I didn’t understand it at the time and I still don’t.
You were very quick at the time to turn this into something I did. This was something YOU did. It wouldn’t have happened at all if you hadn’t done it and you know that. I’d like to think you had known that at the time, but I’ve no way of corroborating that.
Nevertheless, you took my reaction – which was much milder than I would have usually reacted – and turned it into a “thing I did”. You can out of it looking like a person who had been wronged. Nobody heard your side of the story and thought anything else.
The thing is that it shouldn’t have been a “story” to work through. It shouldn’t have happened. YOU shouldn’t have done it.
I didn’t mention this at the time, but it shouldn’t have even been an option! You didn’t offer me any sort of explanation, other than that you just did it, and when I asked why you did it when you knew how badly it would upset me, you said you didn’t know and then hinted that you wanted to upset me.
Worst of all, you turned this into something that I did, and called your mother who then tried to advise you to finish things with me because of something, I remind you, that YOU did.
This was a long time ago, yes. But it still comes to me in my dark moments or when I think too much. I see things on social media now that bring it back to me. I can’t let it go because it’s not something I did that I can make peace with or justify. This is something you did. You never justified it because you didn’t think you needed to.
I didn’t even get an apology from you and you expected one from me because of something I didn’t even do.
I’m writing this here because I’m fairly certain that you don’t read my blog any more. To all intents and purposes you have moved on. I mean, sure, we all change over time; I’m now 39 because it was my birthday yesterday. But I will never forget this – I will never forget what you did and how I reacted. I wish, I wish, I wish that it had never happened. Not just for my sake, either.
When you got up to walk away I thought for a second that you were getting up to come around to my side of the table, give me a hug and a kiss and tell me that you were sorry for what you did when you knew how it would affect me. I didn’t realise you were storming off until a few seconds too late.
I will admit that later on that day I asked you to never mention it again on the condition that our lesson learned at the time was that this sort of thing was unnecessary.
You said
What we have learned today is that you are pathetic.
which is not really what I wanted to hear. In fact, you said it twice, with a huge smile on your face.
Was this you trying to hurt me again?
I’m writing this on my blog because it’s my creative outlet, and hey, this is about a relationship, so it kind of fits the theme. But I want to tell you this:
I am not pathetic.
And you know that. You just didn’t want to admit it because you didn’t want to admit you did anything wrong.
But it still hurts, and that’s why I’m saying this.
Sometimes something just… appears to me. Usually in a moment of quiet. I’ll be happily doing nothing, but then I’m blindsided by a thought that gets pulled out of my mental Rolodex seemingly at random. Sometimes it’s pleasant; often it’s not. And occasionally it has special deep significance.
Which makes it curious, then, that I don’t think more about Platinum Blonde. I’ve certainly mentioned it a couple of times before. Look at the cast list and you’ll get a veritable Who’s Who of early-noughties softcore: Holly Sampson, Shannan Leigh, Micah Bradshaw, Susan Hale, Timothy Stempien, Mia Zottoli, Shauna O’Brien, Stella Porter, Tre Temptor… and it’s even directed by Cybil Richards, who did most of them. You’d think I’d love it.
And then there’s Susan Hale, whose real name is Darby Daniels (except I’ve never actually heard her being called that). I certainly like her. I even recognise John St. James from Emmanuelle 2000. All that. and I like softcore and I like sex and I like plot, and it’s a wonder that I haven’t even thought of doing this one for this here meme.
And yet I haven’t. Until now, I suppose. Why is this? Well…
In case you’re not familiar with the plot of Platinum Blonde, don’t worry: it’s not too difficult to grasp. Angela (Sampson) is an angel – the titular platinum blonde -whose task is to watch people having difficulties with their love lives, get them to have sex and then watch that… or, in other words, she’s a professional voyeur. Her charges are all unlucky in love, and/or sexually starved, and she intervenes, does something very simple and watches the resulting shag, then leaves.
Not pictured: an angel of the Lord, appearing to Hank at this moment.
That’s it; that’s the entire plot. The piecemeal nature of the flick – since it contains multiple different vignettes, each one a different story – makes it perfect bite-sized viewing. You could come in at any point and it would still make sense. It could be a loop. In fact, given the nature of the setup, it could have been a series.
Anyway, Hank is having an affair.
I’ve never really seen the appeal of St. James. I mean, yes, he has a lot of sex in Emmanuelle 2000 including some with Emmanuelle herself, but why? His characters never really seem to have any redeeming qualities whatsoever and he’s not even conventionally attractive. Here he is playing an especially unfavourable character – a serial cheater on his other half, who somehow manages to have sex with the genuinely attractive Janice (Hale) and she… enjoys it? What is this, Bizarro World?
