Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Category: Random… Truly Random (Page 1 of 3)

….I honestly have no idea

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.

What?

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.

Superfrog

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.

Onomatopoeia

Tweet tweet. Tweet tweet. Tweet, twitter, tweet tweet tweet.

A step. The slap of rubber sole against concrete. Another. The same.

Hiss. The bus has arrived. I’m not getting it today, but its presence – the fact that it runs at all – is reassuring. It’s a form of escape, almost.

“Hi, ILB. You all right?”
“H… h… h… cough, cough.” I breathe in. “Rachel. He… cough, cough.”

Rachel pauses. I manage a smile, but it hurts too much.

“You… okay? Cough?”
“Okay, yes, but you sound really bad, ILB. You should go home and have a hot drink. More than one hot drink. Get some fluids down you. Just…”

Wheeze. That’s my throat making that noise. It’s meant to be a thanks, but there isn’t one forthcoming. There won’t be for a while.

*

Whoosh whoosh. Whoosh whoosh. Slam, rattle, clink clink clink.

A sidestep. The slap of rubber sole against linoleum. Another. The same.

Hiss. The hot water has boiled. I don’t have long now, but its availability – the fact that it exists it begin with – is reassuring. It’s the blood of life, almost.

“Hi, ILB. You all right?”
“H… h… h… cough, cough.” I breathe in. “Sophie. He… cough, cough.”

I pause. Sophie manages a smile. She looks tired.

“You… okay? Cough?”
“Okay, yes, but you sound really bad, ILB. You should sit and have a hot drink. More than one hot drink. Get some caffeine. Just…”
“No, really. Cough. You okay?”

There is the slight flicker of recognition across Sophie’s face as she realises what I’m asking about. There’s that smile again.

Wheeze. That’s my throat making that noise. It’s meant to be more, but there isn’t more forthcoming. There won’t be for a while.

“I’m okay. Enjoy your tea.” With which she melts away.

As the sounds of our lives echo through my memory, history repeats itself once again.

Boingy

“Boingy, boingy, boingy, boingy...”

The fallen tree had been there for quite a few years, but clearly part of it was still rooted, because the branch was very much alive. Every time we’d been to camp (residential trips notwithstanding), we’d ended up pitching our circle in the field next to that section of the woods.

The tree branch extending over the little stream was the most recognisable part of Epping Forest. As we grew, it stayed the same. The stream started to dry up, and ended up as little more than a trickle, but the branch remained in situ.

The years wore on, and eventually, we were all in our mid-teens when one of our number decided to shimmy along to the end of the branch.

“Hey, it’s springy here,” she said, straddling it and giving it an experimental bounce. “Boingy.”

More of us decided to join in. I’d been hesitant to do so, but on account of the fact that this was basically a conga line of friends on some wood – and we’re called Woodcraft, so it seems appropriate – I joined at the back, sandwiched between my friend-who-is-a-midwife, and Robinson, who was so far back he was almost standing on the bank.

It was incredibly springy.

“Boingy, boingy, boingy, boingy…” one of us started, and the rest of us gradually joined in. “Boingy! Boingy! BOINGY! BOI…”

I don’t know who slipped first, or what started the domino effect. The worst part was looking down and knowing we were going to fall.

*

One of us ended up in hospital with three stitches in her arm. The rest of us were covered in bruisy cuts, but mostly unharmed (well, we did fall into water). Despite the very short walk back to the campsite, it seemed much longer when we were all soaked. I was trying my best to style it out when it came to the girl I fancied, but I was clearly upset. We all were.

There were some comments from the adults when we got back as to how we’d just been communing with nature, and isn’t that the point of camp? Robinson, who hadn’t fallen because he was so far back, hadn’t stopped laughing for the past fifteen minutes.

We all dragged our arses to the mess tent while one of the leaders started handing out bits of the first-aid kit.

I don’t know who laughed first, or what started the domino effect. The best part was looking each other and knowing we all looked as bedraggled as each other.

Fuck those fake army recruitment ads. This is what belonging looks like.

Kink of the Week. Boingy!
Peripherally for KOTW, although that’s largely coincidence.

