Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Author: Innocent Loverboy (Page 1 of 25)

Soft Porn Sunday: Monique DeMoan & Eddie Jay

You want a swingers’ party
We’ll all chuck in our car keys
Maybe try bukkake
Now it’s always you, and me, and Dave…

You’ve never heard of Monique DeMoan, have you? Maybe you know her by her birth name, Cheyenne August Camarillo? No? How about Cheyenne, the name she’s credited by in Love Exchange?

I’m slightly more familiar with Eddie Jay, although mostly from things like cultural event of the century Hotel Erotica and that absolute cinematic masterpiece Personals 2: CasualSex.com. I couldn’t pick him out of a line-up, though. He’s skilfully also used a pseudonym here: the unidentifiable “Eddy Jay”. Wonderful.

Monique DeMoan and Eddie Jay in "Love Exchange" (2001)
Happy Pride Month, say the drapes on the wall!

What’s my point in life here? Well, said Claire, if you’ve been following this meme since I started it (or if you’re into soft porn yourself), you may well recognise some of the other names. Holly Sampson is a former Emmanuelle. Shannan Leigh is in a fair few things, including Virgins of Sherwood Forest, with David Usher, who’s also in The Exotic Time Machine 2, with Holly Sampson, who’s in Platinum Blonde, with Stella Porter and Tre Temptor, and Shannan Leigh.

Holly Sampson also once had sex with Tiger Woods. Just throwing that out there.

Appearance: Love Exchange, aka Romance Roulette (2001)
Characters: Lizelle & Ben

Judging by the above and how incestuous this all sounds, it makes complete sense that Love Exchange is all about swapping partners. Jackie (Sampson) and Ben (Jay) are a married couple who move into a new neighbourhood, where they are almost immediately propositioned by the very creepy Lorenzo (Ben Brown, aka Anthony Skordi, who’s now voicing Star Wars video games), who runs a regular “sexual card game” which inevitably results in everyone shagging everyone else.

Except for Helen (Leigh), who doesn’t get to do much, or Bill (Richard Neale), who also doesn’t do anything, or Josh (Usher), who gets about two seconds of sex at one point. Holly Sampson gets her kit off, but even then, most of her sex scenes are with Gloria (Taylor Moore, from pieces of high art like I Love Lesbians 11). In fact, Gloria may as well not wear any clothes, judging by the amount of time she spends enjoying half the cast.

Into this domestic order we throw a new variant: on the first night, Ben draws Lizelle, Lorenzo’s wife, who is more than happy to go into a darkened room with him and yes I can also see where this is going let’s just get on with it shall we

Grab your partner, now let’s swing

Lizelle (who’s very game, it seems) leads Ben to a room which she describes as

It’s so sensuous… so surreal, don’tcha think?

but evidently not sensuous enough, as she proceeds to light nine soft porn candles and a joss stick to add to the ambience. Then, of course, she starts disrobing. Ben, naturally, doesn’t say a word; he just sits there with an inane grin, then starts kissing her while the camera pans around to reveal another twelve candles (do they have shares?), then after a couple of mix shots, we end up with one of those hairy softcore blowjobs.

Candles in "Love Exchange" (2001)
This is a genuine shot. How’s that sponsorship deal working out?

Moving fast, then. Surrender doesn’t usually do this; their sex scenes usually involve quite a lot of disrobing before getting down to the action. Mind you, this scene is exactly halfway through the film (it’s a genuine mid-point); we’ve seen a lot of sex already, so maybe they’re expecting us to be desensitised by this juncture. I’m not complaining.

The music ratchets up a notch at this point. I think I ought to mention this, as it’s very curious – with various zither-like string arrangements it has an Eastern flavour, but it’s underscored by conga drums and features an electric guitar. It’s hardly the new In The Steppes of Central Asia by Borodin, but it suits the slightly new-agey setting and is sexy enough.

Monique DeMoan and Eddie Jay in "Love Exchange" (2001)
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920)

Talking of sexy enough, look at Lizelle. She’s absolutely stunning. There’s a kind of sensuality to her in the way she moves her body and uses her facial expressions which plays off Ben’s generic “hooray, I’m getting laid!” look. She manages to carry herself through the inevitable brief-sucking-nipples bit, end even a slightly overlong rubbing-her-body sequence is sexy.

