Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Author: Innocent Loverboy (Page 1 of 6)

Soft Porn Sunday: Heidi Schanz & Tom Berenger

If you recognise those names, you’re not alone. This film, despite the “early-’90s soft porn”-style title and limp thriller set-up, is a genuine mainstream thriller with actual actors, albeit rated R (the BBFC might render this as either a 15 or 18 – but that’s up to them) and containing a fair amount of nudity and even some sex.

Tom “was in Inception “was in Inception “was in Inception“”” Berenger is the star here, as attorney Gavin, working hard on defending a Mafia don, when Pandora Circe (Heidi “out of The Truman Show” Schanz) rocks up looking for his help. She’s hot, and has a story to tell about a brutal husband, so of course Gavin is interested.

Anyway, that’s the set-up and it’s all you’re getting.

Appearance: Body Language (1995)
Characters: Pandora “Dora” Circe & Gavin St. Claire

Hmmm, Gavin has a porn star surname.

Kiss the miss.
Are you as worried as I am about the fact that Gavin doesn’t appear to have eyes?

The scene I’m going to be looking at is, for a mainstream flick, genuinely quite explicit for a mainstream film, and of course it happens between Dora and Gavin, so I suppose there’s some amount of “star power” here. Like many mainstream films, there isn’t much build-up to the sex in a sex scene either; whereas genuine softcore might spend time focusing on disrobing and/or foreplay, Body Language makes do with a brief kiss followed by a jump cut to the sex, so at the very least, we don’t have to wait.

There are a few dimly-lit close-ups to begin with, but at 00:13 we get a full-body shot, which unfortunately means that you have to see Berenger’s bum, but leaves no doubt in anyone’s mind of what’s actually going on here. There’s even quite a lot of steam between the two of them – Dora and Gavin are working off a fair amount of passion that’s been building up, so…

I don't know about you, but I think he's a bit of a bum man.
He’s got a better bed, but I’ve got a better arse.

In fact, it’s the closeness that makes this scene. The other shots prove to highlight this – deep, lusty kisses in tight head-and-shoulders shots; rolling over without breaking the connection; grabbing the back of the head; plenty of moans and gasps (from her; he makes a noise like Christopher Walken at the beginning, which…). We switch to Dora riding Gavin at 00:37, by which point it’s more than believable that they are both genuinely into this.

So, the riding. As I’ve said before, this scene is genuinely quite explicit, but for a fair amount of time the camera doesn’t focus on anything except Dora’s head and shoulders (and her pretty hair). As it isn’t porn, that’s clearly a stylistic choice, and not having boobs on show doesn’t really take anything away from the scene – they’re just absent enough to be noticeable.

Yaaaaaaaaaawn...
Yes, I too like to play at “going to the dentist” during sex.

In fact, although we do see her back and bum a few times, the one time her boobs could be on display, they are covered by Gavin’s hands. Nevertheless, they are both naked throughout this scene, and there’s enough bump’n’grind to keep everything ticking along nicely. Even the moans increase in volume, which… helps, I guess?

Having said all that, this isn’t real softcore and the sex isn’t the focus, however much of it we may see. There is, however, a nice postscript to this scene, with a fully naked Dora getting a drink from the ‘fridge afterwards. I’m aware she’s just had sex, so she should be, but it’s nice to normalise both nudity around the house and getting a cold drink after sex.

Oh, and fishkeeping.

Paracheirodon innesi +++
It’s not meant o be the focus, but that’s such a nice fish tank…

The only thing I really don’t like about this scene, really, is the music. But, again, softcore pays a lot more attention to music than other genres do. This scene uses semi-orchestral piano and woodwind stuff, which I suppose does suit the mood. It’s not particularly inspiring, but it doesn’t stick in my head. Mind you, this is one minute of passionate lovemaking, so that’s a minor quibble.

Overall, then, this is A Good Scene (and thanks to the reader who sent it in). It’s quick, it’s hot, it’s filmed well, and yes, it isn’t from actual softcore at all…

…AND YES, I’M VERY ANNOYED ABOUT THAT!

Evangelism

In the early weeks of December I was well aware that I was truly in the twilight of my employment. I was holding out a little hope – although very little indeed – that I wouldn’t have to leave (and I’m still having dreams, including those of last night, in which I’m either still employed or have managed to inveigle my way back in), but realistically, I was leaving, and I knew it.

