Category: Personal (Page 1 of 13)

ILB’s personal posts

Waiting

October 4, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

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

“Oh, interestingly, exciting news.”

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

“Oh yes? Do tell?”
“Well…”

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

I cleared my throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m still waiting.

かわいい

September 21, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

July 25, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded mutely.

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

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

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

K’nex

May 29, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

Recently I managed to reconnect with an old friend who I haven’t seen for years. Mostly business – I had some data I wanted to share with him – but, over time, the banter started up. I haven’t seen him for about a decade and it’s almost like we’ve never not been in touch.

Which makes me wonder what happened to everyone else.

Okay, I’m hyperbolising. Not everyone. I am well aware where most of my friends are (including, but not really counting, the ones who live ten to fifteen minutes away and thank you London Buses!). The ones I’ve been thinking about – wondering about – dreaming about, even. Those who have faded from view.

There are also those who I was friendly with, but wouldn’t really count as friends. There’s the girl who used to touch herself while talking to me on MSN. The one who would e-mail me after every blog post with compliments and hopes for the future. The SaLT who wanted my dick. Someone I was introduced to “because she’s a Christian as well, so you’ll like her”; she was open and easy with sharing her sexual escapades, and once told me

Beaver says:
theres this guy and hes askin me all sorts of things, like whether i prefer speed or depth and if ive ever taken it up the arse

ILB says:
And you’re just telling him?

Beaver says:
well he asked!

ILB says:
If I asked, would you tell me?

Beaver says:
lol

Beaver says:
speed

Beaver says:
and ive never taken it up the arse

Then there are those who has a profound effect on my sexual development. The friend I had who I told practically everything. The ex of a friend of an ex who wouldn’t stop talking about how horny she was. The acquaintance who not only had a crush on me, but also recommended porn for me to download. My colleague who had a thing for sex GIFs and hotel rooms. There are those, of course, who I did have sex with… and those who I didn’t.

All of the above are gone. The dearth of IM systems in favour of microblogging social networks is, I think, a major contribution to that,

[Side Note: IRC is still going strong. There are people I met on various IRC networks who I still talk to, but that depends on the network, and Real Life getting in the way. And, of course, people who vanish from IRC are often impossible to trace.]

which is a shame – no matter how much I like social networking. Can you even have these kind of conversations in meatspace? I’m sure I’ve overheard some stuff, but I do have to wonder how much of it is genuine memory, or just something I think I’ve heard once.

No matter. There aren’t likely to any very horny, very explicit women hitting me up on social media or messenger apps specifically to tell me the sort of stuff women used to hit me up on social media or messenger apps specifically to tell me. But it is nice, in a comforting sort of way, to connect with an old internet friend… even if it is all above board…

…and I won’t be touching myself while thinking about him…

…intentionally.

Sail on, silver girl

April 24, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

“OK, your turn.”

I blinked, partially due to the bright sunlight, but also to conceal my surprise. I hadn’t really considered that I’d be expected to volunteer information. Having said that, all three younger people in the conversation had been up front and blasé about their “most embarrassing moments”. Since I turned 40, I’ve been feeling the age gap between me and my younger friends a little more.

It’s all a little more real.

Plus, I don’t have a most embarrassing moment. My entire life is a continuous series of embarrassing moments.

I cast around in my head for something that was:
a) embarrassing;
b) suitable for a mixed audience;
c) something that couldn’t be used against me;
d) amusing;
e) not too revealing.

“Okay, fine, I’ve got just one,” I lied smoothly instantly before one clicked into place. “When I was in secondary school, one of the bullies found out who my crush was, and shouted it out in the middle of a class. The whole school suddenly found out.”
Everyone in the group cringed.
“That’s one of the worst things I’ve ever heard,” one of them said.
“Yeah, well, they’re not called bullies for nothing, are they?” replied another.
“Right, that’s mine,” I said, mentally congratulating myself at picking something both embarrassing and inoffensive, and also safe in the knowledge that this was vague enough to be forgettable. They probably have forgotten about it, really.

But I’ll never forget about it and now I can’t stop thinking about how embarrassed I was, and how awkward her life was about to become.

Thanks a lot, memory.

This post doesn’t actually exist!

April 9, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

There’s a grainy, indistinct picture of me barely visible on Google Street View. You can see me through the window of the maisonette I used to live in; I’m hunched over my computer screen. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what I’m doing.

I wonder how many people have seen this, I think to myself, and if any of them think it’s hot? Has anyone masturbated to the suggestion of me masturbating? Would Google even approve?

