Category: Personal (Page 4 of 14)

ILB’s personal posts

Bar Bathroom

September 9, 2024 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

It’s 11:30 pm on my first day at university and I’m wanking feverishly in a stall in the toilets of the union bar. It’s club night and my fap fap fap is masked by the thump thump thump from just outside. I’ve never been clubbing before, but here, everybody does it.

That is not all everybody seems to be doing. The sexual energy from the heaving mass of sweaty bodies is electric. As it turns out later, not everyone was having sex with everyone else, but for the majority of us, this is the first day of freshers’ week which, sixth form told us, was specifically reserved for sex with someone new. In this very bar, on the dancefloor outside, I will have incidents where I don’t want to cheat, and those where I’ll fail to get laid. I just don’t know this yet.

Outside this bar bathroom, the milieu continues unabated. The freshers’ reps are all called things like RAUNCHY, PLAYMATE and KING SNAKE. It’s become common knowledge that GIANT does, in fact, have a rather small penis, but he’s been sleeping with half the freshers, which makes it okay. About an hour earlier I had been talking with a pretty blonde who then vanished from view. Her equally pretty best friend apologised on her behalf – she had a boyfriend – but that didn’t bother me, as I was just chatting.

I’d also come to university as someone in a long-term relationship. Engaged, actually. In the unlikely event that I did get any leads to be having the kind of wild and carefree sex I never ended up having, I wouldn’t be following them up on account of the fact that I was in a relaionship.

I am wanking in the toilet because I feel that, despite how out of place I seem to be, and how what is going on elsewhere doesn’t affect me, I deserve, on this very first night, my own sexual experience, so I’m giving it to myself, no matter how desperate or unclean or pathetic this all is. I’m going to have an orgasm here, tonight, and nobody else will know, and that will be mine. Just something that I can do.

Also, I’m horny.

I don’t yet know that the following three years will be an era of sexual self-discovery. That I will feel both the closest to and the furthest away from death than ever before, and that I will emerge from the whole experience having had no more sex, but aware of the sort I wanted to be having. I haven’t even been to a lecture yet.

There’s no way of knowing which way this is going.

I have my first orgasm of semi-independent life standing up, in a bar bathroom stall. Whatever happened next, nobody was going to take that away from me.

London Isn’t Calling

August 25, 2024 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

There are missed opportunities, and then there are things which never start.

While sitting in hospital I began formulating a vague plan for August. Last summer I flexed my contactless card and visited, by bus, all the bits of my London borough I’ve never seen before. They weren’t all fantastic (one was, as it turns out, mostly an industrial estate), but I managed to get a meal in each one, and at least I could say I had done it.

Pale blue roundel with navy bar across the centre. The letters "DLR" are superimposed in bold white text. — I’ve always liked this colour scheme…

This year, with a freedom pass in my possession, I had more liberty to travel around London. I had one more place in my borough (well, the neighbouring one, but close enough) that I could find a way to. I wanted to go back to W1 and walk around seeing what’s changed since I last worked there. One thing I particularly wanted to do was to visit every station on the DLR network, taking a picture of every roundel to prove that I’d done it.

It’s not even like the opportunity wasn’t there. For the first two weeks of August I had basically nothing to do. I was just kicking around doing very little and, had I thought about it even once, I could have done at least one of these things. Fair enough, I did spend a week in Amsterdam recently – which was something I had planned to do – but it’s not really the same.

The whole idea behind my mini-sojourns is their random nature. I will have a vague idea about where I’m going and a route to get there, and then I’ll just go. Last year I timed every one to coincide with lunch, so I could go to whichever café I saw first and engender the feeling of “having spent some time elsewhere”. I did, however, have nothing else by way of a plan.

Now that I have one week of August left it’s beginning to dawn on me that this won’t be happening. I can go to the place I mentioned by a relatively convoluted route, provided all the services are running, but doing the whole DLR is out of the question. With the resources and energy I have at my disposal I’ll be lucky to manage the Waterloo and City line.

I also have very little money right now, due to nasty surprises that happened in Amsterdam, so maybe spending time on Oxford Street isn’t the best of ideas, especially seeing how there’s a branch of Waterstone’s and an HMV. The place I used to work at is now a McDonald’s, even, so it’s not like the nostalgia factor is there at all. The more I think about it, the more reasons there are to not do any of this stuff. It might be more rewarding to stay on the sofa playing The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past.

