Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Category: Random… Truly Random (Page 1 of 2)

….I honestly have no idea

Pushmi-pullyu

“Have you talked to Loch Ness recently?”

I probably need to point out at this moment that my mother didn’t actually refer to my former classmate as ‘Loch Ness’. We used to call her that at school (privately, not to her face) because her name looked a bit like the Loch Ness Monster rising in humps put of the water. I do believe it was my friend-who-is-a-midwife who came up with that one.

In any case, I had been talking to Loch Ness after stumbling across her on the street and getting her MSN address. In fact, I’d been talking to her quite a lot. And I’d been talking to her about quite a lot.

As it turned out, since we lost contact Loch Ness had been dating a lot of my friends from secondary school. She allegedly got her first boyfriend in year 7, which seemed realistic… once she was legally able to, she started sleeping with them too (and, although I never thought to ask any of them, I’m willing to bet my entire reputation as a hopeless social misfit that at least one of the punk rock fans in my year lost his virginity to Loch Ness).

I’m still not sure why she told me this.

“It’s not nice being single after being in a relationship for so long,” heartbroken ILB said at one point, “there’s no fun.”
“Does you use of the word ‘fun’ have a sexual connotation?”
“Maybe, I mean, I wasn’t really being that specific but…”
“Because once you’ve had some ‘fun’ it’s hard to stop, right?”
“…Right?”
“Hey, question. Have you ever had a crush on me?”

This was, I am 100% certain, why my mother had asked about her. She made a big deal out of the fact that Loch Ness was very pretty, and being perfectly aware that I was just out of my first relationship, assumed that this was a direction I was heading in. (She was less keen on her throughout junior school, when Loch Ness tended to invent stories. One of her boldest claims: if Oliver Cromwell had accepted the throne, she would be a princess.)

Fortunately, I had an answer to that.

“Didn’t I marry you at one point?”

And indeed I had. I mean, the ring had been made out of Play-Doh, all the guests had been wearing school uniform and the best man had been a pushmi-pullyu comprised of Robinson and my friend-who-is-a-midwife tied together with a scarf, but I did indeed marry her. If my memory served me correctly, I stopped her as she passed my table and asked her to marry me.

I’m not sure if a year 1 wedding hastily arranged following a maths session counts, but nevertheless.

“So you did! Happiest day of my life!”

Now that I could believe.

“So…”
“So…?”
“So…”

There was a pause. Should I go back to talking about sex, or answer her question?”

“I want a divorce,” I said.

BoobDay

The oppressive heat has been beating down on us all. It makes us hot, untidy, and stupid. The room in which I work is both big and sparsely populated, but the nature of the beast dictates that I am in almost-constant human contact.

The sun, streaming through the window, makes me sleepy. In the quiet time(s), it makes me want to rock back on my chair and sleep, even though I know I can’t. If I do lean back, even for a moment, my body arches – my nipples rub against the fabric of my tee…

…and I’m suddenly very aware of my breasts.

I’ve never been happy with the way I look, but my nipples are one of my very least favourite features. They are big, perky and look a lot like boobs more suited to a cis woman… there’s even a cleavage. As much as I tried to deny it, my school bullies never let me do so, once they’d noticed – they even sang a call-and-response song about the size of my tits at one point, during a Geography lesson.

Sleepy ILB’s awareness of his nipples makes him feel like they could – or are about to – swell into full, well-proportioned breasts.

Which is odd, because I don’t really have a ‘breast thing’.

Okay, maybe I do. I don’t know. I’ve never really considered it, but now I do, I’m realising that six out of the eight people I’ve slept with have had larger-than-average breasts. Many of the people I’ve fancied (or wanted to have sex with) have had noticeable chests; I have some friends who will cheerfully admit to their boobs being their best feature. My favourite sexy look, in fact, is topless… but wearing blue jeans on the bottom half.

My favourite soft porn stars have breasts of adequate proportions to suit their frame… but then, they’re in porn, it’s part of the trade.

