Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Category: Recollections (Page 1 of 3)

ILB recalls moments from his past, vaguely related to love, sex, or whatever else

Sixty

It was a very different world in those days…

“I’m going to the village,” her mother said, which was probably code for something. The village was a fair walk away, and I’m still not sure entirely whether it was indeed a village. If it was, it was a very big one – or a very small town.

“Okay,” I called through the door. It was all I could do, really, as – at that very moment – I was more concerned with her breasts (I had one in each hand) and her thighs (which were wrapped around my head). You probably get the general idea, although I ought to point out that I heard the door shutting at the exact moment I penetrated her.

The sex was hard and brisk, but lengthy and filthy. Over time it varied – in speed and intensity – but it was what we needed. We had, in all honesty, spent a lot of time having sex; we knew what to do to keep each other satisfied. She certainly was, and on account of the fact that nobody else was in the house at the time, she wasn’t afraid to let the neighbours know, either.

I’ve no idea what had been in my juice box that day. But, as I said, it was a very different world back then.

I hit my peak around about the time she hid her third. With a noise somewhere between a sigh and a scream, I shot rope after rope into her.

One.
Two.
Three.

[Pause.]

Four.

Click. That was the door closing. We were gazing at each other – her face was flushed into a pleasant state of red, and apparently I was too – and we were glistening with sweat. It was a warm day, certainly, but that probably wasn’t why.

“I’m back!” her mother called.
“Welcome back!” I trilled while trying to fix my sex hair before making a public appearance. “How long have you been gone for?”
“About an hour?”

…really?

“We just had sex for an hour,” I whispered, slipping back into the bed.
“Mmmmmph.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“Mmmmmph.”
“Yeah, me too.”

That evening, we went for a walk to the village…

…and it took us an hour.

Connections

I started a new job this week.

It is, to use the common parlance, about bloody time. I’m aware some people have been off work for much longer, but – as much as I complain about it – unemployment does not suit me. I’d be happy sitting at home drinking tea and playing HuniePop, with the occasional foray into sex blogging, but I need the routine and innate satisfaction that my chosen industry gives me.

Before you ask, no, I’m not in porn. I’m also no longer an actor. But still.

Like most other things in my life, this came along basically by chance. I got the call last week, and this week has been effectively a trial week. I was told I’d get more work this morning while making the coffee that’s been sustaining me.

When I mentioned the workplace a couple of weeks ago, my mother (who has the same sort of mental Rolodex as I do) instantly mentioned somebody I haven’t thought of for years. She had worked there too, and might have been able to give me some information. Did I want her contact number?

What my mother doesn’t know is that I already have her contact number.

For a while – and when I say “a while” I’m referring to the fact that I’m not entirely sure how long – I was sort-of-kind-of trying to date her. My mother, who had seen her crying at work and felt her parenting instincts kick in, invited her around for dinner at one point and I promptly spent the entire evening flirting being friendly. A month or so later, we went to see my mother in concert together (she was in a wind orchestra for a while); after filling up with millionaire’s shortbread, we exchanged numbers.

I wasn’t sure where to go from this point. I was recently out of a relationship and didn’t really know how to ask someone out (long-term readers may remember that I don’t). But, after weeks of dithering and indecision, my dad – who is a wizard – told me to ask her out.

But I’m an idiot who doesn’t know how to do that, so I asked my mother to ask her if she would like to get a coffee with me at some point. Mother reported back that coffee sounded nice, and to just text her to ask.

Which is, incidentally, what I should have done to begin with.

We never did go for a coffee. Our available dates didn’t match up, and the one time they did, she had a death in the family during the preceding week. She eventually moved into a relationship, as did I, and what we were left with was a distant friendship.

So I got in contact with her. Her cheery voice shines through her texts – in every letter. Her use of emoji radiant. Her positive attitude infections. By my second day at work, I felt confident in dropping her name. Everyone has something positive to say about her. Everyone says hello, so I have more excuses to continue texting.

Maybe I’ll get that coffee after all.

The Blame Game

I was watching porn, and I knew it was wrong.

It’s not my fault, I told myself furiously. I’m doing something wrong, but it’s not my fault. At the end of the day, it probably was… if one can find fault with porn; I’ve no problem with it now… but I couldn’t tell myself that.

It’s her fault, I settled on. If she did go out with me, I wouldn’t need to watch any of this stuff. I’m only watching it for the kissing, anyway, and if she kissed me, then maybe I could…

A bare-faced lie. But then again, I never would act on any of my crushes. It was probably hard enough for her anyway. In any case, this was different. Porn was about sex. I never imagined having sex with anyone I fancied – even a hug would be enough. I didn’t get hugs either, but…

It’s BBC2’s fault, then, I offered. If they weren’t showing Dangerous Touch then I wouldn’t be watching it.

