Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Category: Random… Truly Random (Page 1 of 4)

….I honestly have no idea

Revelations: IILLBB

Two similar-looking faces representing ILBs 1 and 2.

ILB wakes up in bed with ILB. Briefly, they look at each other, an uneasy grin unfurling on each face. Neither of them know what they have done, or how long for.

“Time to start my day,” says ILB-1. “Want some coffee? I’ll go downstairs to get it.”
“No need,” says ILB-2. “The kitchen’s on this level.”
Mahar!” calls ILB-1’s dad. “I’m making tea; do you want any?”
“Thanks,” chorus both ILBs at the same time.

ILB and ILB take their seats at the computer. It’s time to write their blog post, which is a simple routine: ILB-1 opens Blogger, gets a compose window open and copy-pastes the HTML in first before writing. He had an idea in his head last night and this is a way to get it down. ILB-2 opens his self-hosted WordPress compose window. He doesn’t have any ideas; he’ll probably write any old shit and hope it works.

ILB-1 will be going to host a session at Eroticon about how not to do that.

Both ILBs click the publish button at the same time and cross-post to social media: ILB-1 to Twitter; ILB-2 to 𝕏 and Mastodon and Bluesky. Immediately after this they both open their blogrolls, one blog at a time via multiple tabs. ILB-1 is still impressed that Mozilla Firefox will do this. ILB-2 would have been upset if Google Chrome didn’t.

ILB-1 reads through a succession of very sexy blogs by very sexy people. The first ones he opens are by Blacksilk and Lady Pandorah. Each of them has written something new and he devours every word. He also checks on Lace Stockings and Silverarcheress. LucyBoots may have some new porn she likes. Bitchy Jones is still hitting people with stuff. Leah is busily laying London.

He finishes by reading the blog belonging to the girl he has a crush on. He knows where she is and how best to get there, but it’s only a dream, he tells himself. He’s never going to get to have sex with her.

ILB-2 spools through a succession of very sexy blogs by very sexy people. He opens each of them in alphabetical order and checks quickly. Most of them haven’t been updated in a while and he clicks off the page impatiently. GOTN, Emma and Robyn usually come through with something new. He still considers himself part of something, but he isn’t entirely sure what that something is.

ILB-1 talks about how connected he feels. ILB-2 fears that he is becoming increasingly alienated. Put together, these average out to numb. That’s a very good way to describe the life of an ILB.

ILB-1 reaches over to ILB-2 and takes his hand.

“Don’t forget what I’ve done,” he says softly. “However long this lasts… however long we last… nothing is not worthwhile. Years down the line, you will always remember this. And I’m sure there’s more to come for me, as well.”
ILB-2 nods mutely. “There is,” he whispers, almost conspiratorially. “It’s not all good, but the good stuff is very, very good indeed…”

They look at each other for a while, heart to heart but ten miles apart.

Later in the day they both get 40 minutes to themselves and decide to wank. They both have the same method, wrapping one finger and thumb around their shaft and rubbing the foreskin back and forth with their right hand. The left hand operates the computer, pulling up whichever scene of soft porn they can think of at the time.

They both orgasm at the same time to the same scene.

And connect.

Cock Beat

Am I awake?

I’m still not sure. I wrench my eyes open with almost Herculean effort. Yes, I’m awake… but barely.

I’m still in the training room. The tutor is still talking. I’ve been drinking in every word he’s been saying, or at least I had been before I drifted away. I don’t notice what the other trainees in my group are doing; I’m paying too much attention to trying to keep myself…

awake! Wake up! Damn it! Stay awake, ILB. Last the course; you’ve only got an hour or so to go before






Fuck! Shut up, body!

I have been hurting for a few days now. I had a Thai massage in Manchester; that evening, I fell down in my hotel room and pulled something. Or jarred it. Or tore it. I don’t know. Strained, sprained, yanked, ripped? Hippopotamus? No idea. Whatever happened, and I haven’t had time to go to the doctor yet (so I can’t check), I can no longer lie on my left shoulder, or turn my neck to the right, without screaming in pain.