Andi Peters and Edd the Duck
I suppose what’s really different about this is that it takes place in a broom cupboard (or possibly a walk-in wardrobe). I do suppose that’s easy to film, given that you can put a couple of clothes racks in front of a sheet of white MDF and, bang, it’s a set. We also sort of start in medias res, as well, by which I mean they haven’t taken any clothes off yet, but they’re certainly about to.
Fun fact: Susan Hale always wears the same nipple hoops. They show up in every film she’s in.
Except they kind of don’t. They dance around the issue a few times before actually doing anything. Janice is more interested in kissing Hank’s stomach and he’s more interested in making weird faces. About a minute in and we finally do get to see a bit of skin.
Softcore cunnilingus is never realistic. But it’s usually more than this.
This wouldn’t be such an issue if it wasn’t at odds with the storyline. They are having an affair. They are meeting in a broom cupboard. You would think this would be quick and dirty sex, like, drop trousers, hitch up skirt and go at it. That would be more realistic, and more urgent making it maybe a little hotter. Here, they’re just pissing about before actually having any sex. What, do they want to get caught or something?
In any case, Janice is naked first before Hank gives her some incredibly unbelievable oral sex, before she magically grows her top back, pulls his baggy Y-fronts down and gives him some more unbelievable oral sex during which he makes a face which makes him look like Ernie from Sesame Street. They then go back to kissing and…oh, is this sex? I’m not sure.
is it can be seks time nau plz?
So, at this point – two minutes into the scene and less than one before it finishes – they finally get around to having sex…
Of course the real star is the baseball cap (middle top). What an absolute G’.
…or, at least, that what I think they’re meant to be doing. The entire thing is standing up (incidentally, Susan Hale’s character in Virgins of Sherwood Forest also has sex standing up, so maybe it’s a thing). Some of it is standing scissors, some standing doggie (or maybe it’s rear entry. No, that’d be too hardcore-y). It is fairly standard (or it would be were they not standing in Harry Potter’s childhood home), but they’re actually doing the seks and Susan Hale is pretty and she has great hair and it is overall fairly entertaining.
I could get used to this.
Except it then sort of finishes. It peters out a bit – they break apart, have another kiss, and then there’s a fade to black (a real one, not a scene transition). It just seems like it’s… well, it’s time to finish, I suppose. There’s no particularly discernible point of orgasm or interruption by anything or anyone. It just ends.
Because of course it does.
This is the voice of the Mysterons
I can’t quite get past the fact that Hank is looking at something he found on the shelf… a rare collectable, perhaps?
I could look at this scene for what it is and enjoy it. It doesn’t quite deliver on every level, but it’s quick and there’s sex and it has Susan Hale in it and at least it’s original in its own way. You know, I could get behind that. Put this in the general rotation and I’m sure I could come to it. I’ve probably done so at least once.
However, what I’m not okay with – and this is a big thing – is whatever the fuck is going on in the background. The scene is overlaid by a loud, intrusive synthesized piece of electro-rock, which would also be okay were it not for the fact they appear to have decided to add vocals.
And so, during the sexiest bits of the scene, we get thrown back to reality unexpectedly by a very deep voice making noises through a vocoder. There don’t even appear to be any actual words. It’s just random utterances with the distortion jacked up to “fuckin’ intense”.
She’s probably a bottle blonde, actually
Which is maybe the reason that I’m not always raving about Platinum Blonde. It has a tendency to promise more than it delivers, although maybe that’s not fair. There are some great sex scenes in it. There are offerings with Mia Zottoli and Shannan Leigh which genuinely work. This one doesn’t, because of the confused setting, the puppetry on St. James’ face and the genuinely threatening alien transmission.
And the worst thing is that there is absolutely no chemistry between those two characters. They’re meant to be lovers, but they appear to be in no way interested in each other. Hank could just as well be having sex with a hatstand.
Do yourself a favour, if you will, and don’t go looking for this scene. See the whole thing instead. This one isn’t really representative of the movie in general – as you may recall, with the number of names in this ensemble cast. It offers more and delivers, just not here.
That, and Susan Hale deserves better. If only to see those nipple hoops again.
Back in my youth, I had a friend who I’ll call Kaf. He was a good friend, actually – I knew him at primary school and kept seeing him all the way through secondary. I have bumped into him since (of course, since his family home is just around the corner). He’s now a research chemist working on air purification and the reduction of atmospheric NOx – needless to say, we couldn’t tell you this in year 6.