Sing, sing, sing (with a swing)

Monique DeMoan and Eddie Jay in "Love Exchange" (2001)
LOOK AT HER!!!

The actual sex starts with Lizelle on top, with her riding Ben, her hands on his knees for support (a nice touch) and the cameraman briefly passing out because the shot suddenly angles strangely before righting itself. It’s not hard sex, but there’s a certain type of energy to it, and certainly a rhythm. It isn’t slow, and then neither is the following scene, a mix to doggy style, again with a fair clip of speed, but not too much.

Lizelle even looks over her shoulder to hold Ben’s gaze while he’s at work with the backshots, also a nice touch, and at what is (presumably) the point of orgasm she even bites her lip, not something I’d imagine most softcore actresses would think of (although maybe this was the director’s choice? I don’t know.). It’s all very pacey, very sensual, and nice to look at.

Monique DeMoan and Eddie Jay in "Love Exchange" (2001)
Lin-Manuel Miranda found wanting.

For a movie with so many scenes, why did I pick this one? Because it’s the one I keep coming back to. Love Exchange is a relatively new discovery for me and it’s practically packed with sex – there was plenty for me in the pic’n’mix. This one stands out because:

  • the setting is pretty
  • the music is pretty
  • the cinematography is pretty
  • Monique DeMoan is incredibly pretty
  • Eddie Jay is… all right, actually

Swing and a miss

Monique DeMoan and Eddie Jay in "Love Exchange" (2001)
I think Ben’s noticed us watching…

That isn’t to say that all the other scenes in Love Exchange are lacklustre. Most of them are good for a wank, or at least worth a watch. In fact, if you’re going to seek this out I would recommend you watch the entire thing from beginning to end, as it all makes a lot more sense that way. It gives the Surrender cast a chance to act, a rare occurrence. There’s clearly been a lot of thought put into the plot. Even some of the characters are fairly rounded, which adds a bit of weight to the “who are these people and why are they having sex?” background, which I need.

And, of course, now I’m going to go and seek out more things with Monique DeMoan in.

You know, for research.

It’s fun to share, it’s fun to share

“Last time I stayed in one of these hotels,” I said, “I had some of the best sex of my life in a bed just like this.”

I indicated the bed. I had lied a little, perhaps; the bed I’d had sex on was facing the other way in the room, and the en-suite bathroom was on its other side… but this was the same design, the same size, the same softness, and – crucially – this was a Radisson Blu. It’s a nice hotel chain. Good memories. And this was free. What was I going to do, really?

Nobody answered, because there was nobody to share with me. I was talking out loud to myself (I do that a lot, anyway). I needed to say it, though. And, as I put my bag down and laid out my clothes, I ruminated on how lucky I was not to be put in Room 666. I was in 665. 666 may have been a “superior” room, but who knows at this point?

But I digress. There was only one of me, and I’d been given carte blanche to go back to my room at any point during the weekend (I did that in the middle of the day, once, during Day 2, simply because I needed a nap). I could claim ownership of the whole space, and I did – walking around the roomy room a good few times, trying (and failing) to decide if I was pleased, proud, grateful or lonely. I didn’t quite share that feeling for the rest of the weekend.

There was, however, something I did manage to do.

Both nights there I masturbated in the big squashy armchair in the corner of the room. I wasn’t sure if I would be completely able to do so, but I didn’t feel comfortable in the little desk chair, and the bed was too squashy. I feared not being able to get up from it if I lay on my back to wank, and indeed I fell out of bed on Day 1, so that was… fun. Searching around for one, I put a towel on the cushion, sat on that, and worked my way towards orgasm with no more aid than my imagination.

Both times were satisfying, fruitful and productive. I used up a lot of the tissues they gave me. Sorry, Radisson.

Also, neither time did I think to shut the window, or close the blinds.

That was a lie. I did think to do so, but I decided not to. It was incredibly unlikely that anyone would see me on the sixth floor of a massive hotel, especially since I was in the corner. I liked to hear the sounds of Manchester continuing apace outside, and the twinkly lights coming on through the dusky sky were a perfect backdrop. Plus, I told myself, who cares if there’s someone wanking in a hotel room? People masturbate all the time. It’s a hot evening; nobody’s going to judge me even if they do see.