The throb starts in my penis, though, so the beat of pain that comes from my shoulder is a secondary concern.

Another beat.

Why am I hard, anyway? There’s nothing remotely sexy here. I haven’t even been particularly horny for these past few days. Okay, maybe I get my most discomfiting erections when I need to stretch. Or when I’m having a nap.

Another beat.

Maybe I was asleep, if only for a little while. That might explain it.

My shoulder squeaks a bit and I jump a bit in my seat. Nobody notices. Or, at least. I hope nobody notices. Okay, take a deep breath. Breathe, ILB. Deeper. Deeper. Wait…

One more throb. One more burst of pain. This time I almost make a sound.

Fuck, my shoulder pain is reacting to my cock beat. It’s a call-and-response, isn’t it? Cock beat; shoulder pain. Cock beat; shoulder pain. It’s a rhythm, it’s a fucking rhythm, it’s a…

Another beat.

Another beat.

Oh, it’s a tea break. That’s nice. I can get some coffee and





and if I get some coffee, I will be okay. I can get some coffee, so that will help me wake up. Caffeine blocks adenosine, so it can help me concentr…




Cock beat. Shoulder pang.



It is an undeniable truth that, in this state of perpetual unease we call adulthood, sometimes it all gets too much. We’re not even sure what it is, although if we gesture vaguely at everything, everyone understands what we mean, right? Sometimes it seems that the correct thing to do is bear down and get on with… whatever this is; others, it’s more prudent to give up and spend a while in the sweet embrace of nervous collapse.

Here’s what’s been happening to me.

The first couple of months of this year were overshadowed by the death of one of my best friends. Whereas that brought my friendship group back together in a way that hasn’t been seen since my stag (albeit I still have yet to tell Kiera), it categorically wasn’t a good thing. I also spent a large amount of February making music. In March I had my birthday; I’ve seen James; I’ve seen Operation Mincemeat (for the second time).

I have battled my way through more medical appointments than I would care to factor in. I’ve been to Eroticon (again), seen things I never would have before, and wept my way through The Super Mario Bros. Movie (and, as of the other day, Barbie). Keen to show them bits of the country, I’ve taken my wife to Bath and Birmingham. Manchester in a couple of weeks… and that will be our first anniversary, which puts everything into context.

I’ve been ill… very ill, at points.

Last month I got a promotion at work. I put a lot of effort into the application process and then had a massive crisis when told that they would have to move me if I accepted. I turned it down, until a week later when I was told that they could both promote me and keep me where I am now. (If memory serves, I stopped crying at that point.) My paranoia tells me that this was out of fear for what I could do as the union representative for our workplace, but I was grateful for all of it, in the end.

Social media has been an interesting place over the past few months, as well. I am perhaps the least doomy among the people I know concerning the future of Twitter 𝕏 Twitter, but I understand these concerns.

I’ve barely had time to breathe for six months. It’s a luxury that I haven’t really allowed myself. Lazing around on days off isn’t a treat; it’s a necessity. I set myself a target, early this year, to be kinder to myself, but I don’t really know what that looks like, either…

…and so we come to the collapse.

Because this is the first day in a long while on which I genuinely have to do nothing at all.

I mean, I’m sure I will. I’m writing a blog post right now. There’s some fiction I want to write. Music I want to listen to. I haven’t even touched my Nintendo Switch for weeks. Perhaps, over the coming days, I can go into London, or tour around the places I keep meaning to. I might even be able to meet up with some blogging folk (seriously, hit me up, otherwise I won’t actually do this!).

But I don’t need to do anything.

And so the first half of the year comes shooting out of me in a spiral of colour and sound and, itself, collapses into an infinitely dense dot. Here’s my visual representation thereof:


Obi-Wan Kenobi on Kamino in Attack of the Clones (2002).