Then I remember there’s another picture of me taken in the flat I currently live in. You can’t really see well through the slatted blinds, but it’s slightly clearer; the resolution’s a bit better, and if you look very carefully, it is suggestive of the bare-faced truth: that I am naked. You can’t see everything, obviously, but this one is definitely ILB, to the eagle-eyed viewer.

The first shot is similar to that famous one of Luigi Mangione, I think. You can’t see my face… maybe I should post it on my blog!

I haven’t posted anything on my blog for a while. I keep meaning to do that. Let’s post a picture and see how many people react.

I open my laptop and hit Print Screen, but before I can paste what I capture into Paint, everything goes dark, my mousepad stops working, my laptop morphs into amorphous goo and it’s a dream, isn’t it, it’s a bloody dream, I finally get something to blog about and it isn’t even fucking real, I mean, seriously…

Maybe I’ll think of something else.

I get up to use the bathroom. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I have an UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS.

I can’t post a picture of that, I rationalise, but maybe I can write about my penis. I haven’t done that for a while.

Then I suddenly check myself. My penis is only UNUSUALLY LARGE when it’s erect. It definitely isn’t just as big when flaccid. Unless something odd happened in the past 24 hours, this must be another dream. Yet again something that doesn’t belong in my blog.

I give a salute to the mounted soldiers who ride past the open-topped bus I’m suddenly on, use a Tesco carrier bag to hide my junk because I’m otherwise wearing absolutely nothing, get home to the crumbling manor house/hotel thingy in which I now live, hide myself from my housemates and think about putting some clothes on, except I don’t do that.

When I finally do wake up I’m both amused at how odd my brain is and annoyed that I can’t put any of this on my blog.

And I’m really annoyed about this… so I put it on my blog.

40

March 16, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

Today is the last day of my 30s.

I should probably be 40 already. I was born a week late (my mother claims I was still in there reading The Beano) and, for a while, it looked as if I wasn’t going to make it. Eventually, however, I was born on St Patrick’s Day, a date that becomes even more humorous when I tell people I don’t drink.

For a very long time (in fact, since I started this thing back in 2007) I’ve been wondering what to do when I turn 40. I did assume (as it turns out, correctly) that I’d still be blogging by this point, but as whom? At forty years old, am I still really a boy? I’ve always considered myself one. So do I change my name? Accept that I am finally into the adulthood I have been so strenuously resisting for twenty-four years and shed the moniker of “Innocent Loverboy” to which I have always painfully clung?

I could always go with “Innocent LB”, I thought. That’s my blog URL and social media handle. I could just do that and then refuse to explain what the LB stands for.

But then I look back at the ILB from 2007 and compare it to now. 18 years later (this blog could be a full adult) and it does seem like very little has changed. I still play Nintendo games. I’m still a fan of Knightmare, Star Wars and Pokémon. Additionally, I read DC Comics; I write songs; I listen to James. I remain a member of Woodcraft and the Green Party, I have a similar taste in movies (classical, contemporary and – of course – smutty). And I still have stories to tell. I even work in the same industry…

At least my logo has changed.

The more I think about it, the more ILB at 40 sounds to all intents and purposes like ILB at 22. People around me evolve all the time; just this morning I was talking over breakfast with Einstein about how many friends have ventured into the “having children” malarkey. 40 sounds incredibly old – I mean, that’s practically 60, and that’s practically dead. Bang, and I’m in my declining years!

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose…

But no matter how I age (dis)gracefully, something still ties me to my “boy” identity, and by extension, my “Innocent Loverboy” moniker. If I’m the same person I was then, that’s the name I should be using. If GOTN can be a girl on the net, there’s really no reason I can’t be a loverboy. I mean, I still love… and I’m still kind of innocent…

…right? RIGHT?!

But here’s the rub. At the age of 40, does my content need to be any different? Do I need to move along from soft porn reviews, funny/awkward/sexy bits from my past, conversations with my friends, excessive parenthetical comments and awful self-deprecation?

There’s an answer to this: no. It’s all part of my brand. For years now I’ve been entertaining dozens, if not hundreds, of readers with pretty much the same claptrap. People still read, they still see, and they still interact (even if they don’t do as much any more…); blogging may not be as huge a medium as it used to be, but I persist.

Societal pressures, of course, tell me I should really do something for my 40th. And so I’ll announce it here:

Hi, I’m ILB. I’m really old.

PIP: The Saga Begins

March 15, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

There isn’t any sex in this post, but I needed to write this out somewhere, and it seems like this is where it may get the most reach, so please excuse me.

The Phantom Menace

The first time I applied for PIP I was told I wasn’t disabled enough. The DWP didn’t exactly explain why, but the (scarily personalised, with the use of “I have decided…” sentences) letter had that message. I left it for a confused month or so before some friends of mine who also claim PIP suggested that one never gets it first time, and a re-application may be successful.