Duvet Days

For a long period since I was a very small child, well into my teens and beyond – maybe even extending into my early twenties – I slept under the duvet; that is to say that I slept entirely under it. Body, hands, feet, head… everything. I developed a method of getting fresh air – create a little opening around my mouth so I could breathe – but I was absolutely adamant that I couldn’t emerge from where I was. I had to remain hidden.

All night.

As a clever, but nervous and sensitive, young boy, it was easy for me to develop irrational fears and complexes, which I did in abundance. Couple that with a fear of the dark, wallpaper which made a scary face when I looked at it, and my constant anxiety that I was about to be attacked, and it’s understandable. In order to survive, the only thing I could do was hide.

I did, of course, sleep naked – I almost always have – but that didn’t make a difference under the covers. Revealing something as sensitive as my head, unprotected, exposed a vulnerability, the sort of which would be advantageous to my adversaries. I could be vulnerable during the day – school bullying would heal – but, during the night, I hid.

If I did sleep, it would be a fitful slumber.

As I grew older, and the invisible enemies gave way to obsessive dark thoughts, I started to believe that I wasn’t about to be fatally assaulted at night, but continued to sleep with my head concealed. It was still, I rationalised, safer – and, besides, I’d been doing it for long enough and hadn’t died yet. In my early twenties, when I started to share my bed with people, I gradually learned to bring myself out of it.

With someone else, I was safe. There would be cuddles. There would be kisses. There would be sex. There would be peace.

And it would be much easier to breathe.

I felt a bit odd about it all, but I felt more confident exposing my vulnerability, and gradually began to eschew my duvet shield.

*

For the past few nights, I have been sleeping as nature intended – on a mattress, on my own. No duvet, no sheets, maybe one pillow to support my head.

Naked.

Vulnerable though this may make me feel, it’s genuinely the safest way to spend these nights.

Plus, if anyone were to attack me, they’d probably burn their hands with the amount of heat I appear to have internalised.

Sir!

On Monday of this week, I picked up a message on Facebook from my hairy friend, who – since we last saw him – has taken part in such activities as “get a hot girlfriend”, “marry her”, “move to America” and “fatherhood”. He was apologetic for not being able to come to my wedding this summer, and even more so for not being able to attend my stag.

While I was able to understand the first bit, the second was a little more mystifying. As far as I’m aware, I don’t even have a stag planned.

And then I got the message from 47.

All set for Saturday?

Next Saturday, sure. We’re going up to Manchester to see James – that’s been planned for months. Unless, of course, I have that wrong and it’s this Saturday.

Not talking about James.

And now I’m confused.

So I hit up my groomsmen group chat on WhatsApp (yes, I have WhatsApp; yes, I use group chats; yes, I have groomsmen. I am painfully middle-class and aware of it, thank you.) and asked if there is, indeed, something happening this weekend, as I’d been getting hints but nothing concrete.

My answer came from Mane Jr.

Who let slip about the concrete?

Which didn’t really tell me much.

I got back to 47 and was reminded to keep Saturday free and also have a clear sofa tomorrow night (I mean, I don’t, but I can arrange one). But there was still something relatively unexplained. In the end – and I should have done this earlier – I decided to ask Robinson, who a few months ago I asked to arrange a stag. I wasn’t even sure if he was doing so.

Instructions to follow.

And I’ve had nothing from him in the three days since.

So here I am.

Awaiting instructions.

A New Dimension of Strange

“Well! I’ve often seen a cat without a grin,” thought Alice, “but a grin without a cat! It’s the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!”

I awoke this morning with the most curious sensation.

I wasn’t horny – not exactly, at least. There was certainly a sexual air about the way I felt, but I wouldn’t describe myself as aroused. A few seconds of concentration with my eyes closed and I could identify the telltale beat from my crotch, but that was nothing unusual. I was hard, but I didn’t want to have sex. So what was this?

Curiouser and curiouser.

I cast around for the most identifiable feeling, and after flicking through the multiverse of combinations, alighted upon one. There was a trace of that sensation you get just after you’ve had sex – the kind of well-fucked, feeling-everything aura, except without the waves of calm that usually break over you (or even the occasional nausea or ravenous hunger that present themselves!).

