Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

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

….I honestly have no idea


*packs final change of clothes; walls get whitewashed*


On the very first day I got my DVD of Virgins of Sherwood Forest, I was halfway through watching it when I remembered I needed to be packing to go off to camp the following day. Living as I was in a room on my own with nobody else in the house at that moment, I left it on – because of course I did – and scrambled around for things to pack, grabbing a miasma of useful items and random clothes and throwing them pell-mell into my little wheelie suitcase.

That was then…

I snapped the case shut just as a couple of characters were getting it on in the castle bedroom. I’d opened it when they were using the battlements. I later had an orgasm to the scene set on the bridge just outside the castle.

They certainly used that set to a great extent.

The last thing I added was The Boxโ„ข, still full of unused condoms. I’d been packing this to take with me every time, and every time it kept winging its way back unopened. I packed it anyway, and the following day started making my way to another camp in which – just like every event ever – I failed to get laid.

This is now…

Serena (Shannan Leigh) delivering a line of dialogue on a castle balcony. From "Virgins of Sherwood Forest" (2000).
Serena realised only too late that she’d forgotten to put a bra on before the job interview.

I made a lot of mess over Christmas, and in order to impress my cleaner (and find the notebook I think I may have lost), I spent a few hours last night un-messing the house – by which I mean decanting the bins into bin bags. That genuinely is the most useful thing I could have been doing, and so I did it.

But I put Virgins of Sherwood Forest on first.

I’m still not sure why. The concept of doing another mundane task, accompanied by the same glossy smut (albeit almost two decades later), occurred to me while at work, and wouldn’t. let. me. go! Maybe I was feeling cheeky; maybe nostalgic. Perhaps I was trying to prove to myself that the more I change, the more I stay the same. I may have even just wanted something to come to once I’d finished my tidying…

…but, whatever the reason, I put it on, and enjoyed the rolling sex as best I could while sorting refuse from recyclables.

This is even later…

One day after this masterstroke and it seems very silly to begin with. Putting on soft porn and not even being able to touch yourself to it? Just as I relate my favourite piece of smut to packing a suitcase, now I’ll further relate it to emptying bins (and, by extension, this blog post about that).

But this way I got to see the whole package. Not just the eight sex scenes, but the plot, the questionable acting, and the hilarious dialogue. I even watched the end credits, with a hefty number of pseudonyms to protect the identities of those who made this schlock. For the first time in a long time, I enjoyed Virgins of Sherwood Forest. Really enjoyed it, warts and all.

So, what I’m saying is, maybe I should do something like this more often.

Jake’s Booty Call, anyone?

The Cloud

Yesterday afternoon a new mattress arrived at my flat. It took my parents and I about three hours to find bed linen that would fit it, but eventually everything seemed fine. New mattress. That’s nice.

This may not seem like a particularly exciting thing to happen, but then you also have to take into account the fact that, since we moved here, we have been attempting to sleep on a mattress roughly the consistency of a pile of bricks. I got it without considering the fact that we both, in fact, like to sleep on a soft surface, and that this would be the start of five years of pain.

The new mattress advertised sleeping on it as being akin to sleeping on a cloud. When I actually tried it in the shop, I nearly fell asleep right there, which may say more about me than it does about the product. While, as it turns out, it’s not actually that soft, it is incredibly comfortable.

I’d forgotten what that feels like.

The first time I got a new mattress, of course, it was for a different reason. I had a new girlfriend and she was coming to stay for two weeks. I rather uncryptically asked my parents for a new mattress and I got this response:

A new mattress is practically a necessity for any young buck engaged in serious courting.

ilb’s dad

This time, however, it was for sleep.

Not that I did much of that, because I was far too horny.

Before you ask, no, I don’t know why I got horny, and I don’t think it was the mattress itself (although it may have magical powers; that’s still to be confirmed), but I definitely was. In and out of resting, but not asleep yet, every time I shifted my body I noticed, with something between alarm and delight, just how hard I was. It’s rare that I’ve had such big erections, or that lasted that long.

It was only after about two hours of lying there that I realised how painful this was getting and that I needed to deal with it if I was ever going to get anything resembling sleep, but then I was also very much enjoying being horny beyond anything in recent memory.

I know, I thought, I’ll get up, walk to the bathroom, use the toilet and then come back. After that, I rationalised, it didn’t matter how horny I got, because I had the rest of the night to lie there on my nice new mattress.

My mattress gave a self-satisfied sigh as I rolled off it. Up, padded to the bathroom. Toilet. Turned around and padded back. Back into bed, mattress giggling as I sank gently into it. Very soft, very comfortable.

Okay, now where was I?

And then I suddenly realised I wasn’t horny any more.

I hate my body.


“I seem to have lost my coffee cup. Have you seen it?”
“Your Super Mario cup? The one you got just after your wedding? Surely you lost that last year?”
“No. I mean, yes, I did lose it. But I’ve got this new one, a bit like a Thermos flask, only it’s gt a brand name on it. It’s big and black, and it’s…”
“Oh yes. Well, I’ve lost my coffee cup too, but I think it might be in the break room. I’ll go down and get it, and if I find yours, I’ll bring it up, too.”
“Oh, thanks. You know it? It’s big and black, and it’s…”
“I know. It’s got the name of some sort of animal on it. Rhinoceros or dolphin or…”


“Yes, that’s it. Something about an octopus.”
Hot Octopuss,” I said innocently. “With a big O and a crown symbol.”
“I’ll find it.”
“You’ll be okay until I get back?”


“Yeah,” I said as I took a sip of cold water from my Whipple Tickle bottle. “I’ll be just fine.”

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 ๐• 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 ๐• 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.

« Older posts