I mean, they might have, but I didn’t want to test the theory.

As I said, I was alone. But, on both nights, as I sat there in the stillness, Manchester’s hum low under my post-orgasmic haze, I felt comfortable, satiated, and totally at peace with the orgasms I’d chosen to share with the world.

So how was your weekend, ILB?

Calm.

Dream List #1

I’m sure this is true of most, if not all, of us, but it certainly is for me: I live a much more colourful life in my dreams than I actually do in reality. I’ve expounded on these so many times that I’ve sometimes wondered if it’s worth running a dream journal too (before I realised, of course, that many dreams are dull as fuck to read). However, because this is easy good content and I really love a good listicle, here’s something I thought up last night.

[Fifteen-minute break here because at this point ILB locked himself out of his flat. He had to wait barefoot in the corridor for his letting agent to come and let him back in. Nicely done, ILB. Very sensible and mature.]

GOTN recently re-shared one of her old posts in which she listed everyone (and, I suppose, everything) weird she has had sex with in her dreams. It makes for fascinating and, let’s be honest, slightly disturbing reading. In my continuing quest to be both fascinating and slightly disturbing myself, I thought it would be a wheeze to steal adapt this idea and make my own sex dream list.

So here I present to you

ILB’s List of People He’s Had Sex With in His Dreams

In no particular order:

Katy Hill. The only famous person on this list. I also had a dream in which she was having sex with fellow Blue Peter presenter Stuart Miles. In a lift. While I was watching.

Three of my friends from secondary school. More specifically, the Manics fan with whom I wanted to have sex (also my fist kiss, again in my dreams); the Floof before she went a little weirder in her later teens; and Bob, for whom I always had a soft spot. None of these I felt particularly proud of. In fact, Bob was wanking off my toe, but my psychologist said that was probably just my penis in a different place, so I’ll go with that.

One university friend. I felt really guilty about this one. RS was our class representative so everyone told me this was out of respect, but I couldn’t shake this one. I never looked her in the eye after this.

Two blogging people. One of whom I’ve hugged (she knows who she is) and one of whom I’ve felt up, been felt up by and very nearly did have sex with. It’s a testament to my temperance that I didn’t. I still had a dream about it, though, that very night.

Four out of eight people I’ve genuinely had sex with. This shouldn’t really come as a massive surprise. What is a surprise is that it hasn’t been all eight. In all these dreams – featuring Rebecca, the Seamstress, Catherine and my now-wife – I’ve had a massive dick. Like, really big, more so than my UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS. Who knows what the message is here?

One secret crush. I’m not even sure if I’ve mentioned her here. I also had a dream once in which I had three girlfriends, of which she was one. (I, predictably, woke up shortly after inviting her over.) The first time I met her was on a sofa, so that’s where it happened.

and

Samus Aran in zero suit mode.
The soft glow of electric sex.

Samus Aran. I don’t know what turned me on the most about this one – maybe it was the long blonde hair, the perfect body, how adventurous she was in bed – but what I think got me going was the soft hiss her body armour made while different bits of it disengaged. That’s the good stuff.

That’s my sex dream list. But as for where I’ve been naked in my dreams? That, my friends, is a completely different story.

So… my next post, I suppose.

Slap

I was on the way back from Manchester, and I was alone. I’d stopped off at… somewhere, I’m not entirely sure where… but the station was empty, for myself, an unassuming couple sitting on the bench, and a sleepy member of staff who looked as if he would rather be anywhere else, doing anything else.

I had used the combination disabled toilet / baby change, and to break up the tedium, I decided to spend the rest of my wait gaming in the customer lounge.

Said customer lounge was a large, sad, square room with uncomfortable wooden benches. I huffed my bag off my shoulders, fumbled for my Game Boy Advance, sat down gingerly, and was just about to push the power button when…

Slap.
“Unh.”

No, that was just my imagination. Let’s get back to Ice Climber.

Screenshot from "Ice Climber" (1985).
Ice Climber is a perfectly acceptable way to pass the time.

Slap.
“Aah!”

