Yesterday afternoon, just after work, I went for drinks to celebrate one the birthday of one of my colleagues. I found myself, although not for the first time in my life, surrounded by women – as they got progressively more drunk, their conversation varied from the size of their boobs to different methods of contraception.
(At one point, one of them may have had said she hasn’t had sex since December. I didn’t quite hear, but…)
While I did my ILB Thing™ of sitting quietly in the corner making no noise, I did pitch in with a few conversations (I’m not that much of a pariah), especially when the topic turned to autism management and the different ways in which people stim. More discourse happened about the way to centre yourself when you feel overwhelmed.
“I suck my thumb,” said one colleague. “I know I shouldn’t, but I do. It helps me calm down.” “My ex used to suck her thumb,” I said without thinking. “She did it every night; I rarely saw her sleep without doing so.”
I shouldn’t have said that. Not because it wasn’t true, but because I’d forgotten it up until then.
As much as things remind me of my second girlfriend (second chronologically; I don’t have more than one girlfriend!), I do have to wonder if there’s anything that reminds her of me. I have a scarily accurate memory, so I can recall things and events from the past with some amount of detail – you’ll know this if you read my blog – but I’d forgotten about this.
I’d forgotten about this although I know so many things I shouldn’t. I know her married name and I know the name of her son. I’ve read her MA essay and even her Ph.D. thesis (I’m not acknowledged, even though we had sex on the floor while encoding some poetry readings, but then again she doesn’t mention her husband either, so…), both of which are very good. I even know where she works now and have to wonder if she is still as angry as ever.
But I’d forgotten about the thumb thing.
The seamstress used to try to justify this to me. It was a comfort thing, carried over since she was little. It happened while she was asleep and she couldn’t control it. Maybe it was a way to centre herself. It once happened when she had a cracked tooth and she couldn’t stop. Once she even told me it was because she wanted to feel like she had a cock in her mouth. The excuses kept coming, and coming, and coming…
But I didn’t care. I liked it. I thought it was cute.
In fact, I thought a lot of what she did was cute. I liked the patterns on her underwear. I liked the way she pronounced “Ph.D.”. When helping her pick a dress in the shop, I chose the one that showed off her boobs and she giggled. I liked that too. I liked how filthy her sense of humour she was and how she insisted that she used to be cool. When I noticed a chunky pair of sunglasses she had, she lent them to me and I liked that.
But I forgot about the thumb-sucking until yesterday afternoon.
Before I get into this, I want to make a couple of things clear.
Up until a few days ago I wasn’t entirely sure whether or not I would be attending Eroticon at all this year, or indeed any other year after this. Financially, I am in no position to be doing so; I also felt completely inadequate during the last one I attended and perhaps even more so during the aborted 2020 replacement. I also submitted a session idea that didn’t get taken up (which would have helped with the money… also, I was sort of planning it in my head already).
I’m not even sure I have the faith in the community that I used to, or if I do, it’s not to the same degree. There are always going to be the few that I trust and adore – and there’s one person coming this year who I know I’m going to be spending a lot of time with – but there are always those undertones that I’m not comfortable with. Specifically, there’s a streak of élitism detectable throughout the upper echelons, and that’s what makes me feel uncomfortable.
And yet here I am.
I’m coming for a number of reasons:
one, I’ve been to every ‘con since the first one back in 2012 and I really ought to keep doing so; two: I made promises to various people and I intend to keep them; three: my dear friend Robynmade a generous donation to aid my attendance and I owe her a lot; four: my therapist told me to go.
I will type that again: my therapist. told me. to go.
five: as you may have noticed, I’ve sucked at blogging this year. The intent is there, but the flesh is weak. I’m really wrestling with a creative block. Whatever else Eroticon may be, I’m hoping for it to be a way out of this.
And so here I stand in front of the annual Meet & Greet, wondering if I will get what I want out of Eroticon, if anything unexpected will happen, or even if I am still welcome. I am, as always tentatively excited about this, so I cautiously dip my toe into the waters. Here’s hoping I find them clear, to some extent.
The Meet & Greet
Name (and Twitter)?