Sensitive as I am about my own, however, there are things I like doing to boobs. I like the feeling of closing my lips around a pert nipple to suck on one; I like to hold one in my hand, feeling its size and weight. I like to rest my head against them, lick my way around the curves and finish by circling the areolae with my tongue, lightly tickle them with a throbbing erection if I can.

I made someone orgasm once with nothing more than my tongue on her nipple… but then again, I made the same person orgasm by kissing her shoulder in a park, so maybe that’s not the humblebrag it sounds like.

Let’s get back to Sleepy ILB at work. This has happened at least once every day for the past week, if not more. I’m not even meant to be leaning back on my chair… but it happens, and then when it does happen, I’m aware of my boobs, and then I’m reminded of the existence of boobs in general, and then for the next hour or so, I’m hyper-aware of how many boobs there are in my immediate vicinity (I work with a lot of cis women, so it happens).

I like boobs, I remind myself. Maybe, once I get home, I’ll have time to indulge in [insert name of scene here which involves breast-kissing; there are less than you’d think] and that would be nice and satiating for me. Perhaps I’ll even touch my own nipple while I do so.

Of course, by the time I actually get home, I’ve forgotten entirely about that…

…so that’s why I’m writing this busty post. As a reminder.

Discs of Blunder™

Wow, May went by quickly.

Whoosh.

That’s May going by.

I missed out completely on Masturbation Month. I’ve got plenty to say about masturbation, but I just skipped my chance to say it. Bad blogger, ILB. Very bad indeed. It’s Pride Month now, so maybe I’ll have a chance to say something about that.

Despite the positive message of May, it’s not like I did a lot of masturbation during the month. My initial aim – and I would have gotten a blog post out of this – was to set some time aside for masturbation every day. Make it some sort of event, rather than a furtive spur-of-the-moment thing – and, possibly, getting back in touch with my body while doing so. (I’m having a lot of body issues right now, so anything helps, really.)

However, as it turns out, this wasn’t the case. I’ve been at work – and I’m aware that I was lucky to get work, what with the current economic uncertainty, so I’m not going to turn that down – and there was a lot to be done around the house. I’m also not comfortable with masturbating with my girlfriend watching.

(I made them come with my fingers the other day, but that’s something completely different…)

They started a temp job today, however, so I thought I’d make up for lost time. And out came the Discs of Wonder™.

They have seen better days.

Several of the Discs – including one on which was the scene I particularly wanted to watch – appear to have given up the ghost. One has had a little of the mirror side flake off, so my drive doesn’t read it; a couple make whizzy noises but the computer fails to recognise them. Some load up well enough, but then some of the scenes glitch the while thing. Some make VLC hang halfway through. And then some have just decided it was their time, and peacefully expired.

Only a few of the Discs still work and they were mostly the ones on which the scenes are not things I’d choose to watch (and, realistically, frustratingly, not the one scene I own which I really wanted to. I’ve been trying to conjure it up in my head during my infrequent wanks recently, and now I actually have the Discs out I can’t find it!). I spent about half an hour this morning checking which ones loaded, which didn’t, and which had content I actually like…

…with one hand. All while hard and stimulating myself with another hand.

In the end, of course (and predictably), I finished while a scene autoplayed from one of the folders I have on my hard drive… making my efforts, effectively, moot. Glad for the orgasm nonetheless, I cleaned up, and put the Discs away, but closer to home for easier access.

Because, you see, I have no reason to put them away right now.

I have the rest of the week free and all of May to catch up on.

SO HERE I GO!

It’ll Never Work: ILB and his 53-X sex machine

In my early years of secondary school – say, years 7 to 9 – I spent many waking night hours trying to divine different ways to have sex on school property. Quite a number were simple – holes in the ground, under the table in a classroom, on the field in the morning mist, etc. – but some were more complex.

And then there was one which was downright bizarre.

When I started secondary school, I didn’t really know what sex looked like. After year 7 biology, I was at least aware of the missionary position (previously, I had been envisioning something similar to anal sex), and therefore, that was what my fantasies involved. I was even less aware of the time it took to have sex and was surprised at how brief it was – again, I was envisioning falling asleep inside someone and staying that way for the whole night – but, in my young head, that all made sense.