Okay, that was definitely real. I knew that sound, too. It was very familiar, and not just from porn (although that was, of course, the first place I’d heard it). I’d even made it a few times myself, despite never thinking I’d even get the chance.

But it was unmistakable, even without my prior knowledge. The telltale sound of flesh against flesh, skin meeting skin, pushing out the air between them and the very slight echo. Yeah. I knew what this was.

The only question was, where was it coming from?

Slap.
“Oh!”

Turned on, ashamed, I prowled around the room trying to puzzle out the mystery. A cursory glance around the platform outside and I noticed the lack of the couple on the bench. The sleepy guard was looking the other way… and there was no other activity.

Slap. Slap. Slap.
“Mmm… mmm… mmm!”

As the slaps and moans increased in terms of pitch, tempo and volume, I could definitely discern the direction they were coming from. The wall to my left. The wall, the thin brick wall, to my left. The wall separating my empty customer lounge and the disabled toilet / baby change.

The disabled toilet / baby change! That suddenly made perfect sense! I was the single boy perfectly content to sit and play Ice Climber; they were the horny couple deciding it would be a better use of their time to go and have sex in the disabled bathroom. (I mean, I don’t blame them; I’ve done that.)

How decadent. How risqué. How blatant. How…

how…

sexy.

I even managed to pinpoint, through a sound I’m not even going to try and transcribe, what may very well have been an orgasm. It was certainly, if not that, a finishing move.

I didn’t quite get around to playing much of Ice Climber, but I did get my train. In fact, when it arrived, the couple were back on their bench, looking for all the world like nothing untoward had happened. Cool as you please, they stepped gracefully into a carriage. I followed suit, and as they swanned away into the milieu of seats, I traced them with my eyes…

…and regarded them with nothing short of ardent worship.

Backstroke

BILL: I don’t suppose you have super-strength.
MIKAAL: Not the carrying-a-500-pound-sopping-wet-gorilla kind of super-strength.
BILL: Oh well, the European coast is only about five miles from here. I’ll see you there.
MIKAAL: What are you going to do?
BILL: The backstroke.

Cry for Justice

Life has an odd way of slotting things into place. Occasionally it takes a little push – case in point, I get evicted from yet another place and find a new one so quickly that I’m now typing surrounded by packed boxes. More often than not, though, things just happen, and while it’s not always the wisest thing to do to sit around waiting for them to do so, it’s nice to notice them when they do.

I was jettisoned by my second girlfriend for no stated reason, but the message I got from the whole thing once I’d stopped crying was that I couldn’t give her everything she wanted, or at least everything she thought she was due. I didn’t have a job, or a car, and I wasn’t even particularly hot. One more thing I wouldn’t have been able to give her, as it turns out, would be children, and that was something she desperately wanted.

She now has two blonde ones, having married a Dutchman and Completely Moving On. I’d never been sure if I wanted children, although I’m now absolutely certain that I don’t, but back in Spring 2021 I was told that I can’t. The prospect of no fertility was presented to me like I was on my deathbed, and the fact that I reacted like I’d just seen Father Christmas produce a particularly big toy from his sack caused the first of many very confused medical professionals.

Months of waiting and two jizz rushes later and I still don’t have a definitive answer.

This isn’t the post I wanted to be writing at this point, I’ll be honest. I wanted to be able to say that I was utterly, irreversibly, 100% infertile (and STD-free, come to think of it) and finish it off with something like “…ladies.”

But I’m almost there.

My sperm are doing odd things. Fertility isn’t one of them. Nearly all of them have misshapen heads which wouldn’t get through an egg, never mind making it far enough to attempt to do so. Some of them break in half easily; some keep going in circles; some just die without explanation… and quite a few of them are swimming backwards.

No, I didn’t know that was possible either.

Everything else about my semen appears to be healthy – in terms of viscosity, appearance, scent and all the other things they test for. It’s just the spermatozoa that aren’t working… which, come to think of it, is the result I was sort of hoping for. I had to have the “no, I genuinely aren’t trying to conceive / no, I genuinely don’t want help from the fertility clinic” conversation with my GP, but I was expecting that.

What I wasn’t quite expecting was the fact that a special note had been added to my results commenting on how there was rather more volume than they would normally be expecting…

…ladies.