I tried to re-apply online, but it wouldn’t let me. Whether I used my existing login or a new account. The system, I was told after 60 minutes of juggling my testicles on hold, wasn’t finished yet. I could send a paper version of the form, apparently, but I couldn’t download it – I had to wait for one.

Attack of the Clones

The second time I applied for PIP I took one look at the form and had a number of thoughts, including things like:

– if you are blind or partially sighted, how do you claim PIP?
– if you are dyslexic or illiterate, how do you claim PIP?
– if you are intellectually incapacitated, how do you claim PIP?
– if you are working with English as an additional language, how do you claim PIP?
– if you are homeless or living in temporary accommodation, how do you claim PIP?

I do not fall into any of those categories, but I do have myotonia (a condition where your muscles can lock up and not loosen for a while), and writing longhand is getting to be painful. Despite being told I couldn’t do it, I typed my application and printed it out, then sent that.

I didn’t hear anything for months. I eventually got through to the DWP after another session of testicle-juggling to be told that someone put it in the recycling “by mistake”. They weren’t planning to tell me that they had thrown away my application, and were surprised I could remember I had sent one. When I pointed out that I had a very high IQ, an intellectually demanding job, two university degrees and besides, I had sent two applications, they sent me £100 as a “gift”. They weren’t willing to give me PIP, though.

Revenge of the Sith

The third time I applied for PIP I got my MP involved. Not only did I send her a letter, I also sent her a copy of the (third) application and letter I’d sent the DWP. She, to her credit, sat on the ‘phone juggling her testicles for two hours before they answered. They were surprised at having to talk to an MP, assuming parliament were all behind them.

I sent my application with, attached, a letter from my neurologist who was the world expert in my disability; a copy of the occupational health report from work; something from my former boss supporting my claim; and, finally, confirmation that I had (in the year since I first applied) been awarded Access to Work, got a freedom pass and a disabled person’s railcard, and been referred to cardiology since I had developed a secondary condition with my heart.

It took them two months to get around to my application. For the past couple of years, I have been receiving a small amount of PIP which mostly goes to pay my cleaner once a week. Without it (and Access to Work, just as useful), I would not be able to afford to live. At least, not the way I do now in the location I’m in. I can’t just up sticks and go somewhere cheaper, because:

a) I’ve got a job in the local area
b) they’d cancel my PIP

A New Hope

I am showing my privilege here, but my PIP isn’t at as much threat as many others’, since I am in work and the proposed cuts are aiming at victimising those unable to work. I find physical activity difficult, but I am going into work, day in, day out (unless I am in hospital – which has happened now, three times). I’m doing this because I enjoy my job… and I also need the money.

I live in London. Of course I need money.

But what happens to those who can’t work? Those who only get PIP? As above, even the application process is deliberately designed to be hellish and labyrinthine. Those who survive the DWP Hunger Games are few and, it seems, fortunate. Applying for PIP is a gamble no matter how disabled you are. I’m still astonished I made it.

So, to those asking, no – you don’t just call and ask. You do have to start by doing that, so if you are deaf or mute or can’t speak English, or don’t have the time or wherewithal to sit for hours and juggle one’s testicles, that’s already not really an option.

And threatening to remove it is almost theatrically evil.

The Empire Strikes Back

God forbid.

Once upon a time…

February 22, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

Over the last few weeks I have been spending a lot of time alone – mostly in the mornings. Being the sleepy boy that I am, I have to have my own ways to wake up (I’ve noticed that if I don’t I will simply skip entire mornings). Following a tip from a friend, I’ve found the best way to do so is to talk myself awake.

I’m aware, when I monologue in the mornings, that nobody but God is listening. There’s no response, and no feedback. If I’m talking to an invisible audience, then I fully know that they’re not there, but then I’ve always done that. It’s something I do, and it helps me wake up. So I’m talking to the audience and hoping they are listening. Best I can do, really.

If I’m on my own, I can talk about things I wouldn’t mention in mixed company. For the past few mornings I’ve been talking about how and why I started ILB. Where the name came from, the process I went through to register, what little of a plan I had, what the main inspiration was (Adam Kay, it was you, if you’re reading this!). I talk about the adventures I’ve had (I’m particularly fond of the time I left my house at 4am in order to get to Eroticon 2012 in time for breakfast), and those yet to come.

I’ll talk about soft porn and occasionally sing along to the music in my head. Maybe I’m reviewing something I like or raging about Emmanuelle. Quite often I’m rehearsing an introductory speech to the Erotic Independent Film Club (which doesn’t exist, but it’s nice to think about). In my quieter moments, I make lists of the sex bloggers I know in my head. How many do I know? How many of them are still around? Who are they? Where are they?