Kaf was, for a while, my most reliable friend, and I always saw him as quite mature: he kept a fiver in his pocket at all times; he walked around the area on his own and had been doing so since the age of ten; he knew how to re-wire a plug as long as he had the fuse for it; he wore a puffa jacket and affected a deeper voice than he naturally had. He also enjoyed a huge degree of personal liberty: ask him what he was doing, and he’d be free.
At the time I also wrotea paper diary. It wasn’t the most thrilling piece of literature in the world – although I’d always let people read it – but it was, at the very least, relatively chaste and safe for all to read. The first time I ever wrote something which I thought was a little dodgy came when I added
Kaf was free and we went into town and talked about girls
which I then justified with
(it’s the only thing he’ll talk about).
This wasn’t an unusual subject. Kaf was very interested in “girls”. At the age of 14, I also was, and in fact I’d already had crushes, but Kaf was limerent on a whole different level. He would constantly talk about the girls from the local Catholic girls’ school, with whom he apparently flirted with relentlessly every day (“phwoar!” was his description of one of them). He would occasionally look at someone our age in own and say “she’s fit” far too loud. Daringly, he had posters of Melinda Messenger on his wall and wondered if there was something wrong with me for not wanting one too. After playing Worms 2 I taught him how to use IRC once and he immediately started an online relationship with a Swedish girl we had never heard of before.
I, however, was much less talkative around the subject. I had a little sister and a fair amount of female friends, but I knew very little about “girls”. It happened that I certainly didn’t know that they were the reason for the puffa jacket and affected deeper voice. He wasn’t an unattractive guy, either: he was Greek Cypriot, had well-kept dark hair and a physique built from all the football he played. He was also a little taller than me at about 6’1″. I was considering myself average-looking and non-descript, so was much less likely to talk about, as I put it, “girls”.
The conversation wasn’t all that stimulating, either. We were a little too young to talk about sex, but a little too old to send a Valentine to a friend merely because of her gender. I mainly walked along in silence, listening to Kaf talking at great length about his patented ways to “pull”, despite having never seen him with a girl.
But that is why I added
(it’s the only thing he’ll talk about).
to my journal. I was a little nervy, but I did want to assert the fact that I could discuss my awareness of, and attraction to, the opposite sex. Shifting the blame for the topic of our conversation onto Kaf was a good way of assuaging any guilt I may have felt.
Not that I should have. But then I felt guilt for a lot of stuff.
But that was the first time I mentioned “girls” in my diary. They made infrequent re-appearances since, but less and less so as the years went on until I finally asked someone out. I wrote a very heartfelt entry that day, and even then it was still unusual for me to be so gushing (pantomime fairies notwithstanding). When she turned me down, it began the constant flow of “veil of tears” entries, and when I finally moved to LiveJournal a year later, pretty much all my posts were about “girls” (young women, really; we were in the sixth form by then).
Even then, though, I kept feeling like I had to justify the things I was saying. If I had a crush on you, of course I’d write about you. That’s what journalling was for, right? But I had to be respectful. Kaf took it a bit far. I could keep my integrity…
…as long as I didn’t start writing about sex.That would be ALL SORTS OF WRONG.
Back in June 2021, just after I was diagnosed with myotonic dystrophy, one of the gaggle of NHS neurologists casually said something like, “oh, and you can’t have children.” I responded with, “that’s okay, I don’t want children,” and we left it at that. About a year later I realised that this meant that I was infertile. A few months ago I further realised that there’s a test for this, and that it involves permissible wanking.
And so about a month ago I finally asked my GP if I could take a fertility test…
[Excuse ILB; he just spilt tea down himself. Back just after he cleans up. There we go.]
…shortly before assuring her that he would have absolutely no problems providing a semen sample. She didn’t ask or anything; I just felt it necessary.
What I didn’t realise, of course, is that this would all be timed.
It’s the ultimate danger wank. You have to book a timeslot and then deliver a fresh semen sample in or around that exact time. You also have to produce said sample (“through masturbation”, the leaflet says, so I had to do so medically TAKE THAT ESTABLISHMENT) no more than 50 minutes before delivering it to your friendly neighbourhood pathologist. Essentially you have to do Mario Kart, except the kart is an Über and the blue shell is a sterile pot full of jizz.
What they didn’t put in the leaflet, of course, is how you manage to ejaculate into the pot if you have a penis with a nice upward curve like mine does. When I’m erect my penis is seven inches long with an upward curve like one half of a parabola (providing the vertex is my crotch). It’s easy to hold, feels good in the hand, makes it easy to stimulate a G-spot inside a vagina and (I’ve been told) looks, feels and tastes good.