Sercia

Dear Sercia,

Hi. You may not remember me, of course, but I think you might. I certainly remember you. I learned how to spell your name, at least. Occasionally I spoke to you, although we rarely – if ever – exchanged more than pleasantries. But then, you never said much to anyone at all. You were quiet, unassuming, and impenetrable.

But then that all added to the mystique.

You never even seemed to mind that I bunked next to you on that residential. There weren’t many spaces left and I took one between you and my geeky mate. He was a friend, of course, and I just liked your general vibe. You radiated an air of calm, cool collectedness, which made me feel at ease. At that time, I wasn’t particularly enjoying life, and you helped.

The other thing that I associated with ‘the Sercia vibe’ was your air of general innocence. Because you were so quiet and somewhat detached, you seemed to carry around a certain amount of purity. You were sweet, slightly abashed and almost virginal. You were also very pretty, which helped complete the look.

What was the big thing for me, of course, was the reputation you had.

It didn’t suit you at all, and yet you seemed unfazed by it, to your immense credit. You said, in your soft, dreamy voice, that you had never kissed anyone without that leading to sex – and, since that was during I Have Never, I would assume you were telling the truth. Your closest friend, who was slightly more forthcoming with information even when not playing I Have Never, would talk about you in ways that you never contradicted.

The air around you and your general attitude didn’t really fit with the picture that was gradually painted of this hypersexual, promiscuous dynamo who would sleep with pretty much anyone at the drop of a hat basically because she could.

“Sercia,” your friend said, “had a lot more sex than me in the earlier days. Of course, she had started when she was 13, so there were a few years between us and I had to catch up…”
“That’s quite early…” someone said uncertainly.
“Ah, yes it is, but that’s Sercia; you know what she’s like.”

But did we? Did we really?

At the time, of course, I had a huge, unrequited crush on Leaf, and I didn’t need another one on you, Sercia. You were out of my league anyway, and in any case, I wasn’t going to be hooking up at any Woodcraft event, on account of the fact that… well… it’s me, isn’t it? People don’t go for me. I only ever got to kiss Leaf because she was drunk.

But my brain built up this fantasy anyway.

Scene from the classic arcade game "Time Crisis" featuring the text "Sercia".
Get into the castle and rescue Rachel!

Somehow, inexplicably, we’d end up in a relationship. On the last night, with nobody else in the room (which never happened; it was a major thoroughfare, people had sex in the smaller rooms), we’d have sex, and it would be a moment of glory given your beauty and experience (and my enthusiasm). For the next couple of years I would spend my spare time ferrying myself between Nottingham and Solihull – a much shorter journey than London to Birmingham – and we would enjoy each other’s company, and each other’s body.

Judging by what you said, it would only take a kiss. But I wasn’t going to try that.

What you don’t know, Sercia, is that I almost tried it. On the last day of the residential, I was going to ask you out. You hadn’t raised any objections to sleeping next to me for three days, you were single, and you were quiet enough to say no without anyone else finding out. Had I actually asked Leaf, I would have been so embarrassed by her rejection that I would have hesitated on going to any further events. I didn’t want to jeopardise that.

Besides, I liked your general vibe. You were fun. It would be fun.

But, of course, I didn’t. I didn’t (and still don’t) do asking people out. I wasn’t even sure what to say, or how to say it. The one and only time I did, it didn’t go too well.

So I didn’t say anything, and I didn’t do anything. Because I never did. And you never knew what was going on in my head every time you sighed in your sleep or turned up at breakfast looking perfect.

You came to a few more events, because of course you did, but you were conspicuously absent for my last few.

“What happened to Sercia?” I asked my geeky friend.
“No idea. I haven’t seen her either. Maybe she’s just busy with… Sercia stuff?”

Yes, what exactly did you do when not at Woodcraft? Nobody had heard you talking about anything but sex. Trying to imagine your life was almost impossible, like envisioning a stupid professor or a competent Tory Prime Minister.

But kindly take this letter as an indication that I did very much like you.

Because I never told you, and I think you ought to know.

Erika? Lucie? I’m So Confused!

