Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Author: Innocent Loverboy (Page 2 of 9)

It’ll Never Work: ILB and his 53-X sex machine

In my early years of secondary school – say, years 7 to 9 – I spent many waking night hours trying to divine different ways to have sex on school property. Quite a number were simple – holes in the ground, under the table in a classroom, on the field in the morning mist, etc. – but some were more complex.

And then there was one which was downright bizarre.

When I started secondary school, I didn’t really know what sex looked like. After year 7 biology, I was at least aware of the missionary position (previously, I had been envisioning something similar to anal sex), and therefore, that was what my fantasies involved. I was even less aware of the time it took to have sex and was surprised at how brief it was – again, I was envisioning falling asleep inside someone and staying that way for the whole night – but, in my young head, that all made sense.

But what if you didn’t have to stop having sex? What if you never wanted to stop? Could you, hypothetically, have sex for as long as you wanted, without having to eat or sleep or exercise or do anything else at all, if you had the right equipment?

The right equipment

So here’s what I invented.

The 53-X was a box roughly the size and dimensions of a sideways kitchen ‘fridge, although bigger (obviously; it had to have two humans inside it), laid sideways on the ground, like a coffin. It was also mounted on a concrete pedestal around the back of the Science Block, but that wasn’t particularly important.

There were two sections of the 53-X, mounted atop each other. The bottom section was for those with vulvas; they would lie supine on a kind of memory foam, which would mould itself around their body shape, making them feel comfortable and relaxed. The pelvic area would be slightly elevated; the 53-X itself would also provide sustenance if you wanted it to. It was completely self-contained, although not constraining.

The top section was for those with penes; they would lie prone, the foam on the lid, also moulding around and holding their body in place. Mechanics in the design would enable the genitals to connect; effectively, you could penetrate your partner, stimulants would keep you both sexually aroused, and the 53-X would hold you both in place for as long as you wanted.

There was also a satisfying sci-fi hiss when it opened or closed, accompanied by a dry ice smoke effect. Because of course there was.

You could stay in the 53-X for as long as you wanted, and while in it you would not stop having sex. Hours. Days. Months. Years.

FOREVER!!!

To my teenage brain, this was the hottest thing imaginable. Voluntarily (or involuntarily, I had a dream once about the 53-X being used as a punishment), one could get strapped into this machine and actually spend an incredibly long period of time having sex, which of course was completely taboo at the time and something I’d never, ever, ever get to do.

I also never imagined using the 53-X myself. It was always one of the faceless masses. I was just its inventor… although why I hadn’t been given a detention for inventing this sex machine in a school full of underage teens I wasn’t quite sure.

I’d work that one out later.

Why am I talking about it now, then?

Ah, that’s the big question, isn’t it? I last mentioned the concept, vaguely, twelve years ago; I’ve never touched upon it since.

The other day, with some work colleagues, we passed by my old school. It’s not in an area I go to much any more, and I hardly ever see it. But, as I looked out of curiosity, I spotted – among the jumble of new buildings and coloured fencing – the exact spot where the 53-X would have stood. Pristine. Untouched. In exactly the same state it had been when I walked across it all those years ago.

Its rightful place, waiting for it.

Not that I’d ever actually build it.

But isn’t that what science fiction is for?

Truth will open, truth will out

Six days after the first time I had sex, everyone found out.

To many people, though, this wasn’t the first time I had lost my flashing V. The year beforehand, the rumour had spread that I had had sex with Louise, when the truth itself was much more complicated. When it boils down, however, to “I didn’t actually have sex with her, but she asked me to start a rumour that I had“, it doesn’t seem too complex, but at the time it was.

To this day I still genuinely don’t know if any of my (former) classmates believed, at the time, that I did sleep with Louise – although I did sleep with Louise, three years later – or if any of them still do; I was never too clear on the matter.

This time, however, it was real and completely undeniable. No longer was I vague or coy, nor was I ashamed: I was a sexual being and I’d had sex, and I was going to be having some more, and although it came out in a relatively random way, I wasn’t going to not answer things any more.