I told myself that I wouldn’t be too cavalier in my approach to work, even in those final days, if I wanted to either continue in the career I had started to forge or stand any chance of getting back there. And so, for the most part, I didn’t.

For the most part.

Part of my daily duty involved finding a computer and using it to log my activities (on the assumption that they’d be read. I’m not sure they were.); computers were in plentiful supply on the top floor, but that involved effort. I’d go to the break room, get myself a cup of tea and use the one computer in there. Occasionally there were biscuits, so you can see where my priority lies.

At that point in the day, the break room was usually populated by middle-aged women who came in a little early before starting the late shift. We were always cordial, despite not really crossing paths at any point during the day; there was, however, some amount of camaraderie going on. I hardly ever joined in with their conversations, though, as I can’t really identify with discussions of how many children one has.

Until, one day in the week before my final, the topic of sex toys came up.

I don’t know who broached the subject, but I’m fairly certain that it was another colleague of mine – a tall, sporty black dude whose main job was to stand outside (and he did so, too, even in winter, which commands a certain amount of respect on his own!). He has, like all of us, his filter, but seemingly feels it loosen when nobody else is listening.

Even to my untrained ears, the conversation was grating. Ann Summers was being frequently named, as were the unspecified term “vibrator” and the agonisingly vague “rabbit”. Somebody had to say something.

“What you WANT to be using,” I said in a loud, clear voice, “is SOMETHING called DOXY. It’s doing a lot of trade and is VERY well-regarded.”
Everyone looked at me.
“What was that?” asked one of the middle-aged women, while the sporty guy flashed a full-beam smile in my direction.
“Doxy,” I said clearly. “D – O – X – Y. It’s a personal massager, which…”
“It’s a what?”
“It’s a sex toy, it’s a sex toy,” I acquiesced. “It’s not exactly the market leader, but according to everyone I’ve talked to it’s by far the best…” Not to mention there’s one on my bedside table. But I’m not going to add that.
“How do you know about this?”

For once, I had an answer ready.

“Because I know the guy who runs the company,” I shrugged, which is technically true. I’ve met him. He’s the one the Doxy on my bedside table is from (although, again, it’s actually my girlfriend’s Doxy, even if I’m usually the one wielding it). He seems really nice. And it seemed to be a satisfying enough answer.
“Mmmmmm,” said someone. “That’s good advice. I’ll make sure to be asking you again if you know about this sort of thing.”

Dangerous territory. Evidently I do know about this sort of thing. I just can’t let conversations about this go unnoticed. So I chose the immediate course of evasive action, steering this Doxy-shaped boat out of the shark-infested waters.

“You’re welcome to ask me,” I said, “but it’ll have to be quick. I’m leaving at the end of next week.”
“You’re leaving?” everyone said at the same time.
“Unfortunately, it’s true,” I said, with a small, sad smile. “Contractual, though. Nothing to do with me.”

I got up to wash my teacup, it being a truth universally acknowledged that my end of day usually followed said action.

It was on my way out of the door that I heard my name being called. Of course, said the voice in my head, this is the point where someone genuinely tells you that they are going to miss you. Of all the people you’ve told, everyone’s been very professional. Maybe one of these ladies will actually say that.

I turned around.

“What was the name of that toy again?”

QuoteQuest & KOTW: The ILB who Loves to Love

We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love.

tim robbins

I’m a horny sex blogger. I write posts about porn, oral, and dirty sex. I love sex, even though I haven’t had any for years. I’ll talk about it. I’ll promote it. Hours can pass and I’ll still be discussing it… with no filter. Thirteen years of sex blogging does that to a boy.

And yet I’m still thoroughly aware that, love sex as I do, my focus has always been on love.

I mean, it’s in my handle, c’mon.

I’ve always found it easy to fall in love… possibly too easy. It’s never been easy to actually be in love – successive teenage crushes on which I never acted making me increasingly upset as life went on. In a few years, I went from occasional glances to out-and-out pining, and finally to going home every single day to cry for an hour because I was in love. Since the age of about 13, in fact, there hasn’t once been a time where I didn’t have, if not genuine love, an “official” crush.