JS: How did the flat viewing go?
ILB: Oh, yeah, good. Lucie (our agent, who looks like Chelsea Clinton) is going to send me a form to fill in. I think we can get it. I hope we can get it.
JS: All right. Tell me more when I get home.

There wasn’t anything more to tell when they got home. Lucie had clearly clocked off for the day and, since we’d been ghosted by one agency already after a viewing, this didn’t bode too well. (I actually got the form from her this morning, so maybe there’s a chance here.)

“Why did you think to say she looked like Chelsea Clinton?”
“That’s more of a guess. I mean, she does look a bit like Chelsea; she’s tall, blonde and pretty. But she’s got the wrong shaped head. It’s more like an oval. She reminds me more of…”

There was a pause.

“…of… well…”
“It’s a porn star, isn’t it?”

It took my brain a while to parse that. I’d just done the first active thing in the whole week since becoming laid up with a massive cold on Monday. I wasn’t really fully awake yet.

“Yes?” I decided upon.

In all fairness, when I recognise people it’s usually because I’m recalling someone from porn. Some of them, like Krista Allen and Lisa Boyle, are both incredibly hot and totally unique in looks, and although I’ve met a fair few people who remind me of Amber Newman, this one escaped me. Who, exactly, did this Lucie remind me of?

Softcore actress Erika Jordan looking creepy.
ARGH! SHE’S COMING TO GET ME!

Erika Jordan leapt out of my head the instant I sat down this afternoon, followed almost immediately by a crunchy reel in my head of basically everything I’ve ever seen her in, although I’d temporarily forgotten, it seems, that this is also her. That’s certainly somebody I’ve had a fair number of orgasms too.

Poor Lucie. She has no idea what she’s managed to awaken within me, although realistically, I’m not entirely sure she noticed me much, on account of the fact that my parents wouldn’t leave her alone. And I’m sure that she isn’t that similar to Erika. I mean, I thought of Chelsea Clinton at first.

Until my mother said, “what is she doing?”

And now I’m never going to not be able to see it. Cheers, mum.

Soft Porn Sunday: Bari Buckner & Mark S. Porro

As a meme writer, I will admit to being lazy. Long posts are one thing, but in choosing scenes for this here porn meme I have developed a tendency towards gravitating towards scenes I know, or at least scenes I think I do from my youth but have since rediscovered. I am aware that there are probably hundreds, if not thousands, of sex scenes I haven’t (yet) seen… but I am more comfortable, if not secure, talking about something I know.

I mean, that was the initial aim of the meme when I started it, right? Do only scenes I like to prove the worth of softcore because I like it so much? (I will admit that only lasted a couple of weeks, of course; I had to give a negative review at some point…!)

But then, as I said, there are scenes I have yet to see. One of these, sent to me by reader and correspondent S.A., was nothing if not completely unfamiliar.

Appearance: Hot Line, Series 2: “Where Were We?” (1996)
Characters: Stefanie & Allen

Bari Buckner & Mark S. Porro in Hot Line (1996)
That’s not really how you kiss, is it?

There’s probably a reason for this. I have, in fact, mentioned Hot Line once before, but only once. It’s a series that kind of slipped under my radar, having been broadcast on UK TV (I suspect Living, or maybe ITV?) sporadically, but not really having the staying power of Compromising Situations or Passion Cove, which were shown in full on L!VE and Living respectively.

It is, effectively, nothing I haven’t seen before – another American drama series with sex scenes – but, as I genuinely haven’t seen a lot of it, I have very little idea. What I do know is the set-up: callers to a titular “Hot Line” tell the host Rebecca (initially erotic thriller queen Shannon Tweed; later former Bond girl Tanya Roberts) about their sexual escapades. Rebecca broadcasts them.

This “one person lynchpin” thing appear to happen a lot. The main character in Red Shoe Diaries gets letters. The lady in Passion Cove owns a resort. The slightly older woman in Bedtime Stories has a… brothel, maybe? Something to do with sex, anyway. Hot Line is a phone-in show. Go figure.

Anyway, right, the scene I was meant to be talking about…

Bari Buckner & Mark S. Porro in Hot Line (1996)
You can’t see their faces here because that’s Artistic Directing. It’s deliberate, see.