“So are you seeing her tonight?”
“Yes, I am! I’m going up there right after school!”
“This relationship’s really going somewhere, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’m so pleased! It’s going really far, really fast!”
“What do you mean… you haven’t slept with her, have you?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s to be expected, I mean, we’re in a relationsh…”
“Wait, what?”

By the time the door opened and we made our way into the English classroom, everyone in the class knew I had done it. (And this time, everyone believed it.)

Their reactions ranged from polite, confused befuddlement to absolute horror (which didn’t do too much for my poor self-image). One friend, who had expressed amazement and hastily reassured me that it wasn’t because I was physically abhorrent and she couldn’t understand any anyone would have sex with me (that was Lightsinthesky’s take), eventually came out with what I assume everyone was thinking:

“But I thought you were against sex before marriage?”

I’ve never been against sex before marriage.

“No, I’m not aga…”
“You were, but not any more, right?”
“No, I’ve never been…”
“Because now you’ve had sex and you’ve changed your tune, right?”
“No, I’ve never been agai…”
“But you’re a Christian!”
“Yes, I am, but that…”

At which point our teacher entered and everyone shut up.

It’s not like the signs hadn’t been there. As early as year 7 RS, when I’d stood up in front of the class and said verbatim that I had no problem with sex before marriage (as it was an expression of love and marriage didn’t need to be necessary), and then written the same in my exercise book (my teacher countered with “can you love someone and not marry them?”, which is one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard a teacher say), it had been fairly clear to which mast my colours were nailed.

I barely remember what our teacher said during that A2 English lesson. What I do remember, vividly, was the fact that all eyes were on me throughout, as if I were about to spontaneously combust or something. For the first time, I found myself enjoying the attention.

I was still replaying the conversation/revelation a couple of hours later, when on the coach to Birmingham. I was sure that they’d all still have questions (for me; nobody thought to ask Lightsinthesky, or my token black friend, both of whom had lost their flashing V the year prior), but right then, I was unavailable for comment.

Because I was on the coach, on the way to Birmingham.

For more sex.

Soft Porn Sunday: Shannon Tweed & James Brolin

Take a step back, and breathe.

Okay, now come closer. You can’t hear me from all the way back there.

Am I clearer now? Good.

I felt like I needed to give you the time to parse the title you have just read. If, like me, you grew up in Britain during the ’90s, you’ll know exactly who Shannon Tweed is, most likely due to the existence of Channel 5. Her extensive back catalogue steadily made its way onto UK TV, and as it did, Tweed completists were religiously setting their VCRs to record every Friday night.

That is to say, I certainly was.

You may also know James Brolin… that is to say, Golden Globe-winning, Emmy-winning, has-a-star-on-the-Hollywood-walk-of-fame, married-to-Barbra-Streisand James Brolin. Yes, this is actually him. His Wikipedia entry seems to omit the fact that he did soft porn. I wonder why.

Appearance: Indecent Behavior II (1994)
Characters: Dr Rebecca Mathis & Liam O’Donnell

Now it’s my turn to take a step back and breathe to get over the fact that I had to use the American spelling of “behaviour”. I’m never, ever doing that again.

At the very least, I am aware of this series, and to my knowledge there are four Indecent Behavio(u)r films (although the fourth one was later retitled Human Desires), and from what I’ve seen – or at least what my memory tells me I’ve seen – they are all very similar. Tweed is the star, but this one also contains Nikki Fritz and Rochelle Swanson, so at least there are a few bonus names there.

Boooooooooooobs.
This is Soft Porn Sunday, so I’ve got to put some boobs in somewhere.

Like the rest, IB2 is an erotic thriller, with the erotic parts serving to fluff out the thriller parts. In fact, in essence, IB2 is more of a whodunnit; reporter Shoshona (Elizabeth Sandifer) investigating people before getting hecka murdered. The suspects, such as they are, include Tweed’s character, sex therapist Rebecca Mathis, and that’s where she comes in.

The trope of “sex therapist not having a lot of sex” is one that has seen its fair share of days in the sun, and it very much shows here, with Rebecca’s sexual awakening amounting to two shower scenes plus one sex scene with Brolin. To keep the punters happy, or something.