But what if you didn’t have to stop having sex? What if you never wanted to stop? Could you, hypothetically, have sex for as long as you wanted, without having to eat or sleep or exercise or do anything else at all, if you had the right equipment?

The right equipment

So here’s what I invented.

The 53-X was a box roughly the size and dimensions of a sideways kitchen ‘fridge, although bigger (obviously; it had to have two humans inside it), laid sideways on the ground, like a coffin. It was also mounted on a concrete pedestal around the back of the Science Block, but that wasn’t particularly important.

There were two sections of the 53-X, mounted atop each other. The bottom section was for those with vulvas; they would lie supine on a kind of memory foam, which would mould itself around their body shape, making them feel comfortable and relaxed. The pelvic area would be slightly elevated; the 53-X itself would also provide sustenance if you wanted it to. It was completely self-contained, although not constraining.

The top section was for those with penes; they would lie prone, the foam on the lid, also moulding around and holding their body in place. Mechanics in the design would enable the genitals to connect; effectively, you could penetrate your partner, stimulants would keep you both sexually aroused, and the 53-X would hold you both in place for as long as you wanted.

There was also a satisfying sci-fi hiss when it opened or closed, accompanied by a dry ice smoke effect. Because of course there was.

You could stay in the 53-X for as long as you wanted, and while in it you would not stop having sex. Hours. Days. Months. Years.

FOREVER!!!

To my teenage brain, this was the hottest thing imaginable. Voluntarily (or involuntarily, I had a dream once about the 53-X being used as a punishment), one could get strapped into this machine and actually spend an incredibly long period of time having sex, which of course was completely taboo at the time and something I’d never, ever, ever get to do.

I also never imagined using the 53-X myself. It was always one of the faceless masses. I was just its inventor… although why I hadn’t been given a detention for inventing this sex machine in a school full of underage teens I wasn’t quite sure.

I’d work that one out later.

Why am I talking about it now, then?

Ah, that’s the big question, isn’t it? I last mentioned the concept, vaguely, twelve years ago; I’ve never touched upon it since.

The other day, with some work colleagues, we passed by my old school. It’s not in an area I go to much any more, and I hardly ever see it. But, as I looked out of curiosity, I spotted – among the jumble of new buildings and coloured fencing – the exact spot where the 53-X would have stood. Pristine. Untouched. In exactly the same state it had been when I walked across it all those years ago.

Its rightful place, waiting for it.

Not that I’d ever actually build it.

But isn’t that what science fiction is for?

School Council

I once told my sister that I liked an American teen sitcom named Student Bodies. It was being shown, although I can’t quite tell why, on CiTV for a while – mainly on weekend mornings – and she managed to find an episode or two on Nickelodeon; she told me, each time, that Student Bodies was on. I always made an excuse so as to not watch the episode.

The main reason that I didn’t watch any of what my sister found was that I didn’t actually like Student Bodies. In fact, I’d never seen a single episode.

I hope you’re still reading, because it’s time for CONTEXT!

I saw about five minutes of Student Bodies when I was in my mid-teens, having just woken up from a dirty dream (although not a wet dream; I didn’t have many of them). I was still in bed, and likely still hard, and the few minutes of Student Bodies I saw didn’t help much, as it featured multiple attractive teenagers… in particular, two with carefully scripted sexual tension (spoiled somewhat by a pun involving them saying “we’ve got chemistry”).

In my teens, this was something I ached for. Something romantic, but both obvious and blasé; something that would just happen, without any of the pain or heartbreak I seemed to be experiencing daily. It seemed so free, so easy, so effortless. This was what I wanted, and these fictional American teenagers were getting it. I wasn’t going to. Ever.

And I was still in my bed, still hard, and still torn between jealousy and excitement (plus, let’s be real, a fair amount of melancholy) when my sister came into the room and asked why I was watching what she recognised to be Student Bodies. I said I liked it, even though I had no idea what it was, and she latched onto that.

I latched onto the fact that I was turned on when I watched it, but she didn’t need to know that. She still doesn’t know. I don’t really want her to ever know.