Innocent Loverboy, but usually referred to as ILB (pronounced “I’ll be” /aɪel’bi:/, not “illb” /ɪlb/). I have other names too; a few of you know my real name and I’ll answer to that. Frankly, I’m still amazed anyone talks to me at all so I’ll probably answer to anything.
I’m on Twitter as @innocentlb, but I’m not on any other social media platforms. Oh, and please don’t refer to Mastodon as “Masto”. That sounds like a supervillain.
Tell us 3 things you are most looking forward to at Eroticon 2023?
(i) I stole this from Molly wholesale, but it is “it’s finally happening”. Yes, I was a bit dubious of the whole affair as above, but I can’t deny that I am both relieved and excited that ‘con is back.
(ii) The social aspect. I’ve mentioned Robyn above, but I’m sure there will be a few there who I hadn’t realised were coming that I’ll know. There are always new people at ‘con (maybe too many, if I’m being honest, at the last one) and that might be fun. (I’ll also buy GOTN a drink. I don’t genuinely owe her one, but I always pretend I do and she hasn’t clocked this yet.)
(iii) I’m sure some of the sessions? Having looked through the running order, there are very few that move me so far, so I’ll make a choice at the time, but let’s be honest, I’ll end up at all the ones run by my mates. I am genuinely intending to rejuvenate my blog at ‘con, though, and I hope at least some of them help.
If there’s a session I’m not going to and I have no alternative I may well be in the coffee / break room, available for chats and hugs. I’m also willing to talk blogs if you struggle; I genuinely have decades of experience.
And I can do sex talk. Always can do sex talk.
Sadly with a change of venue this year for the Friday night Meet & Greet we won’t be compiling a playlist, but I know that everyone enjoys that bit, so… what is a song that always has you turning the volume up?
I actually don’t know where the Friday night is, but I’ll be going along whatever, so yeah.
At work recently we have been playing a lot of dance music (there’s a reason for that; it’s not just random) so, even though I don’t dance as well as I used to due to my increasing disability, I’ve been enjoying the rhythms. How about Don’t Stop Movin’ by S Club 7?
Don’t laugh; you like it too, don’t you?
At my wedding last year, the final dance was to SHUM by Go_A, so maybe that’s an option.
What’s the first career you dreamed of having as a kid?
As I told my educational psychologist during my genius diagnosis (yes, really), I wanted to be a film director. Throughout my childhood and adolescence, I wanted to be a cartoonist, a magazine editor, a computer programmer, a journalist, a peace campaigner, an English teacher, a campaign organiser based in Japan, a rock star and a comedian.
I am none of those.
What does your joy look like today?
A Vine compilation. I didn’t really catch the zeitgeist when Vine was a thing, but people are still making compilations on YouTube and they never fail to make me smile.
What is your favourite musical?
As anyone who’s paid attention knows, I am a massive fan of musical theatre, and it’s one of my greatest loves. It’s an unfulfilled ambition to end up on a West End stage (or any stage) and sing in a musical… and I have a fantasy about it, if that’s your sort of thing.
In any case, my favourite musical is Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat – it always has been – but I know all the words to Jesus Christ Superstar, Evita, The Producers and several others. I’m still working on Hamilton, but I almost have that too.
If you were the captain of a pirate ship, what would be the name of your ship?
The Sea Cucumber. Yes, that’s a Monkey Island reference, but I’d steal adapt it for my ship too. At school, we once had a challenge to build a seaworthy craft out of paper, and my group’s went through several changes before we named it #4.
As soon as you have finished writing answering these questions, what are you going to do?
Oh, boy. It’s been a very long and difficult week full of unexpected challenges. This is written with the very last of my energy. I think the appropriate verb is “collapse”.
Complete the sentence:
I need… £2,500 in order to clear all my debts and have some money left over. Or, if that’s too much, maybe some cake.
I blearily opened my eyes. My digital alarm clock showed a time of 02:30. That was chucking out time at the union bar plus half an hour for a kebab and possibly some more drinks. Usually I’d stay at the club until 01:45, duck out before everyone else and get chips and cheese before heading back to my room alone.
But this was the night where I’d decided to go back to my room at midnight and get some sleep. (If there was one thing I needed, I reasoned, it was sleep.)