The scene itself

Popular though she may be, I’ve never really gotten on with Shannon Tweed’s sex scenes. There may well be nudity, but there’s very little movement. Lots of close-ups, dimly lit sets and often just the merest hint of implied sex rather than the bump’n’grind of more recent stuff.

Light. Lots and lots of light.
Rebecca, Liam and the Time Vortex making a cameo appearance.

This scene is a good example, actually. The first half-minute shows us nothing more than Rebecca and Liam (Brolin’s character) in a fairly extensive kiss in front of a curiously bright light, and at thirty seconds we cut to a shot of Liam’s chest, with Rebecca’s hand… sort of caressing and then deciding not to?

By this point, the scene seems to have been set up already. Holy light notwithstanding, everything’s quite dim; the focus is deliberately soft, and we also have the classic ’90s erotic thriller music underscoring the whole thing: slow, held synthy chords; slide guitar every now and again; occasional wind chimes and a clave hit thrown in every now and then for good measure. It’s slow and sultry and would suit the scene were I at all interested. By 00:34, I can tell where this is going.

00:35 is the start of what I assume to be sex, although with all the camera changes it’s difficult to tell. Undoubtedly Tweed is making the noises, although that’s also questionable, as they are relatively sparse. Some bits definitely are – there are a few shots of Rebecca in the astride position and something which may be a stab at doggie – but nothing lasts very long.

Sex. Just not much of it.
I took a screenshot to make this last longer. It’s two seconds otherwise.

Deliberately, I assume. Every two seconds or so there is a mix shot to a different angle, occasionally featuring extreme close-up; for a while, this is more like a montage than an actual sex scene. It’s very odd.

At around 01:05 – which is more than halfway through this this scene clocks in at two minutes exactly – we do at last get a shot of what I recognise at being a sex scene. Liam is on top of Rebecca and they are undoubtedly having sex at this point – but, again, this fades out. This carries on for the rest of the scene, too, as they film various brief shots of sex in various positions but them mix out to more chest kissing or somesuch!

Sex and shadows.
Some interesting shadow patterns on the wall behind them there.

In fact, the chest kissing is what they keep coming back to – quite literally, because it’s the same shot of Rebecca kissing Liam’s chest recycled several times in the same scene! Nice one, movie!

So what is it?

This must, must, must be a deliberate attempt to film a sex scene without showing a lot of sex. There’s no other excuse for it. You’ve got two talented actors here, and an adequate set (well… a bed), but there are so many overly-short shots and insta-mixes that the message kind of gets lost somewhere. What is happening here? Is Rebecca attracted to Liam or not? Is he some sort of beautiful lady magnet or is that just his chest? Are either of them enjoying this? Tweed smiles at some point, but that’s the only indication we get, really!

Would anyone like to sign a petition to have this film retitled Indecent Directing?

School Council

I once told my sister that I liked an American teen sitcom named Student Bodies. It was being shown, although I can’t quite tell why, on CiTV for a while – mainly on weekend mornings – and she managed to find an episode or two on Nickelodeon; she told me, each time, that Student Bodies was on. I always made an excuse so as to not watch the episode.

The main reason that I didn’t watch any of what my sister found was that I didn’t actually like Student Bodies. In fact, I’d never seen a single episode.

I hope you’re still reading, because it’s time for CONTEXT!

I saw about five minutes of Student Bodies when I was in my mid-teens, having just woken up from a dirty dream (although not a wet dream; I didn’t have many of them). I was still in bed, and likely still hard, and the few minutes of Student Bodies I saw didn’t help much, as it featured multiple attractive teenagers… in particular, two with carefully scripted sexual tension (spoiled somewhat by a pun involving them saying “we’ve got chemistry”).

In my teens, this was something I ached for. Something romantic, but both obvious and blasé; something that would just happen, without any of the pain or heartbreak I seemed to be experiencing daily. It seemed so free, so easy, so effortless. This was what I wanted, and these fictional American teenagers were getting it. I wasn’t going to. Ever.

And I was still in my bed, still hard, and still torn between jealousy and excitement (plus, let’s be real, a fair amount of melancholy) when my sister came into the room and asked why I was watching what she recognised to be Student Bodies. I said I liked it, even though I had no idea what it was, and she latched onto that.