But, in case you are reading this, sister of mine… I apologise for misleading you. I’ve never liked Student Bodies. But I do like people being attracted to each other, and even fantasising about it happening to me, and that’s what I was into.

Sorry about that.

Hitting the Skin

“Do you still have your glockenspiel?”
“My crystal glockenspiel? I’ve still got it, yes.”
“I keep telling you, it’s not crystal. It’s not even glass; if it was, I’d have credited you with ‘crystallophone’. Anyway, you’ve still got it?”
“Yes. I mean, it’s pretty. It’s a talking point. I don’t play it, though.”
“Did you ever? I mean, apart from that one time, with the teaspoon?”

[CUT TO: Sixteen years ago. ILB has just been sent some very basic MP3 files containing rough approximations of ad libitum tuned percussion lines. As it turns out, although Louise bought a glockenspiel with glittery, coloured metal bars, she neglected to get any mallets.]

“A few times. I mean, I’m not really a musician, so…”
“Neither am I, but I started the band.”
“Yeah. I had to return the xylophone, though.”
“The one you played with the pencil?”

[CUT TO: Sixteen years ago. Louise has just excitedly sent an e-mail to ILB informing him that she is going to rent a xylophone from a music shop. A day or so later, she further messages him to tell him that she has forgotten to pick up the mallets, but would a pencil work?

ILB doesn’t know, but tells her it can’t hurt to try.]

“Did you know I played that one naked?”
“You did what?”
“I’d just had a long wank, you see, and it was hot…”
“…it’s always hot where you are…”
“…and I thought it would be a shame to put anything on, so I just turned my laptop on, and played the xylophone like that.”

[CUT TO: Sixteen years ago. ILB checks the front porch of the house he lives in to find a letter postmarked from South Africa. He finds the sheet he sent to Louise to find her thin, slanting handwriting spelling out her full name. He wonders if she has received the CD yet.]

“Should I edit the CD inlay? Have you credited as playing ‘naked xylophone’?”
“I would love you forever if you did that.”

ILB no longer has said CD inlay. But she doesn’t need to know that.

Dreamy hot coffee mod

“Okay, so… I’m just going to go home now,” I said as I stood in her doorway listening to her three children, of indeterminate ages and non-specified gender, chattering away in their bedroom. The door was in fact made of hanging cloth, so it wasn’t difficult to hear.

It had been a weird day to begin with. I had been at university – the third time around – for a month, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember how I had gotten there, what I was studying, or why my alma mater had been redesigned to look lie my old secondary school. I did know, however, that I was doing another bachelor’s degree (my third), and that the hospital which appeared to be on the same site was somehow integral.

Neither my alma mater nor my secondary school had a hospital attached. My second university did, so maybe that’s where that comes from.

For most of the day, I had been – for want of a better word – panicking. It had just hit me that I was doing something I didn’t need to do in a place I remember disliking so viscerally. I had embarked upon three more years of unnecessary toil while living in a very small room; I didn’t even appear to be doing any work, and had spent a large part of the day walking around mostly empty buildings.

So when she invited me back to her house (which was seemingly a part of the hospital itself; we went down several corridors and through a courtyard to get there), it was a surprise. She had, nominally, invited me over for tea, but I was fairly sure when I got there was that the herbal drink was, although possibly also on offer, code for a good fuck.

In what appears to be the complete antithesis of my real existence, women in my dreams seem to find me very attractive. This one – and I didn’t get her name; she wasn’t based on a real person either – was a woman: mature (maybe in her 40s – I have been feeling confronted by my own age recently and it shows), employed securely, and a mother of three.

So, when I said I would go home, I was just waiting to be invited inside. She did so, and when I stepped in, she was trying to get her three unseen children to go to sleep. It would be easier to have sex with no active children, and there appeared to be no father. I tried to visualise what her bedroom might look like, as I was shortly going to be in it.

This is interesting, I remember thinking. I know it’s wrong. I shouldn’t be here. But it would be nice to have sex with her. A little afternoon treat for the both of us. I don’t need to tell my girlfriend.

Girlfriend. That was interesting. I’d forgotten that I have a girlfriend up until that point.