Never mind the fact that I always perused Radio Times for every bit of erotica I could find on Channel 5. BBC2 showing something was a novelty. I’d probably have been watching it anyway, no matter what channel it was on, but nevertheless. What was I supposed to do – blame the entire media?

It’s the production company’s fault, a little voice said. They’re making sexy stuff and putting it on TV. It can’t be your fault if you’ve got no control over what film companies make.

My head started to hurt as the cogs in my brain whizzed around trying to find someone else to blame. My parents? No. My sister? Hardly. My friends? Probably not – although Lightsinthesky’s constant sex talk didn’t help. My school? I didn’t know; our year 9 sex ed may have been relatively limited, but they didn’t talk about the ethics of porn.

I could take pot shots at everyone, but then I was the one watching the porn. I could have easily turned off the TV, but I didn’t. I just kept on watching.

At the end of the day, the only one to blame was me.

So I did.

Watering Hole

You’ve got infinite patience
And the scent of the sea
Love these days when I’m near you
Watering hole, watering hole

Scene: It’s 8pm or thereabouts, and it’s autumn, so it’s already dark outside. I’m sleepy – leaning to the right, my head resting against the cool glass. The rain rolls down the window, and as I let my eyes blur, the watery shades of cars going past become little, indistinct lights. The M1 is busy – it’s always busy – but I’m in my little bubble here, so I’m all right.

I’ve got James’ seventh studio album Whiplash in my Sony Discman, my trusty, battered headphones putting up a valiant effort and filling my ears with the familiar music. I’ve listened to this album so many times in the past couple of years. Among all the tracks, hidden behind things like She’s a Star and Waltzing Along, sits Watering Hole. I have no idea exactly what the recording process for this was. But it’s trippy.

The rumble of the coach’s wheels, the whoosh – whoosh – whoosh of the cars beetling down outside, the constant patter of rainfall on the pitch-black windows and the deadpan mumble of Tim Booth all blend into one.

I may be chill, but I’m not content. The weekly coach trip back to London means that I’ve had to leave Rebecca, once again. The trip there, on Friday evenings with my magic box, is a fun one, full of anticipation and excitement (and perhaps a little horn). On the way back, it’s a feeling of deflation. I may, of course, be filled with good memories, accomplishments, achievements and a general good feeling (and, let’s be honest, probably well-fucked, too, as we tended to have sex just before I left).

But it’s not a good feeling. Nothing positive is awaiting me at home. I have work tomorrow and I hate it there. I’m not fond of school right now, either; it’s far too stressful and doesn’t really let up. I’m looking forward to seeing my friends, but that’s about it. Whiplash is my saving grace. I’ve got Gold Mother in my box as well, so I might put that on next.

I do this every week, so it shouldn’t come as any surprise. It doesn’t, really. I’ll do it again next week. And the week after that. And the week after that, as well.

A cloud shifts and the dark, rainy M1 is temporarily bathed in milky moonlight. This makes me feel better, for some reason.

And I start planning next week in my head.

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

…as mustard

“Oh, you are desperate, aren’t you?” she said, although with a coquettish little smile which made it clear that she wasn’t averse to this.

I mean, of course she wasn’t. She liked the fact that she could make me hard in a matter of seconds. And she was sitting on me. There wasn’t much left she had to do.

“I’m not desperate,” I protested. “I’m just… keen.”
“You’re keen?”
Keen. That’s the word.”

I didn’t elaborate; neither did I do so while we stayed there, curled together on the big chair, or during dinner later on, or watching the requisite amount of Nickelodeon followed by Have I Got News For You that evening. I didn’t elaborate, although I probably didn’t need to, later that night as I closed my lips around her pert nipple. By the time my very hard, very warm and very thick penis was inside her, the time for elaboration had long passed.

Although I didn’t think to tell her why I was keen (“I’m horny and you are hot” was certainly part of it, but maybe not all…), there was certainly a reason. As there was for every single time we had sex.

I’d been very tightly wound for most of the week. We all knew I’d be having sex on Friday evening, and with her. And we knew where we’d be doing it, and for what it’s worth, there was always a ballpark figure as to when. My friends, who knew all this, liked to tease. My token black friend had, that evening, texted “Got any action yet??” while I was still on the coach. I hadn’t even left London.

