Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Category: Personal (Page 1 of 11)

ILB’s personal posts

It’s fun to share, it’s fun to share

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So how was your weekend, ILB?

Calm.

Dream List #1

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

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

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

So here I present to you

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

In no particular order:

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

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

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

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

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

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

and

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

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

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

So… my next post, I suppose.

Backstroke

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

Cry for Justice

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

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

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

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

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

But I’m almost there.

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

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

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

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

…ladies.

Sercia

Dear Sercia,

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

But then that all added to the mystique.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But did we? Did we really?

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

But my brain built up this fantasy anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eviction

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

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

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

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

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

I feel safe here.

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

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

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

And then my ‘phone rang.

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

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

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

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

…you get the idea.

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

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

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

Scared.

Orgasms, on

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

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

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

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

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

Or something like that.

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

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

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

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

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

Burning Bridges

[An old friend once wrote a blog post with “Burning Bridges” as the title, so maybe the credit for the above goes to him.]

I’m not really brave enough for this.

Something I’ve noticed – mostly at Eroticon, but in conversation with others too – is that there is a bit of a difference in how European and American bloggers handle controversy.

What?

Evidently I’m not talking about everyone here, but I’m not the only one who sees this: American bloggers are zealous. They see something that needs to be called out and they’ll do so. Immediately. To the outsider it may look like a bit of a knee-jerk reaction, but it’s just the blogger getting something done before it becomes more of a problem. This can be good, evidently; the now-infamous Screaming O talk at Woodhull is a great example.

But to me it seems a little dangerous. If you’e going through life constantly looking for something to call out it seems a touch paranoid. And, of course, if you find something and leap on it without any prior research, then there’s always the problem that you’ll do more harm than good.

European bloggers are a touch more reserved. If one of us seems something troubling then we are more likely to try and fix it quietly than start a massive social media pile-on. I’m a European blogger and I’ve never knowingly tried to start anything, although if there’s already something going on a few of us will probably join in (the Inigo More post is a good example of that).

But what do I, a nervous British blogger, do when I notice something that I find abhorrent? Do I fall silent in favour of silence meaning security? Do I call the cavalry and initiate a brawl I don’t wish to happen or participate in? Or do I take on the issue myself, possibly solving it but just as possibly making matters worse?

Specifically, do I want to risk burning a bridge, even if it’s one I wish were no longer there?

It’s difficult.

So what?

A couple of months ago I noticed a fellow sex blogger – one I’ve met, befriended and previously had a lot of respect for – posting something questionable on Twitter (or 𝕏 or whatever it’s called now). I scrolled through her tweets – maybe this was satire and in response to something else – but saw a few more. And then I opened her replies tab.

Oh boy.

Most direct quotes are too sickening to post here, but they are all things that make me tremble. Constant references to trans people trying to brainwash children. References to refugees as “gimmegrants” and migrants as “illegals”, saying we need to get rid of them all to “protect our country”. At one point she verbatim said that

this wokey nonsense has got to stop

in response to a story about a trans person wanting to be called by their preferred pronoun.

And then I knew I needed to do something. Other than remove them from my blogroll, of course, which I’d already done.

Now what?

It’s difficult enough to deal with this stuff from Tory bigots and you already expect it from known transphobes like Graham Linehan and JKR. It’s much more difficult, however, when it’s from someone you used to like, and even moreso when it’s a sex blogger… whatever has happened to our community, the fact remains that we were all nominally banging the same drum.

This is not what I would usually expect.

Earlier on today I finally posted on Mastodon and Bluesky saying the following:

I don’t want to stay silent any more. But I don’t want to cause a fuss.

A sex blogger most of us know has been airing and sharing abhorrent views on X and this has gone unchallenged.

Most of you are following her.

Message me if you want to know who.

@innocentlb

Some of me wonders whether or not this was the right thing to do. Part of me wanted to do the “American” thing of putting her name and details verbatim on all my platforms, but I didn’t want to do that. Another part wanted to do the “European” thing of quiet outrage and soft indignation, but ethically I felt like I couldn’t do that.

So I took the middle road: I offered the information, and to those who asked I posted her blogging pseudonym and Twitter @, offering screenshots to those who had no access.

And so far this has seemed like the best course of action. I didn’t know how much uptake this would have, but it has been more than I expected. I was envisioning one, maybe two, curious people, but as I type this, more than eleven people have asked. All of them have gone on to respond, once they’ve seen the content, in the same horrified, disbelieving way that I did.

And what?

As far as burning bridges is concerned, it’s very rare that I’ll meet and get on with someone that I’ll end up never wanting to see again. I’m a social person and I’m genuinely quite protective of the friendships I’ve made. Fair enough, it may be different with 47 or Robinson or H or Mini – they are friends in real life, there’s much more physical contact there. Nevertheless, I’ve met this blogger; I’ve talked to her; I’ve hugged her, even.

But even I have my limit, and in this case – rare though it may be for a European blogger, even more so for a British one, and perhaps much more so for me – it has been hit by this person.

I am not going to post her identity here.

But my offer still stands. If you want to know, ask. I hope you do. I hope it makes its way around. And I hope everyone ends up knowing.

Above all, I hope she realises she was wrong. If she does, and she apologises, and makes more of an effort, then maybe it won’t have been worth burning that bridge after all.

All I can do is hope, in the end.

No, YOU listen.

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.

The Great and Glorious Jizz Rush of February 2024

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.

Billy Whizz from The Beano. Art by Vic Neill.
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 had more satisfying orgasms.

2023 #orgasmcount [aka: “M04R (0D3S¡”]

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…

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