There’s nothing wrong with this.

And, wouldn’t you know it, it was right then that I got pulled away.

It’s okay, I said to myself; I’ll deal with this, and then I’ll come back. Maybe she’ll still want to have sex with me. Overall, I felt pretty good about it all. If being back at university/school/hospital involved sex with an attractive lady, then I’d be all over that.

But, of course, it never happened.

It never does.

Wo ist mein Handie?

“So, apart from being silly, what would you say are your core strengths?”

She genuinely said that. I don’t mind the silly part. I just don’t have any strengths.

“Okay, well, I’m humorous,” I lied, “and sometimes making people laugh is my only aim in life.” (That part, at least, is true.) “And I’m knowledgeable. I mean, good for a quiz. ‘Brain’, they used to call me at school.” (That part, at least, is also true… mostly. Nobody’s ever called me ‘Brain’. I was ‘Brains’ for about a week.)

The interviewer smiled politely.

“You said you’re good at IT, and you can play the guitar,” she pressed, shuffling notes. “Are you good with your hands?”

Am I? I do, indeed, play the guitar. I type on keyboards without having to look and see where the keys are. I can flick through the shuffle feature on my iPod without having to do anything other than press the button twice. I can even write longhand, which… is a skill, I suppose.

Not to mention all the wanking, and additionally the fact that, two days ago, I brought someone to a shaking orgasm with nothing but my right hand and a generous helping of adroitness. The rhythmic beat of her clit against my thumb certainly suggests that I am good with my hands.

But I couldn’t say that. Nor could I say yes in all honesty. My left shoulder has been frozen for months and that arm doesn’t extend or flex. Doing the YMCA is impossible, as is playing the violin. I also have a tendency to drop things – pens, phones, my glasses, sex toys.

I don’t think my left foot has ever recovered from having a full-size Doxy impact with it from a great height.

And, of course, I can’t take a firm hold of a breast while licking someone out. I discovered this, again, the other day. The best my hand could manage was to flop around limply on her stomach, like a dying fish.

But I couldn’t tell her that either. I needed to have some sort of answer, though, one that would get me the job.

“Yes?” I settled on.

The gift of brevity.

QuoteQuest: Letter 20

A morning coffee is my favourite way of starting the day, settling the nerves so that they don’t later fray.

marcia carrington

Much as I like coffee in the morning (and hot chocolate, malted drinks, fruit juice, warm milk, or anything soft that tastes like lemon or cherry…), when I’m in a pinch, it’s tea that I keep coming back to. While there’s a blog post about how it’s my favourite thing to quaff while writing, a simple search for the term brings it up so frequently that I do have to wonder if such a post was at all necessary.

I’d forgotten all about dicksplash.

Tea was a very important part of my first relationship (ironically, since throughout the course of my fourth relationship, both of us have mainlined coffee so much we’ve both worked in coffee shops). It was a cornerstone, of sorts: during my two-day weekend visits, our Saturday mornings always started with tea. Tea would herald the fact that we were up, and active, and it became so much of a ritual that she wouldn’t kiss me before we’d had tea.

Tea also punctuated our heady days (as it was readily available – I like to think I have a healthy relationship with tea; with her, it was becoming a problem). With lunch, which happened soon after breakfast as we were sickeningly slack in getting out of bed, we had tea. Mid-afternoon, we had tea. Listening to music – tea. Chatting with 47 – tea. Working on the computer game we wrote together – tea.

And after sex… of course… tea. Cuddles too. But mostly tea.

In fact, practically every relationship I’ve had has involved tea in some significant way. Louise imported British tea to her place in South Africa because she missed it so much. Alicia asked me to pick up some milk on the way to her flat, lest we run out and have to forsake tea. Snowdrop promised me that she would “make us both a brew” before utterly ruining me on the bed upstairs. Although the drinking girl was more fond of gin, her mother made a very nice cup of tea (and even offered me one mid-wank once, fortunately through the door). Catherine’s mum regularly made me two cups of tea, for the simple fact that I could drink one after the other.