There was also the fact that I was perhaps the third, or fourth or fifth (it’s unclear; I can think of about four, but who knows?) in my year to lose what Lightsinthesky charmingly termed the “flashing V”. I didn’t brag, nor did I go into too much detail (…says the explicit sex blogger), but it was well-known. Some people were aghast; some were confused; some were repulsed. The most common reaction was polite bafflement, which I would take.

I would also take the gentle teasing in good humour. It wasn’t the relentless taunting to get a reaction my bullies had done a few years prior. At the very least, having a serious girlfriend made me interesting. Nobody, especially me, had thought I’d ever get one. My parents, even, had a bet going as to whether Einstein, Robinson, or I would be the first to have a girlfriend. It looked like a close-run thing.

And, of course, I’d Completely Given Up.™

Having a girlfriend gave me the sort of attention I so desperately craved. I wasn’t just the smart guy any more. I was the smart guy with the active sex life. I would object to people terming her my “bird” (because, as a human being, she wasn’t a bird!), but at the end of the day, I liked the sort of explicit mysticism that came with this. And it made my final year of a difficult school life one in which I was, for the first time, genuinely positive.

But it was the constant talk, the references, the questions – and the suggestive texts from her with a heavy abundance of 😉 – which wound me up. That, and the fact that I didn’t masturbate and would watch soft porn during the week anyway… and the fact that we had a sort of routine worked out. If I made it through the week, onto the train on time, and then the coach, and if I made sure that she was getting as much pleasure as I was, then we’d both be satisfied – messy, exhausted, drenched in sweat, and (in her case) full of cum – but satisfied.

And that’s why I was so keen.

On the way back home, I got a call while walking through Victoria Station from my token black friend, “in case you was getting any action with your bird.” He seemed rather put out that I was already back in London.

But it didn’t stop him asking questions.

I think he was keen, too.

Hold me closer, tiny dancer

I don’t remember her name. In all honesty, I don’t remember much about that night. What with the amount of free alcohol involved, I’m almost certain she doesn’t remember me at all… but I don’t drink, so I remember her.

It was the first and only time I’d ever been to a party held by members of the British aristocracy. I wasn’t aware, for a few years, that I was friends with Lord Grey’s daughter. She had mentioned a signet ring a few times, but I didn’t think much of that, either. I think it was the mention of the name of her house that tipped me off… but, in any case, I was surprised – if pleased – to be invited.

I told her once that I had a crush on her, so I think she may have felt weird about it. That was never mentioned again, though, so…

In any case, there I was, on the dancefloor getting down to Make Me Smile by Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel – incidentally the song I’d gotten dressed to that morning – and waiting for the inevitable roar that accompanies Mr. Brightside, as a song about being cheated on is really what you want accompanying a joyous party.

Wait, what was this blog post about again?

So, yes. I don’t remember her name. I remember that she was shorter than me (but then a lot of people are); I also remember frizzy hair, a wide smile and, of course, that she was very pretty. But then everyone was. Everyone who’s unattainable is fucking beautiful. In my defence, she started talking to me first.

“Hey!” she beamed. “How old are you?”
Yes, it’s an odd opener, but at least it’s one I was able to answer.
“Hi! I’m nineteen,” I said. “How old are you?” I added, a split-second before realising that this was probably a rude question to ask.
“You’re nineteen?” she said, aghast. “You look older. I’m thirty.”
“You look younger,” I said, as I assumed that was the right thing to say. She certainly did look younger than thirty; I wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or insulted that she had decided I look old. I settled for being politely befuddled.
“I want a drink; do you want a drink?” she ejaculated, at which a servant (yes, I know) appeared with a tray of beverages. I took a Diet Coke, which was probably the only thing without any alcohol in it.
“So, I…” I started, at which point she interrupted with, “see you later!” and swanned off. Which was probably a good thing, as I didn’t really know what I was going to say.

“ILB! Come dance!” yelled my aristocratic friend from the middle of a mill of bodies.
“I thought I was?”
“No, you’ve just been talking to…” [I forget her name, as I said above!] “…come here and dance!”

I took a swig of my Diet Coke, and went to dance.

About an hour of wearing my legs out later, she found me again. She had had a little more alcohol by this point.
“Here’s an observation,” she said over the music (which had somehow become exponentially louder – I suppose that the manor house we were in wasn’t exactly in a residential area), “you’re nineteen, I’m thirty, and that shouldn’t matter!”
“It doesn’t,” I agreed, “time is a concept.”