It’s also got foreskin, which is something to fiddle with in bed.
Now that you’re all trying to imagine what my penis looks like, let’s get back to my original point: how do I ejaculate into a cup unless the cup itself has magical suction to avoid all the spaff falling out, suddenly have the unerring aim to develop a semen jump getting it all in there, or detach my dick and put it back on upside down? In the end, I had to cheat a bit: made sure to shoot once into it, and then came all over my hand and let that fill up the rest.
I mean, I’m sure there was enough. You’re not meant to come for two days beforehand; I took a week.
Me, in the hospital.
I chanced a look at the clock. 9:15 and my appointment was at ten. I ordered an Über with one hand while pulling up my pants with the other, secured my trousers, jumped into a pair of shoes without putting on any socks and Billy Whizzed it to the pick-up point. The driver was very kind and didn’t ask what I was cradling under my jumper and T-shirt (you are meant to keep it at body temperature, otherwise the sperm all die). Pathology, of course, is at the other end of my local hospital from the main entrance, so I barely touched the ground as I carried my precious cargo through the maze of confused patients and amused healthcare staff.
I got there with five minutes to spare. The nurse who took my semen sample was completely unfazed, almost as if people bully wank themselves into a cup and deliver it to her every day.
“You’ll get the results in about a week; call your GP and ask,” she said amiably, “but if you want help with conception…?” “No, I’m fine, really,” I said through the residual post-orgasmic fog. “I’m just going to… go… now…” “Sure. Thanks for being early.” “You too,” I said, not yet aware that that made absolutely no sense.
And now I wait to find out something that I already know.
I’ve got a long memory. Not for everything, of course, and it’s misled me a few times, but I do have an ability to recall, if not entire conversations, at least the key facts. This, of course, is quite useful when one of your main activities involves soft porn, and (of course) the majority of entries to this here meme come from that memory.
This, of course, works the other way: there are things which I think I know, but can’t quite recall enough to actually find them. I remember a sex comedy, possibly in a foreign language, set in a country house with a major-general and a butler named Albert… clips from it were used on L!VE’s Exotica Erotica wraparound… but as for quite what it’s called…!
And then there’s the third option. Something I remember which seemingly can’t be found. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’ll never quite find Blonde, Busty, & Keane. This one, however, was findable. It took me hours to do so, and there’s been no commercial release, but find it I did. For that reason, and that reason alone…
Appearance:Love Street, Series 2: “Grading on a Curve” (1995) Characters: Lloyd & Amelia
The text is curvy! Um… get it?
I have vague memories of Cinema Products Video’s short-form erotic series Love Street, although I had no memories whatsoever of the incredibly slutty opening theme played over a montage of whatever they had to hand (having just watched it for the first time since I was a teenager, now I can’t get it out of my head!). Nor do I remember any of the other episodes. This one, however, both had an indelible effect on me and formed the basis for many of my masturbatory fantasies through the years.
Zounds, I’m a pervert.
This is our hero, the absolute twonk.
The main character in this one is tennis pro Lloyd Lupton, played by Timothy Di Pri, who you may remember from playing the professor in Justine and both Theo-204 and Theo-205 in Emmanuelle. The episode itself, however, makes a huge deal out of the deuteragonist, Amelia Stratford (to the point of having her naked in a bath under the opening credits). Lloyd is taking his wife Elizabeth (Elis Imboden) to one of those student reunion things Americans do, unaware of the fact that he’s about to bump into Amelia, the maths teacher he used to sleep with.
Lloyd’s arse and one of his conquests. Teenagers don’t grow hair in America.
We then get a flashback in which Lloyd (Di Pri again, playing one of those thirty-something teens you get in US high school programmes) is a student who is incredibly gifted at tennis, flirting and sex. There is (and this is the bit I remember) a montage near the start of Lloyd laying a number of women (including, but not limited to, Dee Steele, Shawnana and Russel St. Clair), mostly on a sofa in his living room. He is, however, disliked by all his teachers, especially Mrs Stratford, whom he charitably describes as “tight-ass”.
How charming. I can see why he gets all the girls.
There follows a questionable set-up with questionable acting, in which Lloyd offers Amelia some tennis lessons in exchange for a bit of private maths tuition. You can probably tell where this is going, but she actually does tutor him maths, and they don’t start having sex until they both foolishly play tennis in the rain for some reason, and then take off their clothes.