This is a second-series episode written by a curious team of someone who worked on Supernatural and somebody who worked on Biker Mice from Mars. The story itself is fairly threadbare but sustainable enough for a thirty-minute episode. Married couple Stefanie (Bari Buckner, who hasn’t done much but went on to play the imaginatively-named “Screaming Woman” in the second Jurassic Park movie) and Allen (Mark Porro, who has had a more varied career including Love Street, Babylon 5 and Days Of Our Lives, which made my wife giggle!) are trying for a baby, but end up continuously getting…

…interrupted? I suppose that’s the most accurate word? They’re not going to have a baby like this, anyway.

Take this scene, which starts with Stefanie and Allen i’m sorry that’s a really stupid haircut i’m never going to be able to unsee that and seriously what was the hair and makeup department thinking mark porro deserves better kissing, disrobing amid giggles and letting out curious noises.

Bari Buckner & Mark S. Porro in Hot Line (1996)
IKEA: the wonderful everyday.

By which I mean Stefanie says “hmm” a couple of times. Not the sexy moan hmm, but more like she is having a try at a tricky Sudoku and isn’t quite sure about it. We also get some bog-standard softcore between-the-breasts kissing and a highly staged tumble onto some bedsheets that may or may not have been there until this point. I’m not entirely sure it matters.

For all the posturing there has been so far, you can kind of stretch to believing these two are genuinely into each other. Fair enough, it’s just kisses and clothes for the first 45 seconds, but it’s done with enough enthusiasm to point towards them being keen to DO IT, as well as familiarity to indicate the fact that they are a couple. It’s also relatively immediate, indicating some degree of spontaneity.

Bari Buckner & Mark S. Porro in Hot Line (1996)
Of course, that cup behind them contains Water of Life.

Stefanie flashes a cute little smile a fair few times while Allen does… something to her, I don’t know, it’s kind of ambiguous… and then at about 01:03 we get some actual sex, first with Allen on top and that very familiar “bum between legs – zOMG SeXuaL iNTeRCouRSe!” shot. A few mixes later and it’s Stefanie in the driving seat, riding Allen with a new more overlaid “hmm”s and a very well-decorated flat in the background.

It kind of continues in that vein for a while, except for Stefanie saying “oh!” in a voice reminiscent of a dowager duchess in a British historical drama series, which made me laugh. What is, I’m supposing, the orgasm scene comes immediately after this, but considering just how it’s more Sounds™, it’s hardly the most explosive.

And then there’s a fade to black because of course there is.

Bari Buckner & Mark S. Porro in Hot Line (1996)
I think I went on that and had a lovely panoramic view…

So what do I think of this new-to-me scene? Well, it’s nothing special, and it also have a brief runtime of 02:31. I don’t think it will be making The General Rotation. However, having said that, it’s not bad. I can’t get past Allen’s hair, but Bari Buckner has a nice, natural-looking body and the motions between them – during the buildup and the sex – are both natural and energetic enough to cement the fact that they are a couple who still have the spark.

Why they want to bring a baby into this domestic order, I’ve no idea.

The music even matches the thing. It doesn’t quite sync, but it’s inoffensive instrumental rock with what I’m assuming is meant to be a saxophone at points. It works with the energy of the scene, and it’s not too drippy or soft like other short-form series often have in their scenes. Whether this is a Hot Line thing or not I have no idea. It’s good, anyway.

There are a few unanswered questions, of course. Why are they having sex on the floor since there’s a sofa right there? Where did they find lightbulbs that give very bright white illumination? How is there a matchstick model of the London Eye on the table behind them when it hadn’t even been built yet? What’s in the lone coffee cup? Is Stefanie actually part of the landed gentry? Who did that to Mark Porro’s hair and how much would it cost to hire the hitman?

Why are neither of them wearing a wedding ring when they are married? Are they very up-to-date and advanced people?

All the important questions. But then I’m sure radio host Rebecca covered them. I haven’t seen the episode, but that’s totally my headcanon.

Eviction

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

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

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

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

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

I feel safe here.

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

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

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

And then my ‘phone rang.

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

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

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

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

…you get the idea.

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

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

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

Scared.

Orgasms, on

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

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

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

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

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

Or something like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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