I latched onto the fact that I was turned on when I watched it, but she didn’t need to know that. She still doesn’t know. I don’t really want her to ever know.

But, in case you are reading this, sister of mine… I apologise for misleading you. I’ve never liked Student Bodies. But I do like people being attracted to each other, and even fantasising about it happening to me, and that’s what I was into.

Sorry about that.

Hitting the Skin

“Do you still have your glockenspiel?”
“My crystal glockenspiel? I’ve still got it, yes.”
“I keep telling you, it’s not crystal. It’s not even glass; if it was, I’d have credited you with ‘crystallophone’. Anyway, you’ve still got it?”
“Yes. I mean, it’s pretty. It’s a talking point. I don’t play it, though.”
“Did you ever? I mean, apart from that one time, with the teaspoon?”

[CUT TO: Sixteen years ago. ILB has just been sent some very basic MP3 files containing rough approximations of ad libitum tuned percussion lines. As it turns out, although Louise bought a glockenspiel with glittery, coloured metal bars, she neglected to get any mallets.]

“A few times. I mean, I’m not really a musician, so…”
“Neither am I, but I started the band.”
“Yeah. I had to return the xylophone, though.”
“The one you played with the pencil?”

[CUT TO: Sixteen years ago. Louise has just excitedly sent an e-mail to ILB informing him that she is going to rent a xylophone from a music shop. A day or so later, she further messages him to tell him that she has forgotten to pick up the mallets, but would a pencil work?

ILB doesn’t know, but tells her it can’t hurt to try.]

“Did you know I played that one naked?”
“You did what?”
“I’d just had a long wank, you see, and it was hot…”
“…it’s always hot where you are…”
“…and I thought it would be a shame to put anything on, so I just turned my laptop on, and played the xylophone like that.”

[CUT TO: Sixteen years ago. ILB checks the front porch of the house he lives in to find a letter postmarked from South Africa. He finds the sheet he sent to Louise to find her thin, slanting handwriting spelling out her full name. He wonders if she has received the CD yet.]

“Should I edit the CD inlay? Have you credited as playing ‘naked xylophone’?”
“I would love you forever if you did that.”

ILB no longer has said CD inlay. But she doesn’t need to know that.

QuoteQuest: Never Really Gone

It will always be a mystery to me how we can’t forget the love that forgot us.

jm storm

It’s been ten years, and yet it still doesn’t feel like she’s gone. Every now and again, it feels like she’s still here – about to walk through the door, or maybe she’s in the bed sucking her thumb, or calling me, asking to be read a story. My love right now reminds me of her, and although she is very different in many ways, if you twisted my arm, that may be why I was attracted to her in the first place.

Many people weren’t sure what to make of her. Lots of people saw a short, angry girl with temper issues and an unchecked violent side; while I can see their point, I saw something else in her: someone both intelligent and attractive, frustrated by social protocol and a world that was holding her back.

Sometimes things remind me of her. I have very vivid, unpleasant memories of her doing things that she knew would upset me, and then getting angry at me for being upset. Sometimes she would tell me she didn’t care, or that she was ashamed of me, or that there was something about me that she found unattractive. She told me to “man up”, even though I hate that phrase.

The bad things – the things that hurt, the unresolved, unexplained things that still leave a mark – come to me in my dark moments. At night, when I can’t sleep, I think of things she said to me. I sometimes let out a silent scream into the unforgiving night; I don’t deserve this, I tell myself, so why does it bother me?

When I dream, I often dream of her. In those dreams, we are still together. We’re probably still in our twenties. In nearly every dream, she is cheating, and gleeful about it. I scream and cry and panic, but she just giggles as she skips away to have sex with someone else. In life, the memories make me hurt. In dreams, the hurt comes from any number of hypothetical situations.

I wonder, sometimes, if she feels the same way about me, whether she acknowledges the intricacies and vague lack of explanation that happened at so many points in our love. Once, I asked her if there was anything without closure for her; she said there wasn’t anything. The same couldn’t be said for me, and for ten years, it has been the lack of a why that haunts me. I may not be a logical person, but I need a reason.