Because of course.
What she’s shouting here is “DEUCE!”, despite the fact that she clearly has the Advantage.
The scene that follows is, effectively, another montage of Lloyd and Millie getting to know each other sexually in a number of improbable places: on the tennis court in the rain; in the shower immediately afterwards; on Millie’s bed during which they have some awful teacher/student banter – you know the type, grades are mentioned and such; on a dinner table Lloyd has been setting; by a fireside… somewhere; in class because of course; on Lloyd’s sex sofa. As he puts it himself in voiceover:
It was crazy. We started making love every chance we got. And every place we could think of. Yup, even on the ol’ couch. What?
Lloyd
At the very least close the blinds!
Why, when there are more complete sex scenes later in the very same episode, did I pick this one, of all things? The dialogue isn’t great (even if Lloyd’s improvised “oh shit!” makes me laugh), the main actor isn’t particularly attractive – and his character is a dick – and there are some glaring continuity errors. Where are Lloyd’s parents? Where is Millie’s husband? Wouldn’t somebody notice they were spending 100% of their time together? Isn’t having sex in a classroom in the daytime risky?
Why sleep with Lloyd, when Millie is both ten times sexier and not a philandering dickbag?
All the important questions.
Well, I like this scene because of the piecemeal nature of it. I’m not always a fan of this, as it can break a sex scene, but there’s enough waiting before a setting transition to give you enough sex to get a sense of and the scale of their affair. Bits where Millie (who appears to be in control most of the time) rips her shirt open and the animalistic, messy nature of their shags point to the fact that there is a lot of desperacy in their liaisons.
A rare shot of Kendra Tucker wearing clothes. Although she’s not wearing too much in this scene, either.
Kendra Tucker is a delight, too. As Millie, she cheerily laughs, smiles and moans her way through this, clearly enjoying herself both as a bored teacher getting some loving and an actress getting a paycheque. She’s almost believable, too, as a character: implausible though this whole thing is, her acting is sound and she’s very much trying. She’s pretty too, of course.
The entire montage is overlaid with a strange, but unobtrusive, music track consisting mostly of a drum loop with occasional synths and bass guitar. I can’t quite get over the fact that the “James Bond chord” is used fairly early on, but I suppose I can overlook that. They use grand piano music in a later scene, so maybe they spent all their budget on that.
FIRE YOUR END CREDITS WRITER!
I’m aware that this all sounds very silly. It also seems that there is something about to go wrong – and there is, of course there is. It continues to be silly for the rest of the episode, and the whole thing ending with a wet tennis ball falling on the ground really sums up the lengths to which they will go to stretch a theme. Whereas teacher/student liaison tends to be a staple of porn, and it’s an easy enough thing to set up too, this handles it in a bizarre way.
It’s sexy in its own way, and I suppose I did go to immense lengths to find and review it, but I wouldn’t call it brilliant. Just passable, fun, completely unbelievable and good for an orgasm.
I rolled over – not an easy task in a single bed – and ended up lying supine.
“I’m awake,” I murmured. “Haven’t gotten any sleep. Are you okay?” “Yeah, I’m okay,” she replied, at which point I realised she was standing up. “I just wanted to point out that, well, that you’re hard. It’s very… apparent.”
She wasn’t wrong. I was hard, and what’s more, I had been for a while. We had had sex, of course, a few hours ago, but my body had decided it was ready to go again. I wasn’t going to wake her up for sex, but as it turns out, that’s what she was doing.
“The thing is,” she continued as she slipped off her tee, “you have a very big penis and that’s a very nice erection, and I really don’t want to waste it.”
There was a beat.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” I eventually came out with. Mr Smooth, right here.
“You don’t need to.” (She stepped out of her girl boxers and kicked them aside.) “You never need to say anything.” (She climbed back onto the bed and straddled me.) “You just need to do the things you know how to do.” (She lowered herself to sit astride. My cock, which was very hard, as you may have realised by now, slid inside her in one stroke.)
I took a deep, shuddering gasp as every single bit of me decided to wake up.
“And this,” she said as she started to ride me with a wicked grin, “is what I like to do with a very nice, very hard penis.” “I’m not objecting,” I said as I started to meet her bounces with little pelvic thrusts. “You have a very nice… well, a very nice everything.”
As sex goes, it wasn’t very long. But then it didn’t need to be. A few minutes of bump and grind. All the right noises with all the right bits going all the right places. She was lying on top of me when we finished, and that was the way we stayed for a while longer. Her breasts squashed against my chest. My penis still buried inside her. Warm, wet, spent.