Not to mention the fact that doing anything of the sort requires getting up before midday. I’ve had problems doing that recently.*

Something in me says that the fact I care enough to write about this is an indication of something. It’s not entirely an unforgivable sin to be a little sedentary when one has a degenerative neuromuscular condition and had a heart attack less than two months ago. But I still want to be, at least for a short while, outside – I never really wanted to be in London as a youth; now I can appreciate it, as an adult, I’m finding it difficult to even take my first step.

I am going to have to force myself.

So here I go.

*since the age of about 12 or thereabouts

Bragging on a blog

August 19, 2024 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

Think about it: when, in your life, did you first know that someone in your peer group had had sex? Did they brag about it?

There’s usually at least one, although from what I hear it varies according to where you grew up and who your peer group actually was. Most people I’ve talked to seem to concur on a few basic facts, though: it happens during your teens; it may or may not be before the age of consent; it may or may not have been a “good” experience.

In two of the people I’ve talked to, they were that person.

Shocked though my classmates had been to find out that I’d had sex at 17, I was far from being that person – two of the boys in my little group had already done so at 16 and neither of them had enjoyed it – but I was certainly one of the first. To my relief, I didn’t get too many questions (beyond “what does cunnilingus taste like?”. I’ve never been able to answer that one.), but then again

It’s gross to think about your friends doing it. Difficult to visualise. At least with porn it’s actors having sex. It’s less appealing when it’s a mate.
my friend-who-is-a-nurse

not that I had much choice to begin with.

The word “juicy” still makes me cringe

Outside of people at school and in Woodcraft, there was another group of friends I’d talk to. I rarely, if ever, met too many of them, but they lived locally and were readily accessible via ICQ. My first experience with someone having sex was one of them.

To this day I’m not sure if he had full-on PIV, but his girlfriend certainly existed (her face was triangular, according to our mutual friend), and to all intents and purposes all the other things they had been doing was nothing short of an open secret. He was certainly very explicit about what the other things were, and none of us had any reason to doubt him.

“I don’t know if he’s like this at school,” I confessed to our mutual friend, “but online he’s been sort of…”
“Bragging?”
“Yes. Bragging. About, well…”
“Bragging. You don’t need to say anything more. He does that at school. Bragging. All the time. It’s quite gross, actually.”

It’s not nice to boast, although we’ve all done it at some point. Even if you say something like “I won a University of Cambridge competition that I don’t remember entering by writing a paragraph I didn’t save” in the most blasé, nonchalant voice you can muster, it’s still the most humble of brags. But we are advised not to do so from our youth. Arrogance, we are told, is rude.

For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.
Matthew 23:12

I’ve always found it difficult to express any self-confidence, because I don’t really have any, and I don’t want to appear brash or boorish or full of braggadocio. Living through Mister “I’ve-had-blowjobs”‘ almost constant crowing three years prior had given me a good example of what not to do when I started having regular sex.

Ending screen from "Indiana Jones and his Desktop Adventures" for the PC. — This is the sort of thing you can brag about.

I slipped up, of course, but then who doesn’t? Lightsinthesky, who by that point was also having sex, would definitely push it a bit, but between us our sexual conversations were basic and genial – a “what’s your favourite position?” here and “have you tried this?” there, but not competitive in any particular way.

And this is how people should be talking about sex.

Lots of people have sex, or at least some sort of sexual expression. Even if you are asexual, you can still express your (a)sexuality by identifying as such. But there still appears to be a societal barrier; sex is, still, a taboo subject. People will mention it in hushed tones, do so through blushes, or go the other way and become an insufferable braggard. It really doesn’t have to be that way at all, and no other topic has such a black mark on it.

You can be as pleased as you like because you got the English Prize in years 11 and 13, but you’re not allowed to be because you’ve had sex.

There’s a problem there.

I’ve just spent a week in a country which has a much better sex education system, where sex workers are visible in windows at all hours and there are three museums dedicated to the subject. Teen pregnancy there is below 1% and, although I wouldn’t say it’s OUT THERE AT ALL TIMES, sex there is more of a part of life. I’d find it difficult to envision someone from there being anything but cheery about sex worth celebrating.

And that’s my main point, I guess. Sex can very well be something worth celebrating. It’s time we started doing that, rather than using it as an excuse to act like an insidious blackguard.