I’ll never get one.

Whether or not I’m forgotten, I don’t know. She moved on to something she always wanted, which I couldn’t give her – she married a Dutchman, got the job she wanted and even had a son. She has, in layman’s terms, a normal life, and that’s something she was striving for. Knowing her, I’m very much of the opinion that she has Completely Moved On, and that if I am in her life, I am little more than a faint echo in the distant past.

But I never will. I can make valiant attempts at it, but I never really will move on.

And so I keep the love in my mind… and with it comes all the hurt.

Why?

QuoteQuest

Sixty

It was a very different world in those days…

“I’m going to the village,” her mother said, which was probably code for something. The village was a fair walk away, and I’m still not sure entirely whether it was indeed a village. If it was, it was a very big one – or a very small town.

“Okay,” I called through the door. It was all I could do, really, as – at that very moment – I was more concerned with her breasts (I had one in each hand) and her thighs (which were wrapped around my head). You probably get the general idea, although I ought to point out that I heard the door shutting at the exact moment I penetrated her.

The sex was hard and brisk, but lengthy and filthy. Over time it varied – in speed and intensity – but it was what we needed. We had, in all honesty, spent a lot of time having sex; we knew what to do to keep each other satisfied. She certainly was, and on account of the fact that nobody else was in the house at the time, she wasn’t afraid to let the neighbours know, either.

I’ve no idea what had been in my juice box that day. But, as I said, it was a very different world back then.

I hit my peak around about the time she hid her third. With a noise somewhere between a sigh and a scream, I shot rope after rope into her.

One.
Two.
Three.

[Pause.]

Four.

Click. That was the door closing. We were gazing at each other – her face was flushed into a pleasant state of red, and apparently I was too – and we were glistening with sweat. It was a warm day, certainly, but that probably wasn’t why.

“I’m back!” her mother called.
“Welcome back!” I trilled while trying to fix my sex hair before making a public appearance. “How long have you been gone for?”
“About an hour?”

…really?

“We just had sex for an hour,” I whispered, slipping back into the bed.
“Mmmmmph.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“Mmmmmph.”
“Yeah, me too.”

That evening, we went for a walk to the village…

…and it took us an hour.

Dreamy hot coffee mod

“Okay, so… I’m just going to go home now,” I said as I stood in her doorway listening to her three children, of indeterminate ages and non-specified gender, chattering away in their bedroom. The door was in fact made of hanging cloth, so it wasn’t difficult to hear.

It had been a weird day to begin with. I had been at university – the third time around – for a month, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember how I had gotten there, what I was studying, or why my alma mater had been redesigned to look lie my old secondary school. I did know, however, that I was doing another bachelor’s degree (my third), and that the hospital which appeared to be on the same site was somehow integral.

Neither my alma mater nor my secondary school had a hospital attached. My second university did, so maybe that’s where that comes from.

For most of the day, I had been – for want of a better word – panicking. It had just hit me that I was doing something I didn’t need to do in a place I remember disliking so viscerally. I had embarked upon three more years of unnecessary toil while living in a very small room; I didn’t even appear to be doing any work, and had spent a large part of the day walking around mostly empty buildings.

So when she invited me back to her house (which was seemingly a part of the hospital itself; we went down several corridors and through a courtyard to get there), it was a surprise. She had, nominally, invited me over for tea, but I was fairly sure when I got there was that the herbal drink was, although possibly also on offer, code for a good fuck.

In what appears to be the complete antithesis of my real existence, women in my dreams seem to find me very attractive. This one – and I didn’t get her name; she wasn’t based on a real person either – was a woman: mature (maybe in her 40s – I have been feeling confronted by my own age recently and it shows), employed securely, and a mother of three.

So, when I said I would go home, I was just waiting to be invited inside. She did so, and when I stepped in, she was trying to get her three unseen children to go to sleep. It would be easier to have sex with no active children, and there appeared to be no father. I tried to visualise what her bedroom might look like, as I was shortly going to be in it.