When, eventually, she nestled back into the covers and pulled one of my arms around her, she mentioned something about being able to go to sleep now. “But I was awake. I said I was.” “But I’m all warm, and satisfied, and full of cum, and I’ll sleep well tonight.” I laughed, but she didn’t respond. She had gone to sleep. I wish I had that superpower.
Seven or so hours passed, during which I had sex dreams about her.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” said someone at some point. “Mmmmm?” was my suave reply. “Tea? Do you want tea?” “Xibu ejezpv tbz?” “Come on,” she said, while manually opening my eyes and greeting me with boobs to start the morning. “You can’t be that sleepy at this hour.” “What time is it?” “Never mind that! We’ve got to have more sex!”
*packs final change of clothes; walls get whitewashed*
47
On the very first day I got my DVD of Virgins of Sherwood Forest, I was halfway through watching it when I remembered I needed to be packing to go off to camp the following day. Living as I was in a room on my own with nobody else in the house at that moment, I left it on – because of course I did – and scrambled around for things to pack, grabbing a miasma of useful items and random clothes and throwing them pell-mell into my little wheelie suitcase.
That was then…
I snapped the case shut just as a couple of characters were getting it on in the castle bedroom. I’d opened it when they were using the battlements. I later had an orgasm to the scene set on the bridge just outside the castle.
They certainly used that set to a great extent.
The last thing I added was The Box™, still full of unused condoms. I’d been packing this to take with me every time, and every time it kept winging its way back unopened. I packed it anyway, and the following day started making my way to another camp in which – just like every event ever – I failed to get laid.
This is now…
Serena realised only too late that she’d forgotten to put a bra on before the job interview.
I made a lot of mess over Christmas, and in order to impress my cleaner (and find the notebook I think I may have lost), I spent a few hours last night un-messing the house – by which I mean decanting the bins into bin bags. That genuinely is the most useful thing I could have been doing, and so I did it.
But I put Virgins of Sherwood Forest on first.
I’m still not sure why. The concept of doing another mundane task, accompanied by the same glossy smut (albeit almost two decades later), occurred to me while at work, and wouldn’t. let. me. go! Maybe I was feeling cheeky; maybe nostalgic. Perhaps I was trying to prove to myself that the more I change, the more I stay the same. I may have even just wanted something to come to once I’d finished my tidying…
…but, whatever the reason, I put it on, and enjoyed the rolling sex as best I could while sorting refuse from recyclables.
This is even later…
One day after this masterstroke and it seems very silly to begin with. Putting on soft porn and not even being able to touch yourself to it? Just as I relate my favourite piece of smut to packing a suitcase, now I’ll further relate it to emptying bins (and, by extension, this blog post about that).
But this way I got to see the whole package. Not just the eight sex scenes, but the plot, the questionable acting, and the hilarious dialogue. I even watched the end credits, with a hefty number of pseudonyms to protect the identities of those who made this schlock. For the first time in a long time, I enjoyed Virgins of Sherwood Forest. Really enjoyed it, warts and all.
So, what I’m saying is, maybe I should do something like this more often.
Okay, well, it’s been a hell of a year. Not that it’s all been hell, of course – some positive things have happened too. I’ve met some amazing people and done some exciting things, although I have yet to relax (which was my resolution last year). Some things just never quite go fully realised. Welcome to 2024; time to do my orgasm count.
Every year seems to be conspiring to plant a little more doubt in the integrity of the sex blogging community. Stu has a video about it which voices a lot of my concerns with a little more clarity than I ever could. This year, nevertheless, did include the return of Eroticon in June, and I also recently joined a couple of Patreon, both of which served to remind me what the community could be.
One thing which I think should have impacted the community (but I’m not sure if it has) is that one of our longest-serving members, Vix the Over-Educated Nympho, died on June 27. Vix was one of my favourite bloggers back in the early days, and in fact I have her book in my “to read” pile, which will now be a bittersweet experience. Thank you for everything, Vix.
I was meant to be talking about orgasms here though, right? Okay. As usual, I recorded my orgasms in my little paper diary from WHSmith, using special codes which shouldn’t be obvious to anyone reading it, but probably would be. It’s just that nobody else reads my diary.
Anyway…
The Orgasm Count!
☆ – 98. This is the number of orgasms I’ve had this year. That’s 26.8% of the days in the year on which I’ve had one. Is that low? It seems low.
x2 – 24/6. This was the one day this year when I had more than one orgasm. I used to do that a lot. Tragically, more often than not I just don’t have the time. Spirit is willing but flesh is weak, or something.