I didn’t, however, actually entertain the idea that my affections would ever be reciprocated. Despite my Head of Year (to whom I was quite close) telling me that people would be flattered, I was convinced – fairly quickly, as it matters – that I was unlovable. It didn’t do to be fancied by ILB. I was fairly convinced, throughout my miserable ecstasies, that those who I loved must have been constantly wondering what they did wrong.

If they thought about me at all. I’m not sure if any of them did.

Careful! Or I’ll fall in love with you!

innocent loverboy

Love, to me, has always been associated with guilt. I’m still sorry to the people I loved. But I can’t take any of it back. I may have fallen in love easily, but it’s not like I could control it.

In the more recent years, even though I’ve been in genuine, actual, real long-term relationships, I’ve still struggled with the concept. My dark moments tell me that, no, I can’t be loved. Girlfriends have cheated, or cast me adrift, or become so critical that every night was a challenge. Every time I get close, life seems to conspire to remind me of this. I am unlovable.

I’m trying, and believe me that I am, to convince myself otherwise.

It isn’t easy.

But I’m working on it.

QuoteQuest

Getting my nose tickled (aka: oral sex is bae)

I cry a lot. I’ve been crying, on and off, for most of my life – it’s something I’ve done since I was very small. Crying is generally my default reaction to pain or distress – I remember crying when I failed to make the University Challenge team; I cried for weeks when my Eroticon session idea was first turned down. I was recently asked, by a client, if I cried when I found out that I was losing my job. I did. I told her the truth.

The other night I cried when it suddenly dawned on me that I wasn’t giving oral sex.

I love oral sex. Love it. But, due to Circumstances, I haven’t been able to engage in cunnilingus for… maybe over a year now. Perhaps more. I used to do it practically every night, whether as a precursor or epilogue to sex or not (it works spectacularly well on its own); more recently, however, I haven’t had the chance. It’s a difficult thing to ask – which, since the question generally is “can I please try to give you as much pleasure as possible and hopefully make you orgasm?” – seems like an odd thing to say.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep (and I don’t sleep well at the best of times, so this is quite often), I rehearse oral sex in my head. I imagine her scent, her warmth, and the shape of her thighs. I wrap my hands around her legs – or hold onto her hips as she closes them around my head. Breathe in, bathing myself in her heat, getting used to her presence.

This is how I used to perform oral sex. A gentle lick to the pussy lips to feel them out. Even if I’m desperate, I’ll try to be as measured as possible. It’s not a race. I’ll flick, with my dextrous tongue, back and forth, over the lips…

all the way up…
all the way down…

…again and again and again. Sometimes I’ll pause at the top, holding myself just over her clit. Occasionally I’ll be thumbing her clit as well, but not this time. This is just oral. As I said before, it’s what I love.

When she’s ready (because consent is sexy), I’ll go a little deeper. Swivel my tongue in broad circles, tasting her, each one getting a little tighter, until I can gently part her soft folds and lick her deeper inside. I feel the pulse of her heartbeat through her inner walls, the flush of her labia against my cheeks, and her stiffening clit beating as my nose presses it. I’d go as deep as possible, keeping my breathing steady, but continue my tongue movements.

Rhythmically.

This might be where my hands come into play – where might she like them? Cupping her breasts? Stimulating her nipples? Teasing her mound, or perineum, or anus? When I’m giving oral sex, I’m all about her pleasure. I’ll do whatever she likes if it helps.

I’ll continue the lapping motions, lips open, nose against her clit, warm breath, for as long as it takes. Maybe she’ll put her hands on my head; maybe she’ll feel her own breasts. Maybe she’ll just bite her lip and let her eyes flutter closed and enjoy. Sometimes she moans; sometimes she shakes; sometimes she even lets out a sort of guttural screech. I like it when she says “yes!”. It lets me know that I’m doing well.

If I’m good, maybe she’ll come. There’ll be a spreading sensation as she gets wetter and wetter, and I’ll keep licking her, all the way through her orgasm. I like the taste of girlcum in my mouth. I may get some on my chin, or nose, but that’s okay. It’s messy. Sex is, by nature, messy. I’m not making any pretentions otherwise.

When she’s finished, I’ll pull back, a trail of gold sparks breaking as I do so. I’ll lick my lips (or wipe them with a tissue, if there is one – or the back of my hand: that works, too). I’ll ask her is she is all right, Maybe she wants to cuddle afterwards; maybe she wants t be fingered, or held, or fuck. Whatever her desire is, that’s what I’ll do. But I’ll start with oral sex.