Sketch of a girl named Anna, looking confused with an illuminated question mark above her head. Art by ILB.
Anna doesn’t know either.

Just a vague, untraceable feeling. Not unpleasant. Not euphoric. Sex without sex, pleasure without pleasure.

My fiancée’s voice, saying that they were going to the shop around the corner, jolted me from my rêverie. Suddenly aware of the world around me, I indicated my understanding, and lay there for a short while after they left, picking my way through my body. How had I been feeling? What was it, and did I even want it back?

I scrambled up and stretched out as best I can (which caused my erection to throb – stretching always does), and stood there in my room, naked, for just a few seconds longer.

What do I do now? I thought, as I began to pad my way towards the bathroom and considering coffee.

And so my day began, my unsteady gait carrying me through life, with that unknown, unexplained, unidentifiable curious feeling of potential floating along in my wake.

Should’ve gone to Specsavers

It was a very sleepy Monday. For reasons unrelated to each other (but I suspect “it’s the middle of the term and there aren’t any holidays in sight” was probably a big factor), none of us had had a restful weekend. Nobody wanted to be in school, and you could tell that the staff felt largely the same way. Nevertheless, I tried to make the best of it.

“Hi, Ant.”
“GET YOUR EYES TESTED!” shouted Ant at maximum volume, and he stormed off.

Tuesday was a little better, although the weather was proving to be muggy and uncomfortable. I spent most of my breaks in the library, anyway, but it was still a relief to get inside. Ant came by at one point, and I raised a hand in friendly greeting.

“I TOLD YOU TO GET YOUR EYES TESTED!” he yelled in my face before walking off in a huff.

On Wednesday, I was sitting with my friends in the dining hall when Ant came up to me from behind.

“HAVE YOU HAD YOUR EYES TESTED YET?” he caterwauled into an ear that hadn’t worked properly ever since.
“I have, but my astigmatism is very mild,” I replied pleasantly while he stood there giving me a frown so hard it was very clear he wished me nothing but a slow and painful death. “Am I ever going to find out what this is about, or have you just started this and don’t know where you’re going with it?”

[NB: This last statement was used as the basis for ABC’s Lost, a few years later.]

“It’s because you can’t see,” hissed Ant – which I can’t fault him for; that’s the usual reason you should get an eye test.
“I thought I could, unless I’m actually dreaming and this is all an illusion…?”
“No, I mean you can’t see. Ugliness. You can’t see that she’s ugly.”
“…Who?”

This was a genuine question on my part. He could have been referring to Ann Widdecombe and wouldn’t have been wrong, either.

“You know who I’m referring to. That girl… the one you sit opposite in Science.”

‘That girl’ had a name, which everyone knew, including Ant, who had been in the same classes as her for five years.

“Oh,” I said softly. “But I don’t think she’s ugly.”
“Well, you need to get your eyes tested, then,” said Ant. “Because she is. And I heard you fancy her, so you need to…”
“…get my eyes tested,” I supplied. “But your information is wrong. I don’t fancy her. I just want to have sex with her.”

Okay, maybe I didn’t say that last bit. But it wasn’t false. I didn’t fancy this girl and I never had, but we had been friends for a long time and I really, really, really wanted to have sex with her. I’d been having dreams about the subject since year 7.

Sure you don’t,” retorted Ant sardonically. “I heard otherwise. You’ve had dreams about kissing her.”

My dreams were more about how well my penis might fit into her vagina, but I wasn’t going to say that either.

“I have,” I admitted, “but you always dream about crazy stuff. I’ve had two dreams in which I found out I was Jesus. In the first of those, I used my divine powers to turn into a dinosaur.”
“You what?”
“And in any case,” I ploughed on, “you’ve had strange dreams yourself. You told me about that one you had about Britney…”
“I HAVE MANLY NEEDS!” Ant screamed like a banshee, and without another word, he turned and steamrollered off, right into a wall that had been there since we started and you may think he might have noticed.

There was a pause.

“What was all that about?” asked Einstein as we carried on with our lunch.
“I’m not sure,” I shrugged. “Maybe he needs his eyes tested.”

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