? – 8/2. This was a very confusing orgasm – I remember it. I certainly came, but halfway through, it just… sort of… stopped. I think I may have had half an orgasm. Yes, that’s a thing.
Boing! – 11/4; 2/11; 22/11; 21/12; 28/12. Holy jumping semen, Batman! This is probably more to do with angle than anything else, but these are the orgasms when my jizz appears to be practising the Fosbury flop. Always makes me giggle, even if it does mean that I have to clean the floor as well as my hand.
And a few special codes which I added this year…
R! – 6/3; 10/3; 12/3; 19/3; 6/4; 7/5; 20/5; 25/5. R! is a special code which I’m keeping to myself.
Leana! – 13/3; 22/5; 11/9. These are the orgasms I had while watching something featuring porn starlet Leana Lovings. Why make a record of Leana? Well, as you’ll have clocked unless you have never read this blog before, nearly all my orgasms are to my own imagination, or text, or softcore porn. I’m particularly fond of Leana, though, and all the videos I have of her are hardcore. That’s so unusual for me that it’s definitely worth a mention.
Lucy! – 20/10. This is a unique one. I had this orgasm to a text post written by someone I don’t know (Lucy), sent to me by someone I do (swallow). I then told swallow, who told Lucy, who apparently was very excited her words made a sex writer come. This tickled me, so I made a note.
Sneaky. – 4/7. This is an orgasm I had with my wife awake in the next room. Of course, I don’t mind wanking with my wife, but with them unknowing and this being after hours when I should really have been in bed, there was a little frisson of danger there.
and finally…
Hella satisfying. – 19/6. This was the most satisfying orgasm I had this year. It was also, coincidentally, the first I had since well before ‘con. (I never seem to have any orgasms around ‘con; I’m always too busy around that time and don’t really have a sex partner to spend the nights with.) This one was good, though – and it was my 47th! 47, eh? I like the sound of that.
Something I’ve noticed while doing this is that, unlike in my twenties when I was fairly regular, my orgasms this year have been fairly sporadic. There have been some weeks in which I’ve had a few wholesome, healthy ones, and yet there have been some strugglebus bully wanks, and occasional long periods of time in which I haven’t had any at all.
As a result of DM, I’ve been coming home after work more to sleep than anything else and (even if afternoon naps do make me horny!) this does tend to machete down the time I have to myself. Glod forbid I ever do stop having orgasms; they are my favourite form of escape. However, they are noticeably becoming more of a thing I can have if I manage to be good with time management and energy conservation.
But then maybe that makes them even more of a treat…
As a teenager, I was convinced that I had the innate gift or being able to tell if a romantically involved couple had what I originally termed “it”. Now, in my late thirties, I’m fairly confident in saying I don’t and did not exactly have a definition of what “it” was – just that I could identify it. Case in point: the Floof and her boyfriend had “it” and they got back together about a week after breaking up because God told them to do so.
They’re now married, so I was 100% correct. Of course I was. I was also becoming something of an expert, I told myself, in telling if somebody fancied somebody else. I knew the signs and I knew how to respond. It was never going to happen to me – naturally – but I was absolutely certain that I was born a relationship expert and would be able to use my limerence virtuosity to help any and all others.
Because it wasn’t going to happen to me.
Seven years later…
I’d just been to an audition with my hot single friend who I kissed on stage. Neither of us were particularly keen on the play or knew who the playwright was, but an audition’s an audition, and the rationale was that if we’d played lovers before, we could do so again.
“I don’t know about you,” she said as we made our way through the very dark streets of suburban North London, “but I’m not sure that play is very realistic about relationships. I mean, he’s with her for his whole life, but he’s not happy about it.” “It happens.” “I know, but it wouldn’t to people who know better. I mean, not to me. I’ve had a few… well, they’re not really relationships but they’re…”
There was a pause in which we looked at each other and both realised what she meant.
“…I mean, they’re with people who aren’t my age and I’m 27 and that makes things…”
Another pause.
“How old are you?” “I’m 22,” I answered truthfully. “It’s my birthday next month. When we did The Cherry Orchard I was 21. I turned 22 just before the first dress.” “That’s the sort of guy I’d go for, really, someone who’s 22. Maybe an actor with messy dark hair. Someone tall and funny, you know? Someone who’s got ‘it’?” “Ah, well, I hope you find one!” I said cheerily.
Relationship expert right here.
Two months later…
I’d just been to an audition with my hot single friend who I kissed on stage. Our director chose a play which could, in no way at all, be done on the shoestring budget our company has. We all liked it, but I knew in my head that it couldn’t be done. I would have wanted to play the dinosaur, however, had we gone for it.