So where do I put it all, this owl pellet of emotion? Do I swallow it like a pill, or wank frantically until it shoots out of the end of my dick? Bat it out of the window and hope it blows away in one of the storms of Kamino?

There’s really only one place for it to go, though, isn’t there?

I don’t know if you read,
But if anyone’s caring:
My body has needs,
And my blog is for sharing.


Every time I come back from Eroticon, I find myself wondering the same thing for about a week or two afterwards.

I will have just spent the better part of two and a half days surrounded by openly sexual, body-positive people there with the collective goal of sexual freedom and openness of sexual expression. Typically, there will be no-holds-barred talks in which people use words like “cunt” liberally and nobody gives a f… a drat. By the end of the event, we’ll all be worn out, brimming with new ideas and usually a little horny.

How many of us have had sex since the event iself?

I haven’t, of course, but then I don’t. This isn’t really about me, though; it’s about you. Did I hug you at ‘con, or high-five you, or kiss you on the cheek? Did we share pleasantries, stories or a fist bump? Was there mutual recognition or re-connecting, or was there a new connection we shared? Then you were part of my weekend.

And since then, have you had sex?

I wonder.

How was it? Was it uncontrollable – a lustful fountain of fuck, so much pent-up energy being built up and let loose? Or was it careful – slow, deep, firm, and calculated? Maybe even planned? Perhaps the sex you had lasted hours, with plenty of foreplay and aftercare bookending the experience. It could have been the other way around: a random, unexpected shag on the sofa that hadn’t even been on your mind before it actually took place?

Or maybe you haven’t had sex with anyone else, but have done with yourself, concentrating on whatever best serves you with your fingers wrapped around your pulsing cock or thrumming your buzzing clit like a bass guitar?

Part of me wants to know. Part of me doesn’t. And then there’s the little voice in the back of my head telling me, it doesn’t matter, it’s not your place to know.

But still I wonder.

Because now I’ve met you, and I really want to know.

Dream Hero! Activate!

I had a really weird dream last night. On account of the fact that telling other people your dream is usually quite dull (although I do so), I’m going to try to make this at the very least a little entertaining for you.

The story took place a couple of years ago when I was still working in my previous job. I had an evening shift which consisted of a two-hour training session from 8pm to 10pm (I know; this never happened, although I did occasionally finish at 10!). I decided to take the scenic route and hiked down Hadrian’s Wall (or something similar), avoiding the gang of hoodlums throwing stones through battlement windows.

A white tortoiseshell cat sitting on a bed looking at the camera.
My kitten. Hi, Willow. I miss you.

Since the barrage of stones was getting heavier, I decided to circumvent getting hit by taking a detour through the small village from Hot Fuzz. On the village green was a small, bedraggled kitten, on whom I took pity. Other members of the local community (including my wife) located and brought me other kittens, who we put into a little pile on the middle of the green.

At some point a little gaggle of fluffy ducklings came along without a mother and sat among the kittens.

I did the sensible thing, pulling my ‘phone out of hammerspace and calling the RSPCA. Of course my ‘phone never works in my dreams, and Googling “RSPCA animal rescue” took me about fifteen attempts. I gave up several times to search and locate more kittens, but eventually I called them. Then the police appeared out of nowhere and I decided to hide under some stadium seating. There was, also, a very large bomb there. I didn’t really consider this a problem.

The police found me and started trying to interrogate me; they were waylaid by the gang of hoodlums from the beginning, who had started throwing stones at them. They suspected me. I protested, pointed out who it was, and then decided to tell them about the bomb.

It then went off, at which point they decided to believe me.

I made it back to the village green just in time to get to work. An RSPCA van was there, manned by two guys I went to secondary school with (including the one who I worked with recently who mysteriously vanished in October). Since all the stricken animals had gone, and the two guys were loading up the ostrich (because of course there was an ostrich), I assumed they had taken the kittens and ducklings into their care.

