her up onto the table that’s there BECAUSE OF COURSE THERE’S A TABLE THERE, kissing her breasts as he removes her bra. The music shifts again (it’s a middle eight, people! Keep up!) as Ondrea removes her jeans and sinks to deliver a soft porn blowjob, and we get a nice wide shot of them both enjoying themselves.

THING I’VE NOTICED: Behind Alvin is a camera and microphone setup pointing at what appears to be a bluescreen. As Alvin is going to be appearing as various characters in his video, is this for the spaceman fantasy later on?

And then my favourite bit happens and I forget about everything else. Ondrea, once again on the table, is smoothly and sexily taking pelvic thrusts from Alvin, one arm supporting herself while the other runs through her hair (or holds Alvin’s shoulder; it changes from shot to shot). Her bare legs are wrapped around his waist and she is pulling a face ranging from keen to unconcerned – like “yeah, I’m having sex with this famous rock star, what of it, bitchezzz?”.

THING I’VE NOTICED: The light behind them is positioned between their bodies. Not only does this illuminate them against a busy background, but it appears to emanate from their crotches, where they are what I used to term “connected”.

The last Bit of Sex™ happens in the standing doggie position (71, I think? Alvin is leaning over a bit too much to represent a straight 1, but I’m fairly sure that’s what this is). While I will admit that this isn’t as hot as the previous Bit of Sex™, there’s a fair amount of energy, and you get to see Amber Newman’s fingernails, which have been done nicely, so there’s that too.

Like I said, details.

THING I NOTICED OVER A DECADE AGO, BUT I DON’T THINK ANYONE ELSE EVER HAS: At exactly 03:26, Amber Newman briefly rolls her eyes. Whether this is intentional “I’m enjoying the sex!” or an accidental “Christ alive, this is taking a while…” I’ve no idea, but it gets me every time!

There’s even a bit which clearly indicates orgasm, and a cooling-off period during which Ondrea and Alvin share one final kiss. She’s even touching up his makeup in the following scene.

But for all the minutiae, and my bluster and overenthusiasm (commission me to write a BFI guide to softcore YOU ABSOLUTE COWARDS), this is a scene which (like the rest of Virgins of Sherwood Forest) is impossible to dislike. The setting, the iconic rock soundtrack, the infectiousness of the characters and the commitment the actors put into it – and, as a bonus, one of them is Amber Newman (plus the plot device, including the crew standing a few metres away and not knowing what is happening!)! There is genuinely very little to criticise here, and that’s rare, even in this genre, for which we can make exceptions.

Plus, I got to watch this all over again to write this, so I hope you don’t notice too much of what I’m about to do…

R(I)H(L)C(B)P

July 25, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

A scarlet starlet and she’s in my bed
A candidate for the soul mate bled
I pull the trigger and I pull the thread
I’m gonna take it on the otherside

One one of my journeys around the country, I listened – after resisting doing so for a while – to the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ album Unlimited Love. It’s a good album although I don’t quite think it reaches the heights of something like Californication or Stadium Arcadium. Still good, though.

I will admit, however, to the fact that I mostly listened to it that my colleague, Brown, told me to, and that I do whatever Brown tells me to. Pleased though I was with her recommendation (and secure in the knowledge that there was at least one other person on the staff who likes rock), I did have to wonder why she sought me out, specifically. We’ve got a colleague who genuinely used to be a rock musician. Why not him?

A couple of weekends after our conversation I had an idea. I know the chords to Otherside. Music Man taught us to play Californication and other RHCP staples, including my favourite Under the Bridge, but I independently learned Otherside and I was quite good at it once. Even Lightsinthesky said so, and he didn’t like complimenting me about anything. It might be a nice thing to do for Brown if I did a special recording of Otherside for her.

I’d need an excuse, perhaps. Maybe if I just asked when her birthday was. Or when she was getting married (she’s been with her boyfriend for yonks; I was assuming it would be soon). Or I could just say I was playing guitar and felt like hitting record while singing RHCP. It wouldn’t even be that much of a job; I had my recording stuff set up anyway.

She kindly provided me with a reason to by getting pregnant shortly afterwards.

Of course I never ended up actually doing so. A couple of years of physical exhaustion and losing all confidence in your guitar playing ability will do that to a well-intentioned ILB. I still listen to RHCP fairly regularly; I have just lost interest in covering them, even as something “nice” to do for a pregnant friend and colleague. I ended up contributing to the collection they put together for her and fawning over pictures of a baby who manages, even at the age of one, to have shrugged off looking like William Hague (all babies do) and displays both Brown’s radiant beauty and the chiselled looks of his father Green. But I didn’t once pick up my guitar.