How many of them had sex last night?

Is this very silly? Perhaps. I’ve been in a massive creative slump since I came out of hospital. So much as thinking about updating my blog is nothing short of scary; I have neither the will nor the inclination to do any of the other creative project I do in February. The other day I did write one page of the story I’ve been meaning to start, but a little voice in my head serves to consistently remind me that I don’t know where I’m going with it.

So, yes. Maybe it is silly. There isn’t anyone to listen when I tell my stories. The only person who gets to hear them is me.

But it’s very nice to pretend.

Orgasm Count 2024: A Year In Fewer Orgasms

January 1, 2025 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

Or should I be calling this “2024 Fapped”? No, that joke’s too bad, even for me. And that really is saying something. But I always do the orgasm count, I can’t resist easy content, and I have lots of lovely pens and a diary to write stuff in, so I guess we’re doing this.

This time last year I was a little doom and gloom about the state of play of sex blogs and the community in general. Although I would tend towards saying that 2024 has been quite a positive year – for me, at least – what with a joyful General Election result and a (admittedly very small) pay rise at the job I am continuing to enjoy. I will admit that I haven’t been blogging as much as I could have, though: 40 posts really isn’t much. It also doesn’t reach 2023 Escape Velocity (2023 was 51 posts…).

So I suppose that’s my New Year’s Resolution, then. Write more posts, you lazy bastard.

Of course, there have been bits of this year that appear to have been conspiring against me. In the summer I had a heart attack and spent three weeks in hospital. August brought with it a trip to Amsterdam, which put me in a very precarious monetary position from which I still haven’t fully recovered. There’s also the fact that my insomnia has been getting worse, and there’s a lot of stuff going on around me, even if it’s not directly happening to me.

I’ve had counselling this year, and even without it I’ve noticed that I am less depressed about things than I am nervous. I’ve been feeling very awkward and hesitant about saying things, or doing things (which you wouldn’t know to look at me, since I talk a lot and I’m a bit of an extrovert), and I do occasionally feel like I’m walking on eggshells.

This post is a good example. I was meant to be talking about wanking and just kind of went off in a different direction. Fantastic. Story of my life!

The Orgasm Count!

Once again I’m going to go through my diary and to to decrypt my awful handwriting. I’ll also include the codes I used, because they make me feel like a spy, and that’s awesome.

☆ – 89. This is the number of orgasms that I’ve had this year. That’s less than last year’s orgasm count, although it creates a nice palindrome with last year’s 98. Maths tells me that’s an orgasm per day on 24.3% of the year. Boo!

☺ (not an actual emoji; the face I draw looks more like a sideways =)) – 13/2; 3/5; 30/7; 7/11; 30/12. These are the days on which I had a particularly nice orgasm. In an Earth-shattering revelation, most of these were days after a period in which I hadn’t had any orgasms. I KNOW!

🙁 (a sideways =() – 9/4. An orgasm I’ll talk about later. Not a good one, really.

28/9 – This date got three codes, so you know it’s important. It got an !!!, two smiley faces and the word plentiful! underlined. Whatever happened here, it must have been a great orgasm. This was also – you couldn’t make it up – my 69th orgasm. I should get a certificate or something.

Boing! – 8/12. Holy jumping semen, Batman! There are usually more of these in a year, but this one was notable enough for me to record the fact that it looked like my jizz was competing in the Paris Olympics.

Leana! – 14/5; 12/7; 24/8; 27/10. This is a code I added last year to describe orgasms that happened with the “aid” of rising porn starlet Leana Lovings. Once again, hardcore isn’t my thing, but it’s impossible not to love Leana. This year I also added Emma! to refer to buxom redhead Emma Magnolia, for fairly obvious reasons, but recorded only one such date – 11/1.

Sneaky. – 28/8. As with last year’s orgasm count, this is an orgasm I had with my wife awake in the next room. According to them, they wank when they can and I may well be occupied elsewhere too, but I’m not sure how true that is!

And two brand new codes for 2024…

Necessary – 12/2; 9/4. Eagle-eyes viewers will have noticed that 9/4 was not a good orgasm. Both of these were necessary, though, because they were orgasms FOR SCIENCE! These were days I participated in The Great and Glorious Jizz Dash. I needed to have those orgasms. SCIENCE!

and finally…

NoD – 30/7. I wrote this code down without recording anywhere what it meant. When transferring the stars over to my new mid-year diary I spent about half an hour trying to puzzle it out. NoD? What might those letters stand for? NoD? Why did post-orgasmic ILB seem to think it was that important to make a note of?

And then I remembered.

“…nut on desk,” I muttered to myself, making a note of that too.