Because it’s what I love.

And that’s why I’ve been crying… because I ache for it.

…as mustard

“Oh, you are desperate, aren’t you?” she said, although with a coquettish little smile which made it clear that she wasn’t averse to this.

I mean, of course she wasn’t. She liked the fact that she could make me hard in a matter of seconds. And she was sitting on me. There wasn’t much left she had to do.

“I’m not desperate,” I protested. “I’m just… keen.”
“You’re keen?”
Keen. That’s the word.”

I didn’t elaborate; neither did I do so while we stayed there, curled together on the big chair, or during dinner later on, or watching the requisite amount of Nickelodeon followed by Have I Got News For You that evening. I didn’t elaborate, although I probably didn’t need to, later that night as I closed my lips around her pert nipple. By the time my very hard, very warm and very thick penis was inside her, the time for elaboration had long passed.

Although I didn’t think to tell her why I was keen (“I’m horny and you are hot” was certainly part of it, but maybe not all…), there was certainly a reason. As there was for every single time we had sex.

I’d been very tightly wound for most of the week. We all knew I’d be having sex on Friday evening, and with her. And we knew where we’d be doing it, and for what it’s worth, there was always a ballpark figure as to when. My friends, who knew all this, liked to tease. My token black friend had, that evening, texted “Got any action yet??” while I was still on the coach. I hadn’t even left London.

There was also the fact that I was perhaps the third, or fourth or fifth (it’s unclear; I can think of about four, but who knows?) in my year to lose what Lightsinthesky charmingly termed the “flashing V”. I didn’t brag, nor did I go into too much detail (…says the explicit sex blogger), but it was well-known. Some people were aghast; some were confused; some were repulsed. The most common reaction was polite bafflement, which I would take.

I would also take the gentle teasing in good humour. It wasn’t the relentless taunting to get a reaction my bullies had done a few years prior. At the very least, having a serious girlfriend made me interesting. Nobody, especially me, had thought I’d ever get one. My parents, even, had a bet going as to whether Einstein, Robinson, or I would be the first to have a girlfriend. It looked like a close-run thing.

And, of course, I’d Completely Given Up.™

Having a girlfriend gave me the sort of attention I so desperately craved. I wasn’t just the smart guy any more. I was the smart guy with the active sex life. I would object to people terming her my “bird” (because, as a human being, she wasn’t a bird!), but at the end of the day, I liked the sort of explicit mysticism that came with this. And it made my final year of a difficult school life one in which I was, for the first time, genuinely positive.

But it was the constant talk, the references, the questions – and the suggestive texts from her with a heavy abundance of 😉 – which wound me up. That, and the fact that I didn’t masturbate and would watch soft porn during the week anyway… and the fact that we had a sort of routine worked out. If I made it through the week, onto the train on time, and then the coach, and if I made sure that she was getting as much pleasure as I was, then we’d both be satisfied – messy, exhausted, drenched in sweat, and (in her case) full of cum – but satisfied.

And that’s why I was so keen.

On the way back home, I got a call while walking through Victoria Station from my token black friend, “in case you was getting any action with your bird.” He seemed rather put out that I was already back in London.

But it didn’t stop him asking questions.

I think he was keen, too.

2020 #orgasmcount (aka: “What, He’s Still Doing This?”)

Let’s address the issue without flinching. Plenty of people have had a terrible 2020. A mismanaged global pandemic and xenophobic union severance don’t make for a good combination in an uncertain world. There have been deaths, job losses and mass cancellation of things all and sundry.

I, myself, haven’t suffered too much. I had a difficult time earlier in the year when Eroticon was cancelled at the eleventh hour; the annual musical event I attend was also then shelved, and this included the only chance I’d get to play an instrument live in the whole year, so I had problems dealing with that, as well. In the summer, my girlfriend lost their job; in the autumn, I did. My last day at work was on the 17th.

And, before you ask, this is a bad thing. Practically every dream I’ve had since has been set at work, thus roundly mocking me for something I enjoyed, but ultimately had no control over.