And this blog post, in fact, is brought to you by a battered, chipped mug from Eroticon, containing a nice, strong cup of… well, you don’t need me to finish that sentence, do you?

*

In 2005 I saw a friend at camp attempting to drink a cup of tea approximately the size of his head. Having failed to find an appropriate mug, he had taken a two-litre measuring jug and thrown in a couple of teabags, a tablespoonful of sugar and a sizeable amount of milk, then topped the whole thing off with boiling water and gave it a stir.

“Sleep is for the weak,” he answered all the unasked questions.

But I drink tea before I go to sleep.

QuoteQuest

Evangelism

In the early weeks of December I was well aware that I was truly in the twilight of my employment. I was holding out a little hope – although very little indeed – that I wouldn’t have to leave (and I’m still having dreams, including those of last night, in which I’m either still employed or have managed to inveigle my way back in), but realistically, I was leaving, and I knew it.

I told myself that I wouldn’t be too cavalier in my approach to work, even in those final days, if I wanted to either continue in the career I had started to forge or stand any chance of getting back there. And so, for the most part, I didn’t.

For the most part.

Part of my daily duty involved finding a computer and using it to log my activities (on the assumption that they’d be read. I’m not sure they were.); computers were in plentiful supply on the top floor, but that involved effort. I’d go to the break room, get myself a cup of tea and use the one computer in there. Occasionally there were biscuits, so you can see where my priority lies.

At that point in the day, the break room was usually populated by middle-aged women who came in a little early before starting the late shift. We were always cordial, despite not really crossing paths at any point during the day; there was, however, some amount of camaraderie going on. I hardly ever joined in with their conversations, though, as I can’t really identify with discussions of how many children one has.

Until, one day in the week before my final, the topic of sex toys came up.

I don’t know who broached the subject, but I’m fairly certain that it was another colleague of mine – a tall, sporty black dude whose main job was to stand outside (and he did so, too, even in winter, which commands a certain amount of respect on his own!). He has, like all of us, his filter, but seemingly feels it loosen when nobody else is listening.

Even to my untrained ears, the conversation was grating. Ann Summers was being frequently named, as were the unspecified term “vibrator” and the agonisingly vague “rabbit”. Somebody had to say something.

“What you WANT to be using,” I said in a loud, clear voice, “is SOMETHING called DOXY. It’s doing a lot of trade and is VERY well-regarded.”
Everyone looked at me.
“What was that?” asked one of the middle-aged women, while the sporty guy flashed a full-beam smile in my direction.
“Doxy,” I said clearly. “D – O – X – Y. It’s a personal massager, which…”
“It’s a what?”
“It’s a sex toy, it’s a sex toy,” I acquiesced. “It’s not exactly the market leader, but according to everyone I’ve talked to it’s by far the best…” Not to mention there’s one on my bedside table. But I’m not going to add that.
“How do you know about this?”

For once, I had an answer ready.

“Because I know the guy who runs the company,” I shrugged, which is technically true. I’ve met him. He’s the one the Doxy on my bedside table is from (although, again, it’s actually my girlfriend’s Doxy, even if I’m usually the one wielding it). He seems really nice. And it seemed to be a satisfying enough answer.
“Mmmmmm,” said someone. “That’s good advice. I’ll make sure to be asking you again if you know about this sort of thing.”

Dangerous territory. Evidently I do know about this sort of thing. I just can’t let conversations about this go unnoticed. So I chose the immediate course of evasive action, steering this Doxy-shaped boat out of the shark-infested waters.

“You’re welcome to ask me,” I said, “but it’ll have to be quick. I’m leaving at the end of next week.”
“You’re leaving?” everyone said at the same time.
“Unfortunately, it’s true,” I said, with a small, sad smile. “Contractual, though. Nothing to do with me.”

I got up to wash my teacup, it being a truth universally acknowledged that my end of day usually followed said action.

It was on my way out of the door that I heard my name being called. Of course, said the voice in my head, this is the point where someone genuinely tells you that they are going to miss you. Of all the people you’ve told, everyone’s been very professional. Maybe one of these ladies will actually say that.

I turned around.

“What was the name of that toy again?”

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