I didn’t talk to her again, although as my level of blood sugar began to wane, it slowly began to dawn on me that I may have been being flirted with. It’s the right environment to do it, as well – if everything goes wrong, you can use the music as an excuse to get out quick. But this wasn’t your average student disco – it was a birthday party at a manor house, hosted by the aristocracy – so what exactly was she trying to achieve?

Let’s assume, for impossibility’s sake, that she was flirting with me, but put off by the fact that I was indecently young, and that I reciprocated. Now let’s assume, further to that, that we pulled. Where were we meant to go from there? Everyone was going to be in sleeping bags in a huge marquee out on the lawn after the party, so what exactly would we do? Get into one together and hope that nobody noticed?

As it turned out, it didn’t matter. She vanished after a while. As it turned out, she lived in the local area. So she just walked home.

I quaffed a few more Diet Cokes before realising that I’d forgotten my sleeping bag… and that Meg, who had driven me up there, had hers clearly visible.

So I did end up in a sleeping bag with someone else that night, after all.

Has-bean

“It was very painful. I got a beanie out of it, though.”

It was the very end of a conversation. I didn’t hear the rest of it, and I never actually found out exactly what was painful. Yoghurt didn’t seem to immediately understand that I didn’t know what a beanie was. Judging by a quick look at Robinson, he didn’t know either, but attempted his usual unfazed grin.

It was a couple more days of camping before he said it again.

“You’ve got a beanie, innit, ILB?” said Yoghurt blithely.
“A what?” I said, before I could stop myself. “I mean, I’ve got a beanbag at home.”

Which was true. I’d had the same Thomas the Tank Engine beanbag since I was very young. I probably still have it somewhere, along with the Super Mario Bros. 2 cushion and my Year 8 maths textbook.

“A bird?” amended Yoghurt, at which point it clicked.
“Oh! A girlfriend! You’re asking if I have a girlfriend!”
“Like I said. A beanie.”

I had a brief, violent internal struggle at this. I’d never heard of the term beanie (and, to date, I haven’t heard it again). I was aware of bird, but had always assumed that to be slightly pejorative. At the age of 15, I’d started speaking up about it. Plus, I was still something of a fan of the term girlfriend, which I felt more comfortable using.

“Uh… no. No, I don’t have a girlfriend,” I answered, putting the stress on the word that I was using that wasn’t ‘beanie’.

It also took me a few minutes to puzzle out exactly what had caused him to come to this conclusion, considering the fact that I was (in)famously completely unable to get anywhere with romantic relationships, and my long-term crushes were legendary. At this time, I was into the silver girl in my Year 10 German class, to the point that I was writing poetry about her. Never a good sign.

But then I remembered. At Woodcraft a couple of months ago I’d been talking, at some length, about the girl at school who flirted with me a lot. As it turns out, she wasn’t interested – just playing – but I liked the attention. I may have, at one point, considered her a girlfriend, but that wasn’t the case, and now I’m going to stop writing about this because it hurts.

This was almost certainly what Yoghurt had decided translated as “I have a girlfriend”. I didn’t, at any point, actually say that. I wished I did, but I didn’t.

“I wish I did, but I don’t,” I added helpfully, as a way of giving enough supplementary information to satiate his questioning ways.
“Ah. Thought you did. My mistake,” he said sagely and began to slink off to… wherever it is he was going.

“Beanie,” I said to myself. “Really?”

And, as I started composing a song about the girl I did like in my head, Squirrel ran up and pushed me headfirst into my tent.

I do hope he didn’t hear a single word.

Innocent

It was Friday. At about 8pm, I was about as dressed up as I cared to be at that point and getting anxious – I didn’t want to go clubbing too late, as the most interesting things happened earlier in the evening – so I went and knocked on Loll‘s door to ask if she was ready yet. I didn’t always go along with Loll, but she would inevitably turn up at some point, so it seemed like a good bet.

Loll was also dressed up, but cotching on her bed with Jimmy and Aimz. I liked all of them, as well – Jimmy was always a good sort (he asked me not to turn up my music once, as I was in the room above him and he’d managed to pull) and I’d once had a sex dream about Aimz (although I wasn’t about to tell her that), but seeing all three of them together made me feel warm. And maybe a little jealous. I hadn’t had a good hug for a while.

“This is inherently a bit sexual,” someone said (it may have been me).
There was a general murmur of assent.
“I don’t know,” said Aimz. “When I’m on a bed with my boyfriend, we’re usually not just lying here like this. I’m by his side. Or underneath him. Or on top.”
Everyone giggled.
“Whatever works for you, I suppose,” I shrugged. “Everyone agree?”
“I wouldn’t know,” put in Loll, unexpectedly, “because I’m a virgin.”

