Category: Recollections (Page 3 of 9)

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

Kaf AF

February 25, 2024 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

Back in my youth, I had a friend who I’ll call Kaf. He was a good friend, actually – I knew him at primary school and kept seeing him all the way through secondary. I have bumped into him since (of course, since his family home is just around the corner). He’s now a research chemist working on air purification and the reduction of atmospheric NO_x – needless to say, we couldn’t tell you this in year 6.

Kaf was, for a while, my most reliable friend, and I always saw him as quite mature: he kept a fiver in his pocket at all times; he walked around the area on his own and had been doing so since the age of ten; he knew how to re-wire a plug as long as he had the fuse for it; he wore a puffa jacket and affected a deeper voice than he naturally had. He also enjoyed a huge degree of personal liberty: ask him what he was doing, and he’d be free.

At the time I also wrote a paper diary. It wasn’t the most thrilling piece of literature in the world – although I’d always let people read it – but it was, at the very least, relatively chaste and safe for all to read. The first time I ever wrote something which I thought was a little dodgy came when I added

Kaf was free and we went into town and talked about girls

which I then justified with

(it’s the only thing he’ll talk about).

This wasn’t an unusual subject. Kaf was very interested in “girls”. At the age of 14, I also was, and in fact I’d already had crushes, but Kaf was limerent on a whole different level. He would constantly talk about the girls from the local Catholic girls’ school, with whom he apparently flirted with relentlessly every day (“phwoar!” was his description of one of them). He would occasionally look at someone our age in own and say “she’s fit” far too loud. Daringly, he had posters of Melinda Messenger on his wall and wondered if there was something wrong with me for not wanting one too. After playing Worms 2 I taught him how to use IRC once and he immediately started an online relationship with a Swedish girl we had never heard of before.

I, however, was much less talkative around the subject. I had a little sister and a fair amount of female friends, but I knew very little about “girls”. It happened that I certainly didn’t know that they were the reason for the puffa jacket and affected deeper voice. He wasn’t an unattractive guy, either: he was Greek Cypriot, had well-kept dark hair and a physique built from all the football he played. He was also a little taller than me at about 6’1″. I was considering myself average-looking and non-descript, so was much less likely to talk about, as I put it, “girls”.

The conversation wasn’t all that stimulating, either. We were a little too young to talk about sex, but a little too old to send a Valentine to a friend merely because of her gender. I mainly walked along in silence, listening to Kaf talking at great length about his patented ways to “pull”, despite having never seen him with a girl.

But that is why I added

(it’s the only thing he’ll talk about).

to my journal. I was a little nervy, but I did want to assert the fact that I could discuss my awareness of, and attraction to, the opposite sex. Shifting the blame for the topic of our conversation onto Kaf was a good way of assuaging any guilt I may have felt.

Not that I should have. But then I felt guilt for a lot of stuff.

But that was the first time I mentioned “girls” in my diary. They made infrequent re-appearances since, but less and less so as the years went on until I finally asked someone out. I wrote a very heartfelt entry that day, and even then it was still unusual for me to be so gushing (pantomime fairies notwithstanding). When she turned me down, it began the constant flow of “veil of tears” entries, and when I finally moved to LiveJournal a year later, pretty much all my posts were about “girls” (young women, really; we were in the sixth form by then).

Even then, though, I kept feeling like I had to justify the things I was saying. If I had a crush on you, of course I’d write about you. That’s what journalling was for, right? But I had to be respectful. Kaf took it a bit far. I could keep my integrity…

…as long as I didn’t start writing about sex.That would be ALL SORTS OF WRONG.

Wake Up!

January 17, 2024 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

“Hey. Wake up.”

I rolled over – not an easy task in a single bed – and ended up lying supine.

“I’m awake,” I murmured. “Haven’t gotten any sleep. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” she replied, at which point I realised she was standing up. “I just wanted to point out that, well, that you’re hard. It’s very… apparent.”

She wasn’t wrong. I was hard, and what’s more, I had been for a while. We had had sex, of course, a few hours ago, but my body had decided it was ready to go again. I wasn’t going to wake her up for sex, but as it turns out, that’s what she was doing.

“The thing is,” she continued as she slipped off her tee, “you have a very big penis and that’s a very nice erection, and I really don’t want to waste it.”

There was a beat.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” I eventually came out with. Mr Smooth, right here.

“You don’t need to.” (She stepped out of her girl boxers and kicked them aside.) “You never need to say anything.” (She climbed back onto the bed and straddled me.) “You just need to do the things you know how to do.” (She lowered herself to sit astride. My cock, which was very hard, as you may have realised by now, slid inside her in one stroke.)

I took a deep, shuddering gasp as every single bit of me decided to wake up.

“And this,” she said as she started to ride me with a wicked grin, “is what I like to do with a very nice, very hard penis.”
“I’m not objecting,” I said as I started to meet her bounces with little pelvic thrusts. “You have a very nice… well, a very nice everything.”

As sex goes, it wasn’t very long. But then it didn’t need to be. A few minutes of bump and grind. All the right noises with all the right bits going all the right places. She was lying on top of me when we finished, and that was the way we stayed for a while longer. Her breasts squashed against my chest. My penis still buried inside her. Warm, wet, spent.

When, eventually, she nestled back into the covers and pulled one of my arms around her, she mentioned something about being able to go to sleep now.
“But I was awake. I said I was.”
“But I’m all warm, and satisfied, and full of cum, and I’ll sleep well tonight.”
I laughed, but she didn’t respond. She had gone to sleep. I wish I had that superpower.