This is interesting, I remember thinking. I know it’s wrong. I shouldn’t be here. But it would be nice to have sex with her. A little afternoon treat for the both of us. I don’t need to tell my girlfriend.

Girlfriend. That was interesting. I’d forgotten that I have a girlfriend up until that point.

There’s nothing wrong with this.

And, wouldn’t you know it, it was right then that I got pulled away.

It’s okay, I said to myself; I’ll deal with this, and then I’ll come back. Maybe she’ll still want to have sex with me. Overall, I felt pretty good about it all. If being back at university/school/hospital involved sex with an attractive lady, then I’d be all over that.

But, of course, it never happened.

It never does.

Soft Porn Scramble: Blonde, Busty, & Keane (1999)

Ding, ding!

That’s the sound of the little bell ringing in the back of your head. Maybe it’s dulled by the accumulation of years surrounding it. Perhaps it rings with a muffled clapper – you recognise the words, but can’t really wring the context out of your brain. You may have even seen this mentioned somewhere – although mentions of the same are very difficult to find – perhaps while trying to find Threesome or Kira Reed’s Easy Guide to Fulfilling Your Fantasies.

But I challenge you, gentle reader, to find anyone who has watched a single episode.

I have, of course. I’ve seen about two or three, but bearing in mind that I was 14 when this was aired, and add to that the fact that one series was made – and one that was never repeated, sold on, or renewed (and no clips are on the Internet – I’ve looked!) – and you may have to forgive me for my memories being a little hazy.

I’ll do my best.

So what is it?

L!VE TV‘s Blonde, Busty, & Keane (which is the correct spelling, complete with Oxford comma and ampersand) does, indeed, exist; although it isn’t mentioned in the official L!VE TV prospectus, an IMDb listing exists, as does a brief mention on GitHub!

James Bond after taking a huge dose of LSD.
I believe this may be the title sequence. I can’t recall any other L!VE TV programme that used this.

It is, effectively, a spy caper series starring Jane Blonde (porn star Katie Ann Day) and Tracey Keane (actress Madeleine Curtis), two attractive young ladies employed as secret agents by spymaster Busty Farquar (Annabel Rivkin – I’m assuming not the same Annabel Rivkin who writes for ES Magazine et al, but you never know, she might be!). Written and shot by L!VE themselves in and around their Canary Wharf headquarters, and directed by John Wolskel (who went on to write horror movies), Blonde, Busty, & Keane lasted for one series.

Eight episodes, aired between September and October 1999.

What’s different about it?

The gimmick here – if one can call it a gimmick – is that it bills itself as an erotic series. It isn’t – there isn’t any actual sex in it, and the sex there is is always done quickly and with clothes on – but, at the very least, it was shown during the L!VE Late 10pm slot and contained what can best be termed “a moderate amount of nudity”.

I’m really selling this to you, I can tell.

One prominent example I can think of is a scene in which Blonde and Keane get stuck in a skip – it’s not meant to be, but it’s genuinely a skip – full of… something meant to trap them, I guess. Blonde manages to activate a hitherto-unmentioned explosive device in Keane’s bra, which manages to effect their escape as well as render Keane topless for the next few minutes.

There is, even, a continuing plot with a recurring villain – Baron Schwanzer (Alan Blyton) – and, if my memory serves me correctly, several side characters including a stereotypical Frenchman complete with beret, stripy hat and garlic necklace. Busty, while busty, is never particularly involved in the action and never once removes her business suit.

I also can’t really say much for the storylines, but as far as I can remember, they are a mess.

So what was the point?

It’s difficult to tell.

From a young ILB’s memory, Blonde, Busty, & Keane seemed to have had a lower budget than other homegrown series like Threesome. Sets were small (I suspect mostly built in the office in One Canada Square), plots were threadbare, characters had no character, and in addition to having nothing that could reasonably be termed a ‘sex scene’, what nudity there was was both brief and non-sexy.

14-year-old ILB wasn’t difficult to turn on. Practically everything else did, but I remember being both bored and confused by this. I genuinely don’t remember ever being once titillated, amused or intrigued by any part of this programme, which probably explains why I only remember watching it twice.

Exotica Erotica was on afterwards, so that’s probably why.

