Category: Personal (Page 5 of 14)

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.

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.

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…

I like to think that, in many ways, I am a fairly certain ILB. Not staid or unadventurous, entirely… but I know what I like and I prefer to stick with it. There are no nasty surprises if you choose the path with nothing to fear.

I know what I like. My favourite food is the cheese toastie; my favourite drink, cloudy lemonade. My favourite book is Lord of the Flies; film, it’s Spirited Away; television series, Knightmare. Still, my favourite band is James; comedian, Dave Gorman; actor, probably still my dad. I even have a favourite teacher, back from when I was still at school.

Sexually, I would probably say the same. I know what I like. My favourite genre of porn is softcore. My favourite sexual act is cunnilingus; position, missionary. I’m attracted to female-identified people and enbies, but men do very little for me. My favourite place to have sex is in a hotel room; time, at some point after nine. My favourite place to masturbate is in my computer chair; scene, this one. I even have a favourite hardcore actress, Leana Lovings, even though I’m not a big fan of hardcore.

I like my glasses and my hands and, to a certain extent, my UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS. I don’t like the ‘mo, or soul patch, that I’ve grown for Movember, but I’ll post them here anyway.

Yes, I know what I like, and I’d like to think that, as a result, I am not easily swayed by peer pressure. Or influenced by what I’ve seen around me. Specifically, if I’ve read something that has had an impact on me, I don’t think I’d be moved too far from the fairly established person that I am today.

So why did I have a dream last night in which I attended a sex party, talked my way in for free, picked up a random blonde, went into a private room and ended up sleeping with her play partner while David Gandy stood at the side giving tips?

Anyone?

I mean, I know what I like, but as for my brain?

On that I’m not certain.

“So there’s your bag,” said my dad, hitching it usefully over my shoulder. “And your stick’s in the back of the car. Are those new shoes?”
“New shoes? No,” I replied, truthfully. “I’ve had these for a few months.”

My mother bustled over to check if I was still alive, or something.

“One more thing,” she added, doing a very good impression or someone who has just had an afterthought. In actuality, she had been wanting to ask this for a while, but had never quite managed it. (I think she must have been mustering a fair amount of courage to do so.) “Have you ever had… this before?”

What? New shoes, even though they aren’t new? The cardigan she didn’t know I had, despite having bought it for me? I was genuinely surprised she hadn’t asked about my coat.

“Like, this? A moustache without any beard? Have you ever had this before?”

I have, in fact, had this before, and I do so practically every year.

“Yes. I do so every November.”
“You’re doing Movember this year?”
“I do Movember every year…?”
“It’s a strong look,” said my dad.

He says this a lot, usually about hairstyles I don’t like. He’s been trying to get me to grow a full moustache and beard and get my head shaved for a few years now. He says it’s a strong look. I don’t particularly want to look strong.

“You should keep it,” said my mother. “It’s a good look for you.”
“No it isn’t,” I answered (also truthfully; it looks ridiculous). “I look like a ’70s porn star.”

Both parents laughed at this, which – considering the amount of time they spend trying to pretend porn doesn’t exist – was both gratifying and surprising. Feeling that I couldn’t quite top that, I turned to leave, before my mother stopped me in the hall.

“One more thing,” she added (again).

No, I haven’t considered how to make porn when your rapidly degenerating body is making it difficult to do something as simple as put on a coat. And the stick, that’d get in the way.

“Yes?” I ventured, trepidatiously.

“Are those new shoes?”

“They’re not bad as beds go,” said Toby, “but they’re not fantastic. I suppose they are resilient enough.”
“I find that they’re quite a good bed for having sex on,” I said to general amazement.

In reality, though, I was stretching the truth a little.

I wasn’t lying. I had had sex on the bed in my tiny room in university hall. Admittedly, I was probably the person in my flat who had done so the least, considering the girl at the end with the steady boyfriend, the one who everyone fancied in room 5, or the guy in room 2 who brought home a different girl every night. But I’d still done it… once.

Looking back on it now, it may well have been the last time I had sex with her. Our relationship ended a few weeks later, and for the times we met before that, her interest in sex (or at least in sex with me) appeared to have waned. But this time on my university bed was different. She most definitely wanted to have sex with me.

And we did. Ten minutes after getting into my room. Clothes covering what little floor space there was available, door firmly locked to avoid any unwelcome visitors, the single duvet pushed to one side, and her on her back, legs wrapped around my hips as I worked them like a piston. Uninhibited by the constraints of having to not wake up parents, or for fear of ruining another mattress. We could do what we liked, how much we liked, and make as much noise as we liked.

She cried out as her orgasm rumbled through her body. I collapsed on top of her and we lay there for a while, my rock-hard penis buried deep within her, no longer moving but listening to each other breathing. Her breasts were pressed against my chest, covered in sweat. That much I remember.

“That was wonderful,” she murmured as I pulled out of her. “It’s been too long.”
“Too long,” I agreed.
“But you didn’t come, though, did you?”
“I didn’t,” I admitted. “But I don’t need to for us to enjoy sex. You came.”
“I did. But if you need to come, the door is always open. I mean, my legs. My legs are always open.”

So, you see, I did have sex on that bed and it did work. Incredibly well, in fact, given the circumstances. But she never did visit me again on campus, and therefore I never had any more sex on that bed. I had sex, a few times, in Africa later on, but that wasn’t really on the bed.

It did kickstart a several-year dry spell, but hey ho…

Dear [Company / Website / Representative],

Thank you for [reaching out / e-mailing / e-mailing again / all your e-mails]. I have read your communication [with interest], and [considered your proposal / understand your request].

I am aware of [your product / website / service / production], and I notice that you have also contacted some other sex bloggers on the subject, including my friends [blogger 1] and [blogger 2].

As per [our previous correspondence / my about page], I’m sorry to [continue to] inform you that I do not do commercial activities on my site, including:
– sponsored posts
– affiliate links
– hosting guest posts
– writing posts on my blog for money

There is a button on my sidebar reading “ad-free blog”, which should give you some idea of my non-commercial ethos. [Since you’re e-mailing me, you clearly haven’t read my blog, or you’d have noticed it.]

If you are genuinely [desperate to / interested in] work/ing with me, I will do the following:
– sex toy or product reviews, honest ones, without pay
– writing elsewhere, about something I genuinely know, for money
– talk to external publications

As you will know from my [blog / posts / about page (which you haven’t read)], I am not [kinky / in a D/s relationship / a swinger / polyamorous / LGBTQ+ / a well-versed BDSM practitioner / in porn], so I am [confused / amused / irritated] as to why you are contacting me to [write about / post your content about] the subject.

Seriously, though, thanks for thinking about me, [company name]. It’s possible you have sent me an e-mail on the off-chance that I have had a complete volte-face and started hosting all sorts of ads on my blog, which I have continuously said before I feel devalues the medium. It may be more worth your time to contact some other bloggers who don’t openly state that their blog[s] [is / are] ad-free.

However, since you used the CC: rather than BCC: field in your e-mail, I don’t need to guess. It’s clear who you’re contacting.

Yours, with a love that shines like a thousand splendid suns,
– ILB x