Brown returned to work a couple of months ago and spent pretty much all her time telling everyone she’s leaving. An unscrupulous change in management is less kind towards her request to work one day a week in order to spend large amounts of time with her very young child. I was completely with her on this.

“But we’ve got so many people leaving,” I said over lunch. “Surely they must at least be considering keeping you if we’re so short of staff?”
“Apparently not,” she shrugged. “You’d think that, but they’ve told me that I can work full-time or get out. So I’m getting out.”
“I’ll miss you,” I said truthfully. “I’ve always enjoyed working with you, and you have a great taste in music.”
“I’ll still like music whether or not I’m here.”
“…but… that’s not what I — I mean, I was… just…”
“It’s okay, I’m just teasing you. You still owe me a recording of Otherside, if I remember correctly.”

I nodded mutely.

A couple of days ago I bumped into Brown on what was due to be her last day. The long, tearful and apologetic farewell I had stored up didn’t end up showing its face when she revealed that she was, in fact, staying.

“We’ve got so many people leaving,” she said over lunch. “Surely they must have been considering keeping me as we’re so short of staff? Well, they are. And they’re prepared to let me stay for one day a week like I wanted.”
“Oh, that’s great! I’m very pleased,” I ejaculated a little too enthusiastically. “Maybe we should do something to celebrate?”

I have four weeks to re-learn how to play RCHP on the guitar.

Slipslide Ride

July 1, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

“So… since you have that new boyfriend…”
“I wouldn’t really call him new, but yeah…?”

I would. As far as I was aware she had only ever had one boyfriend beforehand, and they had been together for yonks. Compared to a relationship that lasted over a couple of years and had continued apace, a few weeks still counted as “new” to me. Still, not my relationship, I guess.

“Have you been having sex in this heat?”
“Of course! I love having sex with him!”

I’d have to take her word for that. I didn’t know this guy and all I really had was a name. My mum walked into my room once immediately after she’d sent me his passport picture and said he was “grotesque”. I didn’t relay this back to her.

“Have you noticed,” I ploughed on, “that in this hot weather, with you sweating a lot already, and sex being a sweat-inducing activity by design, that it gets a bit… slippy…?”

And this is the question I’d been wanting to ask. Since our last big conversation – although we had been chatting on and off for a while – I’d started having sex. She had been doing so for a while and I was a bit of a newbie, so I was still discovering things. The last time I’d had sex, it had been in blistering heat and I’d been sliding all over the place. I had been wondering.

“lol,” she said, and then more fully, “Yes! I mean, it’s not exactly made it more difficult to have sex, is it? You just slide more if you’re moving back and forth, right? If he’s on top of me…”

I found this difficult to envision, so I stopped trying.

“…he slides back and forth quite a lot, and we’re both quite big, so there’s a lot of movement there.”
“I was wondering. It’s been happening to me. Er, us. I mean, it’s sweat so it’s a bit gross, but…”
“I like sweat.”
“Okay, sure,” I amended. “I think it’s gross. But it’s a different sensation, so I was wondering if you’re finding it hard.”

I suddenly realised what I’d just said.

“I find it hard whenever we have sex, whether or not it’s hot and sweaty!” she replied, making the joke about a millisecond before I’d finished typing something to the same effect. At least I didn’t have to debase myself by indulging in such puerile filth. “In any case, appropriately given the subject, he just got home and I’m going to have sex with him now, so I’ll talk to you later?”
“Uhm, sure, enjoy your slippy slidey sex where everything’s hard,” I signed off smoothly.

The next time I had sex, I made sure there was a towel nearby.

Dress, summer (on)

June 21, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

Deeply dippy ’bout your Spanish eyes
Sierra smile
Legs that go on for miles and miles…

On Wednesday this week, I went back to work after almost an entire seven-day period off sick with… sickness. I’m still not entirely sure what it was. Whatever. I’m sure the heat can’t have helped either,

[Pause while ILB checks the weather forecast for Tokyo in August and begins to weep quietly before continuing with the post.]

but whatever the reason, I was off and now I’m back. Fantastic. Story of my life!

On Thursday I was downing my third bottle of Sprite in the break room when one of my favourite colleagues walked in. I will admit it took me a while to work out that it was her, but then again, I’m not even sure who I am these days.

“You look very summery,” I said by way of a morning greeting.
“Thanks,” she twittered. “So do you.”

No, my friend, I do not. I’m just wearing a short-sleeved shirt with the top button undone. Eventually I will get a tan, and then the forearms on show will have visible self-harm scars which always show up in the summer. The bare skin on my bald spot will start to flake off. I’ll engender a line on my nose from when I smashed it on the floor. I look messy, and that’s fine; I always look like that in summer.