Blam! Blam! Blam! “Oi mate, got any porn?”
Evidently, however, some people had other ideas. I was in my pyjamas – a rare occurrence, but a fortunate one. I thought, vaguely, of making no noise and pretending I didn’t exist – which would have been easy, since most people on my corridor seemed to assume I didn’t – but, since the knocking would have probably broken down my door eventually, I opened it.
“PORN!” shouted a very large, very drunk boy I had never seen before.
I blinked. There in the corridor stood an assemblage of large, drunk boys. The only one I recognised lived in room 1, which was the large room on the corner where we usually watched movies. I was in room 3, which was about the size of a matchbox.
“Hey, ILB,” said the boy I knew. “We were wondering if we could borrow your Emmanuelle porn disc.” “I have an Emmanuelle porn disc?” I said. I wasn’t fooling anyone – in fact, I had two. One of them had been fast becoming my favourite thing to watch. The other less so. (In fact, one of them had arrived while my parents had been visiting. I said it was a book and didn’t open it until much later.)
I didn’t know how he knew I had one.
“PORN!!!” shouted one of the other boys, in a voice which probably woke up most of the city. Maybe all the lights went on at the same time, like in the last scene of Diana.
“Sorry about him. Could we borrow your Emmanuelle porn disc?”
Obviously the answer was no. Last time I’d lent someone something it had come back broken. I’d even paid for a £30 flight to Germany for the guy in room 2 who brought back a different girl every night. I never got that back either.
“Uhm, no…?” I ventured. “It’s not, not, not… good,” I lied. “It’s very baaaad porn; I think I’m going to… sell it…”
And I shut the door before any of them could say anything.
“PORN!” somebody said.
I went back to bed wondering how anyone had managed to find out I owned any porn.
It was my birthday yesterday, and as a result, I’m now officially in my late thirties. I’m feeling very old.
Last night I had a nice meal with my parents; tomorrow, there is a family thing in the afternoon. I got a book from my wife and I’m assuming there are more presents forthcoming.
Is what I assume. What I’m also assuming is that I’m a relatively difficult person to buy for, insofar as I never really know what I want. Younger ILB never had this problem, as every Christmas and birthday was an opportunity to get a new Nintendo game. This is still a nice thing to get, but when one considers that I have five unfinished Switch games on the go and there are many more being added to the retro console emulator thingies, it’s more or less apparent that I don’t really need one right now.
I sometimes get things that I might use, but more often than not they become little more than ephemera. I’m more likely to use a stick of glue than I am my Stylophone, but then I like the fact that I own a Stylophone. I am a contrary boy.
I’ve decided, in these calm moments, that what I want the most is some quiet time. Time like this, with no distractions, no noise and no other responsibilities. The time to sit in silence and write my blog, or read a book, chatter on Twitter or play the aforementioned Switch.
Time, in short, to just be.
And, since you can’t package that and hand it over as a present, I’m having to find it for myself.
It was mid-spring last year and I was at my parents’ house with a pad of sketching paper and a bold marker pen. On the other side of the table was my sister – our erstwhile maid of honour – with a handwritten list of questions.
“It’s very simple,” she had explained. “I’ve got a list of questions here about them. You write down what your answer would be. Since they’re about to be your wife, you should know them all.” “Why don’t you just ask them?” I had queried. “Because it’s a quiz,” she had replied. “I don’t know the answers and neither do any of the bridesmaids. We all give an answer, and so do you, and then they tell us what the real answer would be.” “But I’m not going to be at the hen party.” “That’s why you write your answers down. I’ll take pictures of each.” “You are a very strange person; did you know that?”
And so we had begun. What seemed like a daunting task at first was turning out to be quite fun. As it turned out, I knew a lot off the top of my head – favourite food, favourite film, favourite book – and some I could confidently guess. We decided to skip the question about the first thing they did in the morning since my answer was “cry”.
The next question threw me.
“Who’s their celebrity crush?”
A milieu of names flew through my head. Oscar Isaac, Pedro Pascal, Mads Mikkelsen, and Jason Statham. And that’s just the men. Having a queer pansexual enby for a fiancée meant that they could fancy basically anyone of any gender. And I don’t deal too well with that.