But overall, my year wasn’t too bad (apart from losing my job, which I may need therapy about). My friends and family are all safe. The only death in my family has been of a very distant relative who I’ve only met once or twice. I was, at the very least, employed for the entire year and didn’t need to work from home for more than a couple of months. I even managed to arrange a relatively satisfying Christmas, albeit stuck in a tiny flat with one other person.

And then there are orgasms.

Last year I had 134 orgasms. I was curious, when the COVID-19 outbreak took hold, how that would affect sexual activity globally – realistically, if more people are staying at home, how much more wanking is there? I can’t speak for anyone else, not even my girlfriend who bought themselves a porn subscription recently… but I can, at least, give a fair approximation of what I’ve been up to.

113 – the number of orgasms I’ve had this year (as denoted by a ★ in my WHSmith mid-year diary)

Less than last year. That’s a surprise.

30.9% – the number of orgasms in a year, compared to the number of days in a year, expressed as a percentage

I mean, that’s almost a third. Is that good? That’s good, right…? Right?

22/6 to 03/07 – a period of time in which I didn’t have any orgasms at all (as denoted by “NJO” in my diary – you can work out what that stands for by yourself)

I wrote about this, although I’m still not quite sure exactly I did so. I just didn’t feel particularly sexy during that period. Interestingly enough, I didn’t mark the orgasm I had on the fourth of July as particularly potent, so whatever I did on that day, it must have been fairly average… insofar as an orgasm can, of course, be average.

25/05, 14/10 and 18/12 – dates on which I had notably powerful, effective or satisfying orgasms (as denoted by ! or even ☺ (once) in my diary)

Nothing to say here, really, except… DAMN IT, JANET! WHY AREN’T THEY ALL LIKE THIS?!

18/12 (again) – the one date on which I had more than one orgasm (as denoted by “x2”) in my diary

I apparently did this three times last year, as opposed to in my late teens or early twenties when I’d do that several times a day… nevertheless, this was a day when I was particularly horny and… [rustle of paper as ILB checks his notes] …was over a week since I’d last had one.

And I’d just lost my job, so, y’know.

04/06, 09/07, and 18/10difficult, disappointing or frustrating orgasms (as denoted by ? in my diary, or occasionally a comment)

Le sigh.

04/06 – I wrote “Too much effort, too little result!” about this. It’s the worst kind of orgasm, isn’t it – when you’re very horny and up for it, but then it doesn’t happen for far too long?
09/07 – I wrote the single word “watery” afterwards. Eww.
18/10 – there’s a single ? here. I actually remember this one – I wasn’t sure whether it warranted a ★ as, although I ejaculated, I barely felt a thing. But I put one down anyway. Because I’m a rascal.

This is, of course, my last post in 2020. I fully intend to continue in 2021, at least in some form. Probably exactly the same form, to be honest.

Because otherwise… well, you wouldn’t be reading, would you?

Soft Porn Sunday: Yvette McClendon & Glenn Ratcliffe

This is the long-overdue final instalment in the unofficial series of Soft Porn Sundays featuring Glenn Ratcliffe. Yes, I’m aware you probably weren’t aware of the fact that I was doing that. Friendly reader S.A. requested I do these, and you can find the first two here and here, and there’s a third, here.

But you’re not going to read those. I can tell.

Centerfold – please excuse me washing my hands with bleach after typing that Americanism – is an unusual half-hour of softcore because, although it varies between episode, half-hour series often feature an average of two or three sex scenes – more often than not, one before and one after the mid-point advert break. Some feature more (Passion Cove‘s Practice What You Preach leaps to mind, with no less than five in under thirty minutes!), but most commonly, you get two or three. It happens.

Centerfold, however, features four sex scenes. That’s two in under fifteen minutes. They’re brief, but they are there. They may all feature Ratcliffe as forgettable idiot horny photographer Joe, but at least they are there. So here is one.

Appearance: Compromising Situations, Series 3: “Centerfold” (1996)
Characters: Jennifer & Joe

Alliteration, eh? I like that. Gives me all sort of fluffy feels and energetic English graduate glee. You don’t get that sort of clever continuous collusion with murderous Maths.

Anyway.

This sex scene takes place on a bed with a pretty colour scheme. In fact, the colour scheme is fairly continuous throughout the scene: dark blue duvet, dark blue pillows, and it even takes place at dusk, so the light through the strategically-placed windows is dark blue. I know that I’m not supposed to notice that, but c’mon, I’m ILB – of course I’m going to do so.