“I don’t know about you,” she said as we made our way through the very dark streets of suburban North London, “but I’m not sure Monty’s giving us anything to read for that doesn’t end up with us being cast as lovers.” “It worked in The Cherry Orchard,” I pointed out as we got onto the night bus. “I know, and it’s good we got to kiss. Maybe we’ve got…” “…it?” “Yes. I don’t know, maybe they’ll accelerate and the next show will have us having sex live on stage or something!” “Well, wouldn’t that be something?” I marvelled.
Last month I finally hit upon the fact that I should have come out with something like
Well, I’d be down for doing that, but of course I’d want to rehearse a fair few times with you first. Just to make sure we get the dialogue right.
something I didn’t say
but instead I came out with
Well, wouldn’t that be something?
something I actually did say
which didn’t quite have the same gravitas.
Neither of us got cast in either play; we didn’t go to the reading for The Comedy of Errors the following week. I ended up being in the first one anyway, but only went to rehearsal twice due to the fact that I had two lines.
We later got recruited into another company. During our performance of The Marriage of Figaro, we held hands while waiting on the bench. We sat together in the dressing room during the interminably long Plautus “realisation” our director Gareth put on. We hugged, we kissed. H, the stalwart, came to every show. I got hugs from her too.
My friend suggested we met for drinks again soon. I said that would be nice. I sill don’t know what “drinks” meant.
One year later…
I was completely blind to the beautiful woman who was laughing at my terrible jokes while I served her at Waterstone’s. I also didn’t really do anything about the pretty blonde who kept following me around during the entire Danish youth camp. One particularly randy friend told me that we were flirting and had “it”, but I didn’t know what “it” was.
My ‘phone pinged when I was just finishing off some shopping in town. It was her, inviting me to her thirtieth birthday party. I said I’d go, but in the end couldn’t. This time, I suggested we met for drinks.
We didn’t. We sent each other playful, suggestive messages on Facebook. I asked her outright once on MSN what it was like to have sex on one’s period. She gave an answer and then said it would be fun for me to find out.
I’m 16 and it’s 11:15pm on Christmas Eve. I’m sitting in Gran’s lounge flicking through cable channels on her TV.
Up until five minutes ago I had quite keen to go to mass at midnight. I’d never really considered the concept before. My church doesn’t really do what would traditionally be considered mass, and although I used to go on Christmas morning, I’d kind of fallen out of the practice. I had been invited by my grandparents and was quite excited to go…
…until I flicked past Bravo and noticed Confessions of a Window Cleaner was on.
“Ooh! It’s a Timmy Lea film!” I said out loud to nobody in particular, deciding then and there that I didn’t really need to go to mass; I could just wait out Christmas watching questionable slapstick comedy mixed with gratuitous cheeky smut. I’d managed to upset my mum, who shouldn’t have minded as she is an atheist, by telling her that I’d decided not to go.
I can sit here watching Confessions, and things will be fine.
My finger hits the “last” button on the remote the instant my mum walks in and the TV channel jumps to The Box. Changes by 2Pac is on (again). “Your grandparents have gone to mass,” she says in a voice saturated with disapproval. (My memory is telling me that a sex scene has just started on the channel and I’m missing it.) “Without you.” “Yeah, I know. I’m… I’m too tired to go,” I lie smoothly. “I meant to tell you, though, that if you don’t go to mass you won’t be able to sit here watching music videos. You’ll have to go to bed.”
Five minutes of kicking about in my room pass before I look at the clock and notice the time. It’s 11:25. I half walk, half run into the lounge.
“Changed my mind!” I shout. “I want to go to mass!” My parents look at each other. “But it’s in five minutes,” my mother says. “But I’ve decided I really really really want to go! And it’s not too far away, and if you drive me…”
I sit in a chair next to my nan thirty seconds before our minister starts up. There are some huffy comments about how late I left it, but nevertheless, they’re pleased I’m here. I am too. This happens once a year, it seems fun, and I can always watch ’70s sex comedies on Channel 5. There’s no reason not to come to this.
And that’s how I started going to mass on Christmas Eve. Things have happened since then, of course – people have started to come and stopped again. As teenagers the cousins would all get drunk and then stumble to church and have a whale of a time. Once my auntie would drop the blood of Christ on the floor (and mostly my uncle’s trousers). Every year we would struggle our way through the descant on O Come All Ye Faithful (and we still do).
But it really doesn’t feel like Christmas without it.