With everyone gone, the animals safe, and my wife deciding to return home, I finally made it to work.


If anyone can explain why I had an orgasm in my sleep at this point of my dream, I’d be very grateful.


I’d just like to make an announcement:
This building is on fire!

Tim Booth, 1983

I got to my room before anyone else. My ‘phone, vibrating in my pocket, told me that one of my colleagues was out of action with a stomach bug; my immediate superior wasn’t in yet. Vaguely wondering if she was sick too, I sat down at a desk and began to busy myself.

The fire alarm went off.

Sigh. Out I went into the corridor. Nobody was there, but then I didn’t see anyone in the assembly point, either. Rationalising that if this was a real fire, it wouldn’t be safe, I made my way down the stairs. I was halfway down when the alarm stopped.

A building on fire, although unconvincingly, with alarm
The aforementioned cataclysm from Thirteen Erotic Ghosts. Devastating.

“It can’t be a real fire,” I said aloud to the unoccupied staircase, adding “like that one at the beginning of Thirteen Erotic Ghosts…” in an undertone. Confident that I was safe and struggling to remember any more of the plot of Thirteen Erotic Ghosts, I stomped back up the staircase to my room, this time passing by a cool, unconcerned-looking colleague.

I hadn’t sat down yet when the fire alarm went off again.

This wasn’t the first time this has happened. In fact, the day beforehand, and the day before that, we had all stood outside in the mizzling rain listening to our boss talk about how opening certain doors tripped the alarm. Who had done it? Staff? Client? It didn’t really matter, though; there wasn’t a real fire. Making a mental note to not open any doors again, ever, I stood there dithering for a few seconds before grabbing my lunch and the Super Mario cup I got in Sweden and making my way back out.

I didn’t stop walking when the bell stopped ringing this time, since I was halfway to the break room and had half a mind to make some morning coffee while putting my lunch in the ‘fridge. As I passed his office, I spotted our CEO Paul sitting back down, evidently having been caught out by the alarm as I had been.

Paul, like Paul Michael Robinson. Paul Michael Robinson, who plays Haffron in Emmanuelle. Grinning internally at what reaction Haffron might have to a fire alarm sound, I made my way into the break room to find, for the first time that morning, more than one colleague standing together.

The fire alarm went off again and nobody said or did anything about it.

I got my coffee and walked back to my room past a door through which grey smoke was issuing.

The word smoke slotted into my brain a little too late, and I half walked, half flew back to the room, wrenching the door open.

“Hey, close the door!” said my colleague in the kitchen. “I had a bit of an accident making the toast, but that’s okay. I threw away the burned bits. The toast’s ready now.”
“Theo, your toast is ready,” I said before I could stop myself. My colleague threw me a half-amused smirk, with which I thought it best to excuse myself.

My immediate superior was in my room when I got back.

“Ah! You’re here!”
“Yes! Have you been here for a while?”
“I have. The fire alarm went off a few times. I was enjoying the quiet and privacy, but that’s not to be.”
“You can have privacy in my room.”

I make connections far too easily.

Come (together)

Are you okay?
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“You don’t sound okay.”

I struggled to get myself into a better position to talk. These days I almost always tend to hit the speakerphone button to have my conversations, as I’m less and less able to hold things to my ear with these arms.

“I’m okay. Really. I’m just having a lie down. Tired, so very tired.”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, me too. I’m sorry to interrupt you.”
“You didn’t interrupt me doing anything. I was just lying down.”
“Well, I’m sorry to interrupt you lying down!”

I sat up to try and pull the duvet over myself. The duvet fell, with a soft flump, onto the floor instead. Not a great success.

“It’s probably a good thing you didn’t call fifteen minutes ago. Because at that point, you see, I was still cleaning up after the huge orgasm I had. I’ve been exhausted all day, as you know, and on the way home, I bypassed ‘about to crash’ in favour of ‘really need to come’. First thing I did after I got home was to have a long, stress-relieving, horny wank.”