Is there anything positive to say about it?

I’ll skip past the ‘strong women doing heroic stuff’ tag, because this doesn’t really exemplify this. Bikini Avengers is right there, my dudes.

For all its flaws, Blonde, Busty, & Keane is an example of both what not to do with an erotic spy story (ie. no sex; limited nudity; no plot) and what to do with a very limited budget (ie. use what you have for scenery; small cast; inventive use of outdoor props).

A misspelled Katie Ann Day completely out of her depth.
Katie Ann Day on “The Sex Show” promoting it.

It even had a bit of promotion, with Day appearing on L!VE’s The Sex Show talking about it and a trailer made (which sadly I can’t find anywhere; it has an MST3K-like set up with silhouetted men in a cinema), before quietly disappearing into the netherworld.

ILB’s Extra Bit

This post was originally planned to be a deep dive into Blonde, Busty, & Keane with all the resources I could find, but realistically, there are no resources. Vague references aside, there’s very little evidence that this programme ever existed, and while the cynical side of me wants to think that MGN (who owned the channel) buried it somewhere quiet and dark, the realistic side of me rationalises that it was quickly realised they had produced something that proved not to be marketable, and pulled it.

The same slot that aired Blonde, Busty, & Keane was also used for imports of short-form American programmes like Compromising Situations and Love Street; this is what it went back to shortly after the aforementioned show stopped running.

What is confusing, however is why it appears to be completely expunged from televisual history. It was certainly filmed once, and aired once. Cable television proved to be difficult to record from on VHS (I certainly failed to get any of Knightmare from Sci-Fi), but this is the sort of thing that someone would record, surely?

So where is it…?

Weekend.be

“So what are you going to do?” asked my pretty young colleague as we were walking together to the gate (she has a fob to get out; I don’t). “This weekend, I mean?”
“You first?”
“I mean… nothing, really. I’ll play some games. Did I mention my boyfriend lent me his Nintendo Switch?”

I did remember, mostly on account of the fact that she spent fifteen minutes rhapsodising about New Super Mario Bros. U Deluxe (and I agree with her; it’s very much a love letter to Nintendo’s history) earlier in the day.

“So what are you going to do?”
“Well, I’ve got this meeting tonight, and then for the rest of the weekend I’ll… I’ll…”

And then I just… stopped.

What was I going to do? An eternal question, perhaps, and one for which I genuinely didn’t have an answer. What was I going to do? As much as I’ve gotten to know my pretty young colleague over the past three weeks, I’m fairly certain that “I’m going to sit at my computer, read sex blogs and perhaps play the tile-matching game that lets you see boobs, oh, and I’ll lie in bed doing nothing at all because I am a millennial and that’s what we do” wasn’t exactly the most appropriate, or stimulating, answer I could have given.

What was I going to do?

Even before the COVID-19 pandemic hit, there wasn’t really much that I could say I did. There are multiple micro-actions, of course; today I sorted out money for rent, charged my iPod (and, in doing so, put two more albums on it because I can), deleted some e-mails, read a bit of one of the graphic novels I got for my birthday… and now I’m sitting here writing in my blog.

Part of me likes the tedium, of course. Drinking tea…

[pause while ILB actually goes to make himself a cup of tea]

…and doing very little reminds me of much simpler times, times where I could sit in my bedroom at home, watch porn, write my blog and read fantasy novels at bedtime. In order to give my pretty young colleague an accurate answer, I’d have to say something nebulous like “I’m going to do a rough emulation of what I used to do, only with adult responsibilities now and a fair amount more back pain”.

I do wonder, however, if the most suitable response to her question would be something like…

“…just be?”

Because I never have time for that. If I’m at work, I’m too busy. If I’m at home and the TV’s on, it’s too loud. If it’s late, I’m too tired. If it’s early, I’m too tired. And, frankly, if I’m thinking about all the things that I need to do, it’s too much.

But right now, it is quiet. I have my tea, and I have my blog, and I’m alone, and the only sound I can hear is the soft tap of my fingertips against the keyboard.

So, for now, I don’t need to be doing anything this weekend. Right here, right now, I’m content to just be.

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