Blue his house, with a blue little window...
“Blue room, you saw me standing alone…”

One thing I will point out (the second thing I noticed, after the blue, da ba dee, da ba dai) is Jennifer (McClendon). She’s actually very attractive. Nice defined face, lovely smile, and beautiful blonde hair in a unique hairstyle that I can’t quite place. She’s even got pretty silver nail varnish on that contrasts well with Joe (Ratcliffe)’s hair, and considering the fact that she doesn’t get to do anything except be awkwardly boob-kissed by Joe for the first 28 seconds, she does at least give off good vibes.

From the boob-kissing we cut to some thigh-kissing (yawn), with added ‘kiss’ sound effects (yes, really), before a mix to bog-standard softcore oral sex. Joe’s head is far too far north for this to be believable, but the look on Jennifer’s face does at least suggest she is enjoying herself – one supposes she is the one carrying the scene.

Smile, dammit! Smile, I command you!
Very nice girl. Lovely teeth.

It doesn’t, however, negate the fact that by this point, the scene is halfway through, and for a sex scene there doesn’t appear to have been much sex. Let’s move on.

I had to watch 1:03 to 1:09 to make sure I wasn’t imagining this. There’s a switch here from Joe being on top of Jennifer to Jennifer being on top of Joe – but, rather than a mix or a fade or a cut, it happens on-screen in double speed! There’s no change in the music or indication that this is going to happen, or indeed, if it’s intentional at all – but for five or so seconds, they have suddenly channelled Billy Whizz, before instantly returning to normal pace as if nothing has happened!

…What?!

Anyway, once we are back a tempo, we do get something approximating what I assume is an attempt at simulating penetrative sex. At the very least, Jennifer is astride Joe and neither of them is wearing anything (unless the duvet conceals it – a cunning design), so I think this is the OMGZ SEKS bit. Jennifer does have a nice back (and, although I don’t mention this very often, a well-proportioned arse), and once we mix to a front-on view, it turns out she has nice breasts too (if only Joe’s damn hand would get out of the way).

Back shot. I’m a sucker for a good back. There’s a kink I didn’t realise I had.

There just isn’t a lot of movement. She’s just… sitting there while he flails his hand around a bit. At 01:33 she even grabs it in what appears to be an attempt to stop him doing so – making me wonder if this was scripted, or if it was just the actress getting fed up with it!

There’s a touch of movement at 01:44, accompanied by a shift in the music, presumably to indicate a shift in tone; the previous piece (a kind of ambient dreamy synthy thing) suddenly overlaid with bass guitar, kick drum and tambourine. It doesn’t really add anything, but at least it makes things a little more interesting.

It may as well, because the sex isn’t getting any more interesting.

And then a telephone rings. Telephone, the real star of the show.

It took me ages to screenshot this.
Should’ve received full credit.

Overall, I’m not sure what this scene is meant to be. It’s not overly sexy, and wouldn’t be at all were it not for Yvonne McClendon. It’s slow, but not romantic slow or intense slow, just slow slow. The cinematography’s okay, and the music is sound, and – as I said – understated but colour-consistent décor is always nice – but it’s delivered with a kind of disinterested detachment that makes me wonder what they were doing here.

“Hey, we need to move this plot along! Throw in another sex scene and they’ll never notice!”

But hey. Four sex scenes in one episode. Horny teenagers watching this on L!VE probably aren’t going to complain.

Lying

In our lounge, against the big radiator underneath the big window, there is a big sofa. Technically, of course, it is a bed – but one that folds up into a sofa if one desires so. Since its installation, it has been in sofa mode; distressingly, a couple of slats recently got loose and it has developed an alarming slump in its centre as a result.

I’m nervy about sitting atop it, now, but it’s still nice to lie on.

Which is what I was doing this afternoon. I took a long walk shortly after lunch – ostensibly to deliver Christmas cards, but more realistically in order to have something to do – after which I came home to a girlfriend who was on the verge of going for a lie down herself.

Loath to interrupt her, I cleared some space on the sofa, and stretched out on it. I didn’t even bother to turn the TV off – I just crashed out.

First time in a while I’ve been able to do that. Glorious.