Dichotomy

July 31, 2024 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

Today is National Orgasm Day (thanks Clara) and it’s the final day of Disability Pride Month (thanks Hux), so this provides me with the ideal opportunity to write about this. Then I guess I’ll have an orgasm.

Since being diagnosed with DM back in June 2021, I’ve most definitely started “feeling” my disability. Even if I hadn’t been diagnosed – and I was by accident, I was in hospital for something completely different – I probably still would have done, but put it down to being old. (Says the 39-year-old with the word “boy” in his handle.) Whether I’m at work, or resting at home, or even out in town, I’m aware of my dyspraxia, my heavy breathing and my waddling gait. I drop things, I shoulder doors open rather than using my hands, I fumble when digging around in my pockets for my freedom pass, and I scream every morning when my shoulder wakes up a few minutes after I do.

I try my hardest not to complain, though; a lot of people have it worse than I do. My mother’s disability makes her shake uncontrollably and my friend’s killed him. Mine is annoying, and restricting, and more often than not painful, but it doesn’t stop me doing anything. It slows me down a bit, but it’s never quite stopped me. I can work, I can write, I can game, I can read, I can… actually, that’s all I do, really.

And I can orgasm.

Even with occasional forays into the fringes of the same, I haven’t had PIV sex for about a decade now but I will admit to being wary of doing so if the opportunity presents itself. Having put on weight may be one thing, but losing my muscle strength? How can I finger their nipples while licking them out if all my left hand can do is flop around like a fish? How do I roll around in bed without yelling in pain? If I penetrate them, how do I thrust, considering the fact that putting socks on is a challenge for me now?

Oh, and forget 69. That’s out too. There’s no way I’m that supple.

Even though the recent summer heat is a reminder that I won’t be railing anyone in a sundress, I can still orgasm. In fact, since the age of 18 my orgasms have never really changed. The method I use to induce them is almost exactly the same, down to the same audiovisual stimulus; the amount I produce (although it varies) is the same; the time it takes is the same. I could even point out to you the places my spaff hits if you ask.

In such extraordinary times, and through everything that’s happened both good and bad, orgasms have been one of my very few constants. They are available and healthy and recreational and free, and I’m very grateful for them. As long as my penis and my hand still work, give me a while and a place to sit (or lie, or stand if I’m feeling risky…) and I’m good.

Yes, it’s messy. Yes, it’s awkward. Yes, cleanup is difficult. But it’s good. My body is failing, but this bit of it works. Frankly, it’s the best bit to work.

I may feel the worst I ever have, but I can make myself feel the best. That’a a dichotomy I can very much live with.

Sofa, so good

July 25, 2024 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

I didn’t know who J.D. Vance was until this morning, and now I almost wish I still didn’t.

Note the “almost”. I’m dismayed, but not surprised, that there are people that abhorrent still seeking office in 2024. What I am surprised by is how many people are taking about how JDV didn’t have sex with a sofa. I mean, of course he has. Look at his face and then tell me that man has never been caught in flagrante delicto with his nan’s favourite settee. It’s impossible to deny. I notice he hasn’t openly done so, which means he has something to hide.

Back in my late teens I used to get horny while watching Robot Wars. This wasn’t really a deliberate thing, nor am I particularly turned on by chrome; I just did once and it put the idea into my brain somehow. I’d go to Woodcraft just after Robot Wars finished, and since my main activity after Woodcraft was going home and crying, that was my Horny Time. I may have missed a bit of metal carnage now and then, but I was happy with that.

I’m not going to say the couch in the living room took the brunt of my horniness, but then I can’t say it didn’t play its part.

To my credit, though, unlike JDV I didn’t actually fuck the sofa. I’d have had to take my trousers off, and although in the end I always did, this usually happened after the show had finished… and often in my bedroom (where there wasn’t a piece of household furnishings to shag), or the bathroom. Back in these halcyon days, of course, I didn’t masturbate to orgasm, so I wouldn’t have left a stain…

…but I digress.

The invisible, intangible and completely fictional person my teenage self would have sex with – before Karolina, but after the “My Girl” I fantasised about at 14… I should write about her as well, at some point – could manifest in pretty much any room of the house, but it was easier to conjure her up in the lounge than anywhere else. Occasionally, of course, this would happen in my bedroom (what I charmingly referred to in my head as “sex fests” taking place on my bed, occasionally with the devil fellah). Sometimes the bathroom would be a better place to do it.