Except I didn’t say that.

“In fact, I was still cleaning up five minutes ago. I’ve been needing to come for a few days, but wasn’t able to do so. I came very hard, and I was still finding jizz in various curves and contours of my body for quite a while afterwards. There’s probably still more in places I didn’t even know I had. It’ll dry off if I lie here for a while.”

Except I didn’t say that either.

I’m saying it here, though.

Toilet Cheat

A terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad thing has happened and I can no longer masturbate on the toilet.

Wait, come back! This post’s more interesting than that, I promise!

My very favourite place to wank is in my computer chair – it’s how I’ve always done it; the familiarity is helpful – but, as has happened in many circumstances, I find myself horny and unable to do anything about it where I am, so I go to the bathroom and masturbate there. Since the only available seat is the toilet, that seems the most viable option, right?

I’m not even sure if I can wank in the shower any more. I don’t really wish to try. I like orgasms, but there’s a limit!

Pleasuring myself on the loo is a skill all to itself. I’ll need to be in a comfortable enough position to wrap my finger and thumb around my shaft; balance is important so I don’t break the seat (or fall off; that’s happened a few times as well…); I need to be aware of my surroundings, where the tissue is, and if anyone else needs to use the facilities as well.

It also takes me a lot longer to come if I’m not in front of my computer. My imagination may well be fertile, but it’s a completely different experience without porn.

And then I also need to recline. The traditional image of a cis man hunched over like a kind of sexual Quasimodo is not at all how I masturbate. I like to have my back supported, so I can lean back a little, which gives me more space to work with and a larger surface area around my dick.


My computer chair affords me this luxury. The toilet, alas, does not.

We have recently had a new toilet installed, after the old one decided that functioning properly was not within its remit. While I am very grateful for the whole “things work as they are meant to” concept, with it came a new seat, and therein lies the difficulty: whereas the seat itself is comfortable, the lid has hard rimmed edges (as opposed to being largely flat). If I recline, I jab myself in the back.

If I recline any further, I develop a painful ring-shaped indentation right in the middle of my back.

It’s very difficult to wank, I find, when you are suffering incredible physical pain.

So I can no longer masturbate on the toilet. As a result, this is severely cutting down the number of times I can, really, masturbate.

Which means that my orgasm today – my first in about a week and a half – was nothing short of comparable to a supernova.

Which was nice.


In 2008 I went to university, for the second time, in order to do a course which involved a lot of science. I’m not really a scientist at all – more of an artist, if anything – and, although I liked my friends doing said course, I didn’t really enjoy myself. I stuck it out long enough to get the degree, though.

At the end of the first week I found myself in a crowded lecture hall full of people as confused as I. I wanted my girlfriend, I wanted my bed, and after a week which was just a succession of “don’t”s, I wanted an actual lecture. The afternoon beforehand had consisted almost entirely of a talk about how badly we could fail, which one of my coursemates summarised: “well, she sure told us.”

Folders were handed out. On my left was a tall, pretty, and incredibly thin girl who I didn’t know yet. She seemed friendly, and smiled a lot, so we got talking. We also seemed to be quite similar, insofar as we both raised our hands when the lecturer out front asked who cried easily. (I was the only boy to raise my hand. None of the other boys on the course were particularly macho, but still…)

I didn’t clock quite how similar we were until much later.

For the next month or so, I found myself to be avoiding her. To this day, I’m not entirely sure why – we had vibed quite well in that first lecture. As I told my mother at one point:

She’s tall and thin, and she’s very pretty, and I seem to be avoiding her.

a very confused ilb

I think maybe part of me felt a little intimidated by her. Perhaps even a little unworthy. Maybe she smiled too much. Maybe, infatuated as I was with my girlfriend, here was someone incredibly attractive who I wasn’t attracted to, and that threw me off.

She waved at me once in the corridor, and I jumped.