After a stressy experience a few days back, I’ve gone off the concept of porn. I mean, I love porn – some of it, at least; I’ve got quite discerning tastes – but, for the past couple of days, the mere idea of watching porn is more exhausting than exhilarating.

I lost my job yesterday, so maybe that’s got something to do with it…

Hazy ILB, however, appears to have completely different feelings towards porn. In my lazy, semi-conscious state, watching porn was something I was so fixated upon that it consumed my very being. Here I was, completely immobile on the sofa, starting to feel more rested than I have in a very long time… and becoming more and more aware that mainlining Emmanuelle riding Haffron was, in fact, MY PURPOSE IN LIFE.

The problem was, of course, that my computer was on the opposite side of the room – a whole five steps away – and, while Hazy ILB was drowning in a world of glossy smut, physical ILB wasn’t willing to make the effort. (Conscious ILB had long since safeworded out of the conversation.) And so I lay there… partially pondering my existence, partially remembering through sensation how comfortable our sofa actually is, but mostly just becoming aware that, although I didn’t have to be watching porn, if I wanted to, I probably could.

Until, at one point, Hazy ILB suggested the concept of actually doing so.

That would be easy – of course it would. Just haul myself off the sofa, slope over to the PC and fire up VLC. Work up the energy to do so and I could even turn off the TV. Easy as π² – right?

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“What’s that?” said my girlfriend, suddenly materialising in the doorway as the people downstairs started to turn up the bass – probably the entire song, it was all bass – to somewhere between “ouch, my ears” and “please let me die”.
“I don’t know,” I slurred, “maybe it’s the people downstairs?”
“But I was having such a nice nap…” she protested.
“When it comes down to it, so was I.”

Fuck!

Hold me closer, tiny dancer

I don’t remember her name. In all honesty, I don’t remember much about that night. What with the amount of free alcohol involved, I’m almost certain she doesn’t remember me at all… but I don’t drink, so I remember her.

It was the first and only time I’d ever been to a party held by members of the British aristocracy. I wasn’t aware, for a few years, that I was friends with Lord Grey’s daughter. She had mentioned a signet ring a few times, but I didn’t think much of that, either. I think it was the mention of the name of her house that tipped me off… but, in any case, I was surprised – if pleased – to be invited.

I told her once that I had a crush on her, so I think she may have felt weird about it. That was never mentioned again, though, so…

In any case, there I was, on the dancefloor getting down to Make Me Smile by Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel – incidentally the song I’d gotten dressed to that morning – and waiting for the inevitable roar that accompanies Mr. Brightside, as a song about being cheated on is really what you want accompanying a joyous party.

Wait, what was this blog post about again?

So, yes. I don’t remember her name. I remember that she was shorter than me (but then a lot of people are); I also remember frizzy hair, a wide smile and, of course, that she was very pretty. But then everyone was. Everyone who’s unattainable is fucking beautiful. In my defence, she started talking to me first.

“Hey!” she beamed. “How old are you?”
Yes, it’s an odd opener, but at least it’s one I was able to answer.
“Hi! I’m nineteen,” I said. “How old are you?” I added, a split-second before realising that this was probably a rude question to ask.
“You’re nineteen?” she said, aghast. “You look older. I’m thirty.”
“You look younger,” I said, as I assumed that was the right thing to say. She certainly did look younger than thirty; I wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or insulted that she had decided I look old. I settled for being politely befuddled.
“I want a drink; do you want a drink?” she ejaculated, at which a servant (yes, I know) appeared with a tray of beverages. I took a Diet Coke, which was probably the only thing without any alcohol in it.
“So, I…” I started, at which point she interrupted with, “see you later!” and swanned off. Which was probably a good thing, as I didn’t really know what I was going to say.

“ILB! Come dance!” yelled my aristocratic friend from the middle of a mill of bodies.
“I thought I was?”
“No, you’ve just been talking to…” [I forget her name, as I said above!] “…come here and dance!”

I took a swig of my Diet Coke, and went to dance.

About an hour of wearing my legs out later, she found me again. She had had a little more alcohol by this point.
“Here’s an observation,” she said over the music (which had somehow become exponentially louder – I suppose that the manor house we were in wasn’t exactly in a residential area), “you’re nineteen, I’m thirty, and that shouldn’t matter!”
“It doesn’t,” I agreed, “time is a concept.”

