Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Category: Random… Truly Random (Page 2 of 4)

….I honestly have no idea


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...”

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.


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.


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.”

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.”


For the past couple of weeks, and (more specifically) when I’m taking quiet moments to try to fight off the remnants of COVID-19 by virtue of such remedies as “sleep”, I’ve had one specific sex scene in my head.

Ondrea reclines on a table while having sex with Alvin.
Genuinely didn’t take me long to find this.

It’s one of my favourites, for sure, although for some reason I’ve never really mentioned it on my blog… I probably will at some point. It’s hot, anyway, it’s quick to start, it’s quite long, and it’s got Amber Newman in it. But this post isn’t about that. Unless you want to wank, in which case I would recommend. I mean, I had my first wank in weeks to this scene and I came so hard that I managed to hit my shoulder.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Well, I’ve talked before about how my daytime dreams tend to be more sexual than my night-time ones, for sure, but I’m not sure what I was doing during COVID-19 recovery could really be counted as “dreaming”. Most of the time, I wasn’t even asleep. Just… lying there. In all the pain and the discomfort and with the hideous scent I still have somewhere in my nose. COVID is boring, and at the end of the day, all I was doing was staying still, thinking about how I had COVID.

If I did fall asleep, it would be a fitful slumber. More than likely, I’d cough myself awake at some point, or suddenly need to vomit or drink or something, and I wouldn’t get the rest I needed…

…but just once…

I was surrounded by darkness. To say that I was in a dark room or a dark hallway wouldn’t be an accurate description of where I was – nor was I floating somewhere in the dark. I just had no other surroundings. There was one focal point of my dream and everything else did not exist. I could only see one thing, and that was my point.

Dreamy ILB was staring – not looking, staring – at a screen which was (somehow, I’m not sure how) in front of him. On the screen was a video (maybe a stream?) of another screen, close enough to the camera to see that this was, in turn, showing a third screen… and on this screen, clear as day, was a high-resolution, DVD-quality capture of that one very scene, both Amber Newman and Brian Heidik doing their thing. It’s all that I remember – the music, the disrobing, the sex.

Dreamy ILB got that swoopy feeling in his stomach that Normal ILB gets when he’s about to watch something that’ll make him come. Normal ILB, at that point, of course woke up – tearing him away from the scene he loves, throwing him back into his dark, empty bedroom and underneath the tangle of sheets he’d been using as a duvet replacement.

I lay there panting for a few moments. Time check – four in the afternoon. Okay, sure. Body check – still full of COVID. Do I need a drink? No. Toilet? No. Food? No – I keep bringing up whatever I eat. So why do I feel different?

And then I realise that I’m hard. Wait, no, not just hard – very hard. In fact, I think I’m more aroused than I’ve been all year. I’ve managed to turn myself on by having a dream about a stereoscopic view of a scene I’ve been watching regularly since the age of 18.

So what do I do now? I certainly can’t pleasure myself. I barely have the energy to breathe. Moving my hand would be completely beyond my capabilities.

With a Herculean effort, I roll over onto my side…

…I throw my stronger hand over my chest and drag it, finger, by finger, down my stomach…

…and I wrap my fingers around my shaft, feeling how hard it is, feeling it pulse and throb…

…and I go back to sleep.

Film Fun

[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.


“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?”
“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.


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

“I want a divorce,” I said.


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.

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