We started talking again when I noticed her mentioning a computer game on Facebook. I sat next to her again, deliberately this time, and without even saying hello (I knew her name; I was never quite sure if she knew mine), I launched into the spiel before losing my bottle to do so.

“Hey, you. I saw you posting something on Facebook about Superfrog?”
Superfrog!” she said with enthusiasm. “I love that game! All those little passages you can open up and things to collect! I haven’t played it for ages!”
“I played it yesterday,” I said truthfully, “after you mentioned it…”
“Ooh! You have it? Could you give me a copy?”

By the end of the day, she had copies of Superfrog in every format. I am nothing if not thorough.

As our agonising degree wore on, more of the class bonded, mostly through our collective misery. Nobody seemed to be having a good time, and by the end, we were all utterly convinced that, should anyone ask for advice, our first thing to say would be: “don’t go where I went.” (I used this very piece of advice later on, when Robinson asked. He took it, went elsewhere and is now working in the industry.) I chanced across my Superfrog friend a few times throughout my various travels, and when I realised we had the same tutor, make sure to stick around after consultation sessions in case she was the next one up. She wasn’t enjoying herself either.

At the very end of the course – once most people had finished and moved on – I, who had had three weeks’ sick leave and hadn’t done all the hours, was still on placement. It was a very lonely existence – none of my fellow students were around, even those who were meant to now be working in the same building, and even some of the staff I’d gotten to know were leaving.

I took a breather at one point, going down to get some resources from a corner office, when I noticed my Superfrog friend – still in her student garb – ambling around the corner.

I looked at her.
She looked at me.

And then, without preamble, she gave me a big, warm, reassuring hug.

It got me through the day.

Penis Display

“I couldn’t help noticing,” said the amused business-type man in the urinal next to me, “and I promise I wasn’t looking, but…”
“No, it’s okay,” I smiled, “people mention it all the time. I’ve got a massive cock, it’s all right. It does,” I continued while desperately thinking of a joke, “cause some problems on buses, though.”

Everyone laughed. I continued to pee through my six-foot-long penis.

This was a difficult endeavour, as my penis was six feet long and incredibly hard, to the point that it was almost touching the ceiling. If I angled my whole body forwards and put the right sort of force into it, I could hit the urinal (or the drain on the floor). I alternated between both while thinking about the Guardians of the Galaxy to pass the time.

I was just thinking about how fortunate I was that the anonymous man hadn’t noticed that I had an erection (or hadn’t mentioned it) when Robinson entered the toilet and pointed.

“Wow, look at that!” he said. “You’ve got to show someone that!”
“You haven’t seen my penis before?”

I was genuinely surprised. I’ve known Robinson since I was two. He’s definitely seen my penis, although probably not erect. And probably not that big, either.

“No, I mean show some other people! HEY! COME AND HAVE A LOOK AT THIS!” At which point Mane and my hairy friend came in.

“Very impressive,” said Mane. “I’ll go and get [my friend-who-is-a-teacher] and [the scene girl], so they can see.” And he departed.

Thus I was put in a position of trying to maintain an erection in a penis roughly the same size as my actual height, in order for two friends to see, when I didn’t really want them to see my cock, no matter how huge it may have been. It may not come as a surprise, therefore, that I found this difficult, and before I could summon any dirty thoughts, I was flaccid… and with a penis only a few centimetres long.

Neither scene girl nor the friend-who-is-a-teacher saw anything when they entered the toilet, and left quickly when they realised where they were.

The dream ended at that point, coinciding with my waking up, and while quickly checking that I don’t genuinely have a priapic dick the average height of a White Rhino, I made my way to the bathroom in my house, feeling both grateful and guilty for something that really didn’t happen.

I’ve got a big penis, sure… it’s just not that big!

“Hey, can I tell you about my penis? I mean, my dream?” I asked my wife.
“Do you have to?”
“No, it’s funny, honestly!”
“Can you tell someone else?”

I knew there was a reason why I have a blog.

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