My initial reaction was to put in something like, “cool, I’m a virgin too.” Throughout year 12, that had been my standard answer. Things had taken a shift in year 13, and now I was at university, I was once again not having any sex, but most definitely not a virgin. For a few seconds, I felt slightly thrown; Loll was looking at me expectantly, clearly waiting for some sort of reaction.

She must have noticed my slightly thrown expression.

“Are you judging me?” she asked. “Judging me because I’m a virgin?”
“Oh, no…” I responded, adding “no, no, no, no, no…” to clarify my answer. “No judgement here. I mean, you’re, what, 18? 19? There’s no reason for you not to be a virgin, really.”
“You’re not a virgin,” said Aimz, “and you’re… well…”

I didn’t wait to let her finish her sentence, and to this day, I still have no idea how it was going to end. I may have liked Aimz a lot, but she could be a little tactless. Mind you, that’s why I liked her.

“…just out of a long-term relationship,” I supplied as an alternative. “I wouldn’t have ever had sex if I hadn’t gotten a girlfriend a couple of years back. Although I still maintain that happened accidentally, so…”
“You’re not judging me?”
“No!”
“What, really?”

At which point, and quite uncharacteristically, I took charge of the situation, and steered us clear of these dangerous waters.

“I’m going to the club,” I said. “If you guys want to join me, then come on.” The three scrambled off the bed, in some sort of coordinated ruckus. “And let’s not talk about Loll’s virginity any more, shall we?”
“Virgins unite!” interjected Jimmy, holding Loll’s hand aloft in a show of solidarity, at which point every turned to look at him.

“What?” asked Jimmy, nonplussed. “Are you judging me?”

Keep a mild groove on…

There’s a monkey in the jungle
Watchin’ a vapour trail
Caught up in the conflict
Between his brain and his tail

I had every reason for going to the club at 9pm. I couldn’t really thrash about on the dancefloor with the sweating, heaving mass who usually rolled in at around 11, and although I usually stayed until everyone chucked out at 2am, half of my night would be drinking something soft. In a corner. Alone.

So I went in at nine, danced for two hours and then resigned myself to my quiet existence otherwise. People I knew, and people I liked, drifted in and out at various points, and sometimes people liked to watch me dance. But, again, I was usually alone.

On this night, however, I didn’t feel alone. I hadn’t been alone for a week, and I was still enjoying the high.

I knew the DJ by sight; I liked him, too – he had a good taste in music and would usually play some James for me if I asked. Despite this, I never quite caught his name; the one whose name I did know had graduated to Actual Clubs™. The university’s union bar was busy, but still… a union bar.

“Excuse me,” I said as politely as I could while having to raise my voice over the thundering din, “but could you play 19/2000 by Gorillaz?”
“Original or remix?”
“Soulchild remix, if you have it!”
“OK, hang on…” he replied, shuffling through a pile of what I recognised as NOW That’s What I Call Music! collections. “It’s here somewhere. Do you want it dedicated to someone?”
“Yes, please, can you dedicate it to Louise?”
“Sure thing. THIS ONE’S FOR LOUISE!” he yelled into the tannoy before Gorillaz (I’m not sure which one – probably 2D?) informed us all that it was the music that we choose. “What’s she done for you?”

He probably didn’t mean that to be such a loaded question. I’d honestly no idea how to answer, either.

I mean, what exactly should I say? Maybe I could mention the way her soft folds tightened around my erection as she mounted me in her car. Perhaps I could talk about the way she bent over her bath expectantly just after sex and clearly ready for more. I could even mention how good she felt during public bathroom sex, but then the public bathroom next to the DJ booth was also somewhere I’d had an orgasm (albeit alone, on my first night there). I’d be disrespecting it, or something.

“She just likes the song,” I shrugged, not untruthfully. The first time we met, 19/2000 had just come out, and she had been texting me snippets of the lyrics whenever she was bored.

It made a change from the ASCII-style porn that Emma kept texting me.

Anyway, the DJ seemed satisfied enough with my answer.
“Hey, do you want to hear some James?” he asked, as I turned to walk away. “I like Laid, how about Laid?”
Oh my Glod, does he know? my dickbrain suddenly started asking. Can he tell? Do I still have that ‘just-had-a-week-of-sex’ glow on me, even though I had a shower recently? Is it that obvious?
“Yes please,” I gabbled, and left as quickly as possible, choosing to avoid the dancefloor with my completely inappropriate erection and instead head to the bar for my first soft drink of the night.

Where, pulling out my ‘phone, I started texting Louise the lyrics.

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