What’s the point?
I appear to be totally immune to celebrity crushes. I’ve never even had one. There are, of course, people who are attractive; none of them I’d ever have a chance with. They are either too young (Greta Thunberg), too attractive (Rita Ora), fictional (Remi Himekawa), hella problematic (Rachel Riley), or all four (Hermione Granger).
But I can’t, hand on heart, say I’ve ever actually been attracted to anyone famous. I grew up around famous people (having an actor dad makes this happen), with Kiera being a childhood friend and Paul Whitehouse wandering around my mum’s piano teacher’s house, signing things for me at random. My crushesatschool were all on civilians – people in my year who I was still never going to get.
I never saw the point in fancying someone famous. Nothing’s ever going to happen between you two anyway, and I saw how dangerous obsession could be, girls wasting away thinking of nothing but Mark Owen and boys putting down Britney as their main interest in life.
It didn’t affect me, and while unrequited love was fairly traumatic, at least that was realistic.
Celebrity crushes hurt
And then there’s the other thing.
Celebrity crushes have made it very difficult to trust anyone I’ve ever been in a relationship with. I don’t do ‘compersion’ particularly well, and even then it hasn’t been intentional. Couple that with my crippling self-doubt and tendency towards self-destruction as a coping mechanism, and you get a few reasons why I felt that way.
I remember my first girlfriend hollering at squashy-faced Sum41 frontman Deryck Whibley to fuck her and then ignoring me crying afterwards. My second girlfriend being openly sexual about comedian Jon Richardson, and how much sex she wanted to have with him, failing to notice the fork I was jabbing myself in the thigh with. I even still have the scars from all the self-harming I did throughout my late teens: one for every time she cheated, one for every celebrity crush she had.
Unlovable as I’ve always believed myself to be, I’ve gone through every relationship with the constant fear that they are going to end given any viable alternative. One word from [insert random celebrity here] and they would be out the door. I didn’t have a job, a car, a house, or the fame, so I clearly didn’t compare. Any interest from [insert random celebrity here] and I wouldn’t even be a factor any more. They’d be gone.
So how did I answer the question?
“They… they don’t have one,” I lied (at least, I think it was a lie). “We… we don’t talk about it. I don’t have one…” “Well, you don’t do them, do you?” “No, not at all. Can we skip this one?”
My sister gave me a Knowing Look™ and kindly skipped to the next question.
“Okay. If they were to have a dinner party, who would be all the guests?”
They’re not all good moments. Case in point: last night I had a dream in which I was having sex. The person I was having sex with (my wife, truth be told) told me it was boring, left, and just sort of wandered off, sending me into a sneaky hate spiral.
Is this really the reason? Dream ILB wondered. Am I the problem here? Is this why all my previous relationships ended so badly?
And then I flashed back to how my previous relationships ended, and how traumatic they may have made me feel at the time. I remembered being cheated on, and working it out beforehand but never saying anything. I remembered being jettisoned, without warning, unceremoniously – just before a year in which I was going to work on my life. (If I think about it, I still don’t have a reason for that one. Part of me thinks it boils down to “I don’t have a car”.)
I was responsible for how badly my third relationship ended. I still feel guilty about it, and I wasn’t honest about how our relationship had been ending for a long time before it officially happened. The train ride home was one of the worst times in my life, and she made sure I paid for it, too.
In all these cases, my brain tells me, the repeated factor is me – I am the lowest common denominator and I am genuinely not good enough. Why? Is it because I don’t have a six-pack, or a high-paid job, or a driving license, or an intact trapezius muscle? If I work hard in a job I like, does it really matter if the thing I take most pride in is a blog that makes no money, and music with no discernible talent?
If I have to use a stick to walk and say “Oof!” when I stand up, am I even capable of having sex? On the off-chance it ever happens again, will I be able to perform? Or will it be something else to add to the sneaky hate spiral?
Dream ILB wanted to talk about all of this to his wife, who had just left because the sex was boring. When Real Life ILB woke up this morning, he also wanted to talk to his wife about this. But then he also wanted to stay in bed. He wanted some quiet time to himself, just to think, to reboot, to decompress. Maybe just be alone for a while.