I didn’t talk to her again, although as my level of blood sugar began to wane, it slowly began to dawn on me that I may have been being flirted with. It’s the right environment to do it, as well – if everything goes wrong, you can use the music as an excuse to get out quick. But this wasn’t your average student disco – it was a birthday party at a manor house, hosted by the aristocracy – so what exactly was she trying to achieve?

Let’s assume, for impossibility’s sake, that she was flirting with me, but put off by the fact that I was indecently young, and that I reciprocated. Now let’s assume, further to that, that we pulled. Where were we meant to go from there? Everyone was going to be in sleeping bags in a huge marquee out on the lawn after the party, so what exactly would we do? Get into one together and hope that nobody noticed?

As it turned out, it didn’t matter. She vanished after a while. As it turned out, she lived in the local area. So she just walked home.

I quaffed a few more Diet Cokes before realising that I’d forgotten my sleeping bag… and that Meg, who had driven me up there, had hers clearly visible.

So I did end up in a sleeping bag with someone else that night, after all.

QuoteQuest: Applause, please!

If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all: read a lot and write a lot.

Stephen king

and

I write for me, but I want you to read it too.

little switch bitch

and

I’d love to help the world and all its problems, but I’m an entertainer, and that’s all!

william shatner

I initially found this week’s QuoteQuest a little uninspiring, but LSB’s post opened up some interesting avenues. Which is, I suppose, what I’m trying to do too.

I’ve been reading for as long as I can remember (I started at fifteen months, so my family tells me) and writing for about as long. Stephen King’s quote above doesn’t serve so much as a reminder, but a description of my life, and even if I don’t have the time to read so much (or to write so much) I’m always composing in my head.

If a blog post comes out of it, then that’s a success. If not… well, it’s an idea. And and idea’s something.

I may blog now, but back in my teenage years, I kept a diary. Frustrated by the hoops I had to jump through in academia, writing my journal every night was the way I got my writing out. Unlike my friends who did the same thing, though, I would freely pass my diary around, letting people read everything I wrote. (I even read bits out to them, if they asked.) I applied the same logic to my LiveJournal, when I started that a few years later, and latterly to ILB.

Like LSB’s quote above, my writing is for me, but I want you to read it too.

I don’t really get the idea of writing which isn’t there to be read. That is, after all, what writing is for by design. One of the first things we are taught at children is how to read, and what’s the point in learning a skill if you’re not going to use it?

I write to entertain. I always have, even when I’m not meant to. My teachers didn’t like my unorthodox approach to every written assignment (but at least I made them laugh!); in the sixth form, my political and historical essays weren’t neutral enough (but at least I made them think!); at university, my tutors appreciated the effort but were often confused by the overabundance of sardonic wit (but, again, I made them laugh!).

[It’s a good thing I did a creative writing dissertation, as well, as I don’t think I could have hacked my way through yet another essay deconstructing the precious art form of literature…]

My aim, in writing, is to entertain. Whether or not that actually happens is immaterial; I write every word in the assumption that someone, at some point, will read it. Thirteen years ago, I started writing ILB with no idea that people would read – but I hoped they would – and they did. So I kept writing, kept the content going, and kept enjoying myself. I want people to read my words and have a good time doing so.

And that’s why I write.

*

Or to put it another way…

A year and a half ago I had a job interview for something I really wanted. I rehearsed, for want of a better word, the practical task and even some of the interview answers (although, in the end, I freewheeled my way through the interview… son of an actor, I can do that…), but forgot completely that there would be a written aspect of the interview process.

I was given a blank piece of ruled A4, a black biro and a printed question.
“Don’t worry about giving too many details,” the interviewer advised me. “This is just to see if your grasp of written English is sound.”
“Righty-ho,” I replied (yes, I genuinely said “righty-ho”). “But can I put details in if I want?”
“Do whatever you want,” she said cheerfully, “it’s your writing.”

The Hallelujah chorus rang out.

A page and a half of dry humour, parenthetical remarks and deliberate oxymorons later, and she came to collect it.
“This is… quite a lot longer than I was expecting,” she said, “but I look forward to reading it.” I thanked her, took my leave, and on the way out, I heard the telltale rustle of a page being turned, followed by short, sharp bursts of laughter.

And that’s why I write.

QuoteQuest
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