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

[Inspired by something on Twitter I contributed to. Not my fault.]

When I was about 3, I wanted to be a film director. The educational psychologist who did a paper on me (because I could read the words “manila envelopes” before nominally being taught to read) found this out by simple virtue of the fact that I told him. I found a copy of his report recently, and although I don’t remember this, it sort of makes sense.

Every now and again I wonder what would happen if I did direct a film. When I was sixteen and novelising a dream I once had, I was already considering the soundtrack to the movie adaptation, over which I’d obviously have creative control. I’ve continuously come up with alternative ways to make a Justice League film which doesn’t suck – the solution being: make it silly; have Smash Mouth playing over the opening credits; put Booster Gold in it, you cowards. I almost – almost – wrote a screenplay adaptation of children’s musical Bully! when I realised how that would work.

And then, of course, I had ideas when I was younger. Eighteen-year-old me thought up a dark comedy heist type thing set in my university hall (I can still visualise the poster); twelve-year-old me had a fantasy film completely plotted out. Eight-year-old me wanted to do an animated musical and was convinced Disney would listen to him.

In my early thirties I wanted to write a new instalment of the Emmanuelle series. I mean, zounds, I still do, really.

But this is a sex blog, so we can probably see where this is going.

Recently I’ve been having intrusive, vivid and highly detailed sexual fantasies. This is thoroughly unusual for me, since I usually rely on previously-available media (in whatever form) to arouse me, under the pretence that Horny ILB doesn’t have the available brainpower to construct something viable enough to fap to. Recently, however, he has discovered that he has, and therefore constructs start to form in the brain. If they’re successful enough, of course, the penis also gets involved.

A little like the films I once wanted to direct, these fantasies are under my control to a certain extent… but, like a film adaptation I will never do of a book I have yet to write, some of these stories are delivered to me fully written. Occasionally, they are based on reality, but mostly completely fictional: an eclectic mix of “what if…?” speculation, potential leads that went nowhere which actually go somewhere, mental visualisations of things I’ve read in blogs and/or social media, and occasional faceless, meaningless, dirty smut.

Sometimes these fantasies involve people I know. Occasionally they don’t. Mostly, however, they seem to feature people I used to know – those who have faded out of my life over time – possibly on the assumption that they are safe to fantasise about. I don’t know. Don’t ask me to explain my own brain.

But that’s the thing about fantasies. They are many and varied, and if done correctly, they can be thoroughly entertaining. Like films.

Mostly, these play out with very little prompting or effort from myself: like I said, fully written. Occasionally I’ll write these out, but mostly I just keep them to myself, to enjoy when I need them. The more problematic ones are things which I actually need to direct: elements like characters, setting, scene and plot are all there, but they need assembly in order to completely work.

Sexual Meccano, with hopefully titillating results.

So, yeah, maybe that’s not the career path I eventually did go down. But it still affords me the opportunity, after a fashion, to direct a story…

…even if there is only ever one man clapping.

“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.

“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.