In the light of the day, it all doesn’t seem so bad. The worry is still there, of course – maybe there is something genuinely toxic about me? – but, with the sun peeking through the window, it all seems a bit lessened. Easy though it is to say that “everything will be better in the morning”, there’s a certain degree of truth in that.
I can’t look in the mirror and see something I like. I can’t even do that on self-reflection, even in the most positive of moods. Part of me will always feel like things are made a little worse by having me involved. People have told me this, and who am I to disbelieve them?
But sometimes, I forget. I forget to be unhappy with myself. I forget that I am a completely unsatisfying person. It might be someone saying something, or doing something, or even something I’ve seen or read which takes me out of everything for a while and gives me the space I need to forget how I feel about myself.
And that’s all right. That’s okay. For now, that will have to do.
[Post number 1,000 on this blog. I’m a chatty ILB.]
The new year, as ever, heralds the usual changes. I still haven’t gotten into the habit of putting a 3 rather than the extra 2 at the end of the year; January (the most depressing month) drags on, and the cold exacerbates a whole plethora or interesting viruses. I’ve no idea which one I have right now; it’s keeping me off work, which is certainly A Thing.
Memes have changed too. After thirteen years, Hedone has decided to close down her perennial meme TMI Tuesday, one of the things that kept me blogging throughout the last, difficult year. Thank you very much for keeping this one going, H. I appreciate it.
And so now we have Revelations, a new meme by Molly. It is, basically, a blogging prompt meme with a rather broad scope, but I couldn’t resist joining in with this one.
So… body count.
What’s a body count?
I’ve got a query about the term “body count”. I have always used this to refer to the number of deaths in a piece of media – from a few in Leprechaun to a round one hundred in Shoot ‘Em Up. Does Prince Harry’s 25 constitute, for example, a body count?
Sexually, what even is a body count? Does it have to be full penetrative sex to count? What about oral sex; what about kisses? Is there a special category for those whose name you don’t know, or whose body you have forgotten? Is the term useful, or a little objectifying?
What about cybersex? I’ve had a LOT of that. Do they count?
What other terms do you use? “Notches on your belt / bedpost”? Or do you simply keep a tally on the wall like Lavonia Shed in Beneath the Valley of the Ultravixens?
I suppose, like with so much of sex and sexuality, this is one of the things in which you make your own rules. I’m going to sum it up like this.
ILB’s List of Lists
I have kissed twelve people. Of those twelve, I have had sex with eight of them. Four of those have been partners (ie. girlfriends, fiancées, wife). While this looks deliberate, my affiliation to the four-times table is not, despite four being my lucky number. It should please the maths nerds, however.
01. Rebecca (a girlfriend, then a fiancée) 02. Louise 03. Alicia 04. Lilly 05. snowdrop 06. The Oxford Seamstress (a girlfriend, then a fiancée, briefly) 07. Catherine (a girlfriend) 08. Jillian (a girlfriend, then a fiancée, now a wife)
[NB: The above are, of course, pseudonyms. I know all their names – both Christian name and surname – in all eight cases, although only a few I’ve ever really used!]
I’m of the opinion that, when talking with the sex-positive crowd (and I might bring this up if I can get a table at Eroticon), the number of people you’ve slept with is either going to be scarily high or scarily low – there are very few in between. But then, again, what is high and what is low? Magazines and websites will tell you things, but are they really true or just dead tree clickbait?
Is my eight high or low?
Impossible to tell. While this is a low number, I’ve definitely had a lot of sex. Bear in mind that, of these eight, only one was a once-off thing (everyone else was two or more), whereas four were long-term partners. I must have had sex hundreds, possibly even thousands, of times… even though, having not had sex for eight years or so, my memory of the act itself may be slightly hazy!
And then let’s think about my situation. For the longest time, like practically EVERY TEENAGER EVER, I was absolutely 100% sure that I’d never have sex. Nobody had been interested and I hadn’t even been kissed until I was 17! 17 itself was a very tumultuous year for me, with my first kiss, first sexual experience, first girlfriend and first sex all happening in the space of a few months!