But it was easier, especially since I didn’t have to move that much, to just dry-hump the Chesterfield, using the pillows for support. Job done. I did, of course, run the risk of breaking it – it wasn’t the strongest in the world – but years later and I was having sex on it with the Seamstress, so it clearly survived that long.

So, although I wouldn’t say I had sex with my sofa, like JDV clearly has, I had sex on it, at least once with someone who wasn’t there; I may well have fucked my sofa, as a result: I was a seriously weird kid and did all sorts of odd things. This would just be one more thing to add to the list.

Won’t be doing anything on – or to – our new, inherited sofa, though. It may well be called a love seat… but that’s a compound noun… not an instruction!

Heart and Soul

July 16, 2024 / Innocent Loverboy / 1 Comment

It was only on my second night in the holding bay that I realised the chair I’d been sitting on could recline. One week earlier, when I’d been put in a chair, I’d assumed I’d be able to sleep in it. Sleep wasn’t something I did. The second time, I accidentally nudged a switch with my foot which turned the chair into a bed.

I still didn’t have an actual bed, but as I rationalised, the week beforehand I had been in a chair for about twelve hours before they found me a ward, and even longer before they found me a bed. This would be the same deal, I told myself, only this time I’d be in a more specialised ward than the AMU, and they wouldn’t move me until they found a bed.

Eighteen hours later I was sitting in another, less comfortable chair in the AMU waiting for a bed. They did, to their credit, find me a side room. I had a chair and a bed and a TV that didn’t work, plus an en-suite which I found very difficult to use. I wasn’t really expecting to spend another two weeks there, exactly. That’s just what… happened.

A week beforehand I’d been told I had possibly had a heart attack. Whatever the cause of the myopericarditis, it was incredibly painful. Morphine had helped me zone out and, during the interminably long bits of no sleep, I had found a way to watch The Producers on my ‘phone. Robinson turned up a couple of times, as did people from work. My parents made the occasional cameo. Apart from that, I had been left alone around the clock.

Gastro catastro

My second week was characterised by constant attempts at water retention while waiting for something more concrete. I wasn’t even aware there was going to be anything else once my gastrointestinal system had evened out. The swelling around my heart hadn’t quite gone, but that was now a secondary concern. It seemed as if they didn’t want to let me go at all, and although I did get half an hour’s grace period to vote, I did feel somewhat like I was waiting for something that didn’t exist.

My sister and cousin had both visited before gallstones were mentioned. Apparently, I have had them for some time and the sharp pains that I haven’t been having (seriously, I haven’t) have been coming from the gall bladder, which I will now be having removed. They decided to do that, but then didn’t. I was packed and ready to go when I was told that I would still be there for four more days in order to have another MRI.

47 booked a ‘plane ticket towards the end of my third week.

I was discharged for the third and final time on Friday. Neither wife nor bestie were home when I got here. I had the first orgasm in three weeks and it went EVERYWHERE. The following morning I sat quietly with the two people I love most in the world.

I love the NHS

I spent three weeks in hospital with mycarditis, pericarditis, chest and back and abdominal pain, sleep loss, fluid loss, COVID-19, D&V, gastroenteritis, gallstones and a chest infection. I got three meals a day, two offers of morning tea and biscuits, free showers with all the equipment, and even clothes, if the ones I came in had worn out.

Next week I am going to spend a night in UCH having my sleep monitored; two days later I am back in the clinic talking to doctors about how to go forward.

I didn’t pay a penny for any of this. I never will. I got a sick note from my GP – didn’t pay. Had to reschedule my biannual consultation with my neurologist – didn’t pay. They even offered to run me home in an ambulance if I didn’t have my own transport (but I did). I wouldn’t have paid for that.

Yes, I was bored. Yes, I was in a lot of pain. Yes, I got basically no sleep. Yes, I was in a chair for two days. Yes, I was in for a lot longer than I was meant to be.

But I was being taken care of and nobody asked why. They just did it, because that’s what they do.

And that’s why the NHS works.

It’s fun to share, it’s fun to share

June 8, 2024 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

“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

May 28, 2024 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

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 first 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

May 9, 2024 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

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

April 28, 2024 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

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.