You, on the other hand, appear to be mostly legs. There is little else of you, and there’s little of you at all times, slight as you may be. But here you are, wearing what I suppose is a summer dress, except it’s one that’s too small.

Unless, of course, this is deliberate. Unlike many of my other colleagues, your legs are not carrying an abundance of body art; you may be wishing to advertise this fact. Or you could just wish to show off your legs – it’s not an unpleasant sight. On the other hand, and this is probably the actual reason, you’re just hot.

Of course, I didn’t say any of this. It’s not really my place to do so. I don’t object to people wearing what they want, after all, even in the workplace. I once went to work with a tee saying “ᴄᴀᴜᴛɪᴏɴ: ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴋᴀʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏʀɪᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴡᴏʀᴅs” and nobody batted an eyelid. What I was wondering, idly, was whether or not my stringent German boss would be approving of my friendly colleague’s choice of summer dress.

Until she walked in wearing something similar, and any doubts I had evaporated almost as quickly as the duckpond outside was.

Fiction: Lift Kiss

May 31, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

It’s cooler and quieter here in the lift. As much as I purport to enjoy a good amount of heavy rock, even I have my limits. Despite the fact that this will empty me out into the street, this small – and, thankfully, empty – room is a welcome respite from the club.

Sketch of Amelia, the girl in this story, in her wheelchair. Art by ILB drawn during Eroticon Live! 2016. — I kept the sketch to hand!

I take a deep breath, eyes closed, to centre myself. When my vision clears, the buttons on the wall blend into a smudge of illuminated blue. I need the ground floor to get out. I wheel to the corner, but can’t reach any button. Maybe I’ll have to wait. I grope in my bag for something I can use to press it. Why didn’t I bring my vibrator with me, like I do on business trips?

There is a soft, but worn, ding as the doors clatter open and he staggers in. Is he drunk? No – just tired. I can tell.

Our eyes meet.

I’m used to people looking – it happens. This, however, is different. He’s looking at me. Not my chair. Not the ‘phone I’m clutching in my hand. Not the shawl I’ve got covering my knees. Me. He’s looking at me – from my electric blue hair to my heavy red boots. He’s taking all of me in, and it’s quite clear he likes what he sees.

Oh, get a grip, Amelia. There’s no indication of that. He’s just weary at the end of a club night and looking at the girl in the wheelchair. There’s every indication that he doesn’t like you at all. Or notice you. The fact that he’s holding your gaze is probably just coincidence. I mean, look at him. That scrappy grey T-shirt doesn’t suit him. Those grey joggers have a hole in the knee. He’s hardly presenting himself well to you.

What would it be like if he wanted to kiss me?

Kiss me, that is. Not fuck me. Kiss me. If he wanted to do that I’d let him. He’d have to bend down a bit, of course. Maybe he’d gently cup my chin with one of those hands and tilt my head upwards. Our lips would brush together — no, mash together — and I’d hear him breathing heavily as we kiss. I’d reach out with my tongue. I bet his feels good – tastes good, even.

And they could dance together. Do the tarantella even if I can’t move my legs. There’s always a way.

He’d thread his fingers into my hair and he’d pull a little and then we’d break the kiss and there’s a trail of saliva breaking between us and he’s taking his shirt off and I’m unhooking my bra and he’s reaching out for my heaving breasts and the lift is broken so we can’t leave and fuck me I can’t stop I’m so wet so so so wet just bend over and kiss me please oh please oh

“Please…”

I’ve said the last word out loud. I have no idea how long he’s been looking at me. However long, it’s not been long enough. My shock back to reality coincides with a dull thump from the club downstairs.

I’m on fire.

“Do you want some help?” he says, in a voice like honey. “I can press a button for you if you want.”

Without waiting for an answer, he takes two steps forwards, leans over me and presses the ground floor button. His press has some finality to it. For a second or two, my view is full of him and only him. The scrappy tee and grey joggers stretch as he leans.

I can see every curve and contour of his body…

Ding, says the lift. The doors force themselves open and a welcome rush of outside air hits me from the busy street outside. He’s standing back, clearly waiting for me to leave first. What can I say?

I settle for a nod, this time roving my view over the entirety of him. Maybe he’s blushing as hard as I am. It’s difficult to tell in this light.

I wheel out of the door, down the corridor, through the lobby and down the ramp. As I begin to wend my way home through the milieu of late night workers and early morning risers, I have the biggest smile I have ever produced plastered firmly to my very kissable face.

[Inspired by Charlie Powell's session at Eroticon Live! 2016. See, I do write things I promise to - eventually...]

Author: Innocent Loverboy (Page 1 of 29)

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Dress, summer (on)

Fiction: Lift Kiss

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