The fact that anyone found me attractive enough to have sex with was certainly hard to believe… it still is two decades later! Looking at it now, after my first relationship catastrophically went wrong, the fact that SEVEN MORE PEOPLE ended up sleeping with me seems completely insane!
So what’s my body count?
Impossible to tell. Yeah, I’ve had sex with eight people and I do suspect that, to quite a lot of the sex blogging community, that isn’t the highest of numbers. But I’m very grateful for all the sex I’ve had, from the first experience with a janky branded condom, to sex on the studio floor while listening to Brian Patten, to trying to get my girlfriend off the ceiling in the Bristol hotel room.
Every sexual experience has helped to shape me, to inspire me, to beguile me. Yes, I do miss having sex, but the amount of sex I did have feels like a lot more than my single figure may suggest.
And to everyone reading this who I may have had sex with at some point…
The start of a new year (calendar year, not academic year) has always been an odd feeling for me. Logical ILB knows that time is a construct, and that what we are celebrating is an incredibly arbitrary point. Resolutions are made because of a new year, but part of me would rather make them in spite of one.
But, in the past, the new year has always been interesting.
One year I saw a friend who I rarely managed to see on New Year’s Day – not because it was New Year’s Day, but just because he was available. One I did some work for my uncle, who paid me £60 for a few hours and bought me lunch. One year I was still coming down from the high of getting a kiss from a girl I fancied a few days prior. One I spent largely singing the numbers from Avenue Q while my GP tinkled the ivories in a friend’s back room.
And then there are the bad ones. The ones in the late ’90s and early ’00s where I would spend my days in floods of tears. Ones where I would toast the new year convinced I wasn’t going to make it through another twelve months. The millennium celebration was the worst – it was cold, it was wet, it was outside, I was completely crushed by the girl I wanted at the time, and I lost my special pen for writing my diary.
[Most of my misery during those years was due to unrequited love. It was the same girl for several years… and then another for a few more. I even drew a diagram once, in Comic Sans.]
And then there are the sexy ones. The beginning of 2004 that I spent in a sleepy haze. The moments when I managed to both finish the old year and start the new one with my penis inside someone else (orgasms are a nice beginning). The one where I got a very drunken text from someone saying she wanted to fuck me. Every time I’ve managed to wake up next to someone and start the day, the week, the month and the year with a kiss and a cuddle.
I usually spend New Year with my friends. This year, that didn’t happen.
New Year was comfortable. I ate hot food, I quaffed some lemonade and I watched Jools Holland with my wife. There wasn’t any high emotion, nor was there any drama either (nor was there any sex). There was a hug in the middle of our living room, a lie-down and a bit of a sleep. Another year passed, and after the action-packed first half of 2022, everything seems like a bit of anticlimax.
Everyone I know appears to have had a bad year in 2022, except for me. I’m not going to pretend that all of it was brilliant, of course – I’m not a maniac – but I did, in fact, have a relatively positive year. For me, that’s a major thing.
My blog has been one of the constants in my life, again… although this year I’ve mostly been doing memes. Whether it’s TMI Tuesday, Five Things, or even the occasional Soft Porn Sunday, I’ve just found memes to be a handy content generator. I may have had an okay year, but it’s been a busy one. Memes have helped my blog grow, although my favourite posts have always been the funny ones about my past.
I had quite a confusing Spring, what with constant periods of unemployment and a pending wedding that I wasn’t entirely sure I could pay for. I did, however, get a job I really wanted, so April through to July were good months for me – even during the heatwave. July gave me a stag party thingy which was an excellent day.
Summer consisted mostly of wedding shenanigans, honeymoon wandering and then a few weeks of lazy vegetation. Autumn was a bit of an anticlimax following the action-packed first eight months, and maybe I’m still sleeping them off, judging by how little I did over Christmas!
I’ve spent the last few days trying to get over my cold (…if it’s a cold!). That’s pretty much it, so maybe there’s something more interesting to talk about.
This’ll do. In 2021 I has 131 orgasms (more than I had anticipated). This year I had long periods of not being able to touch myself, but also some periods where I had many days to myself, in which I did it every day. My sexual desire has been all over the place, so maybe my New Year’s resolution should be about centering myself and realising where my sexual energy is best focused.
Fortunately, in the lack of the ability to do this, I kept a record….
117– the number of orgasms I’ve had this year (as denoted by a ★ in my WHSmith mid-year diary)
That’s less than last year. I am still pleased that I cracked the hundred mark, though.
32.05% – the number of orgasms in a year, compared to the number of days in a year, expressed as a percentage
Slightly less than a third. That’s an awful lot of time with my dick in my hand… but still a little disappointing, for some reason!
And the rest?
Usually I’d do these in categories, but I’ve changed up what I’ve written so much this year that I thought it would be desperate fun to go through this…
! (11/1, 31/2, 16/3, 17/4, 26/4, 9/7, 11/7, 12/12) – these are the days on which I had particularly powerful orgasms, for whatever reason.
x2 (21/2, 1/3, 13/4, 27/7) – days on which I had more than one orgasm! In my early twenties, I’d have done this every day!
Leana! (5 occurrences, maybe more) – orgasms had while watching videos of porn starlet Leana Lovings. I’m not a big fan of hardcore, as you should know… but I do like Leana!
Nice. (16/3) – I remember this one! It was a very pleasant experience all the way through, and a relief I needed after a difficult day. The same could also be applied to Blissful! 🙂 (23/8), for similar reasons (although I was hyped up on anaesthetic from the dentist at this point, so maybe…!).
Plentiful! (26/4) and Quite a lot. (31/8) – You don’t need a hint for this… just use your imagination!
🙁 (24/10) – a disappointing orgasm: too much effort for too little reward (and, if memory serves me right, I didn’t even finish the orgasm; it just stopped randomly). Fortunately there was only one of those this year!
Boing! (9/7, 8/9, 13/12) – my favourite thing to write as, as has happened before, these orgasms involve cum jumping in a pleasant arc, my appreciation of the aesthetic necessitating a mention of this!
The Audacity of This Bitch
This marks post number 58 in 2021, which amounts to slightly more than one post per week (1.115, if my maths is right). I promise I’ve been making an effort, but I’ll do better next year!
I know I say that every year, but this year I will, mainly because I want Robyn to buy me cloudy lemonades. Join ILB again in 2023 for more sex, porn and seemingly random screaming into the sky. See you there.
I started coughing and spluttering the day before Christmas. Although I made it through singing carols at Mass, and the day itself (although everyone took a nap in the afternoon; it was an odd day), Boxing Day passed in a haze of sneezes and tissues.
The rest of the week has been similar – a miasma of struggling to move, foggy thoughts, Glee marathons on Disney+, Mario Kart 8 Deluxe and Beechams Flu Plus. I’m meant to be going back to work next week, and exciting as that may be, I’m really not feeling it.
When I’m this sick, it’s very hard to feel sexy. Yesterday I read through my diary in preparation for tomorrow’s #orgasmcount, and in the moment, it felt like something Herculean to even think about being hard, horny or anywhere close to ejaculation. Even if I tried, it’s hard to imagine my hand co-operating with my dick.*
[*But I’m still going to try.]
If I’m not having orgasms, then I usually end up having my awkwarddreams about not quite getting to have sex. Or being naked in public. Or both. Or fiddling with my dick. All four, if you count the dream I had about masturbating on the local bus that goes to town from the corner of my road. Inevitably I wake up hard from having these, and more often than not a little frustrated (not that I ever get to have sex in the dreams; the fact that it could happen is what keeps them going!).
But that’s not been happening either. I’ve been lying in bed feeling sick, day and night, every now and again trying to muster the strength to sit anywhere else – even in my own computer chair. The struggle, dear reader, is real.
Late last night I had a dream about watching porn. I don’t remember which porn it was, or if it even exists. All I recall, really, was a dream about watching porn, in my chair, on my own. (That’s how I usually do so, which is probably what made it so realistic.) And that’s how, in the dream, I had one of the biggest, hardest, throbbing erections I’ve had in the past few years.
And then I woke up and realised it was a real one.