Seven or so hours passed, during which I had sex dreams about her.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” said someone at some point.
“Mmmmm?” was my suave reply.
“Tea? Do you want tea?”
“Xibu ejezpv tbz?”
“Come on,” she said, while manually opening my eyes and greeting me with boobs to start the morning. “You can’t be that sleepy at this hour.”
“What time is it?”
“Never mind that! We’ve got to have more sex!”

More sex?

“Wake up!”

Multitasking

January 9, 2024 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

*packs final change of clothes; walls get whitewashed*
47

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 Box™, 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?

It Getter

December 29, 2023 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

As a teenager, I was convinced that I had the innate gift or being able to tell if a romantically involved couple had what I originally termed “it”. Now, in my late thirties, I’m fairly confident in saying I don’t and did not exactly have a definition of what “it” was – just that I could identify it. Case in point: the Floof and her boyfriend had “it” and they got back together about a week after breaking up because God told them to do so.

They’re now married, so I was 100% correct. Of course I was. I was also becoming something of an expert, I told myself, in telling if somebody fancied somebody else. I knew the signs and I knew how to respond. It was never going to happen to me – naturally – but I was absolutely certain that I was born a relationship expert and would be able to use my limerence virtuosity to help any and all others.

Because it wasn’t going to happen to me.

Seven years later…

I’d just been to an audition with my hot single friend who I kissed on stage. Neither of us were particularly keen on the play or knew who the playwright was, but an audition’s an audition, and the rationale was that if we’d played lovers before, we could do so again.

“I don’t know about you,” she said as we made our way through the very dark streets of suburban North London, “but I’m not sure that play is very realistic about relationships. I mean, he’s with her for his whole life, but he’s not happy about it.”
“It happens.”
“I know, but it wouldn’t to people who know better. I mean, not to me. I’ve had a few… well, they’re not really relationships but they’re…”

There was a pause in which we looked at each other and both realised what she meant.

“…I mean, they’re with people who aren’t my age and I’m 27 and that makes things…”

Another pause.

“How old are you?”
“I’m 22,” I answered truthfully. “It’s my birthday next month. When we did The Cherry Orchard I was 21. I turned 22 just before the first dress.”
“That’s the sort of guy I’d go for, really, someone who’s 22. Maybe an actor with messy dark hair. Someone tall and funny, you know? Someone who’s got ‘it’?”
“Ah, well, I hope you find one!” I said cheerily.

Relationship expert right here.

Two months later…

I’d just been to an audition with my hot single friend who I kissed on stage. Our director chose a play which could, in no way at all, be done on the shoestring budget our company has. We all liked it, but I knew in my head that it couldn’t be done. I would have wanted to play the dinosaur, however, had we gone for it.

“I don’t know about you,” she said as we made our way through the very dark streets of suburban North London, “but I’m not sure Monty’s giving us anything to read for that doesn’t end up with us being cast as lovers.”
“It worked in The Cherry Orchard,” I pointed out as we got onto the night bus.
“I know, and it’s good we got to kiss. Maybe we’ve got…”
“…it?”
“Yes. I don’t know, maybe they’ll accelerate and the next show will have us having sex live on stage or something!”
“Well, wouldn’t that be something?” I marvelled.

Last month I finally hit upon the fact that I should have come out with something like

Well, I’d be down for doing that, but of course I’d want to rehearse a fair few times with you first. Just to make sure we get the dialogue right.
something I didn’t say

but instead I came out with

Well, wouldn’t that be something?
something I actually did say

which didn’t quite have the same gravitas.

Neither of us got cast in either play; we didn’t go to the reading for The Comedy of Errors the following week. I ended up being in the first one anyway, but only went to rehearsal twice due to the fact that I had two lines.

We later got recruited into another company. During our performance of The Marriage of Figaro, we held hands while waiting on the bench. We sat together in the dressing room during the interminably long Plautus “realisation” our director Gareth put on. We hugged, we kissed. H, the stalwart, came to every show. I got hugs from her too.

My friend suggested we met for drinks again soon. I said that would be nice. I sill don’t know what “drinks” meant.

One year later…

I was completely blind to the beautiful woman who was laughing at my terrible jokes while I served her at Waterstone’s. I also didn’t really do anything about the pretty blonde who kept following me around during the entire Danish youth camp. One particularly randy friend told me that we were flirting and had “it”, but I didn’t know what “it” was.

My ‘phone pinged when I was just finishing off some shopping in town. It was her, inviting me to her thirtieth birthday party. I said I’d go, but in the end couldn’t. This time, I suggested we met for drinks.

We didn’t. We sent each other playful, suggestive messages on Facebook. I asked her outright once on MSN what it was like to have sex on one’s period. She gave an answer and then said it would be fun for me to find out.

“Yes, it’d be interesting!” I said.

Ladies and gentlemen, your relationship expert.

Christmas is massiv

December 27, 2023 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

I’m 16 and it’s 11:15pm on Christmas Eve. I’m sitting in Gran’s lounge flicking through cable channels on her TV.

Up until five minutes ago I had quite keen to go to mass at midnight. I’d never really considered the concept before. My church doesn’t really do what would traditionally be considered mass, and although I used to go on Christmas morning, I’d kind of fallen out of the practice. I had been invited by my grandparents and was quite excited to go…

…until I flicked past Bravo and noticed Confessions of a Window Cleaner was on.

“Ooh! It’s a Timmy Lea film!” I said out loud to nobody in particular, deciding then and there that I didn’t really need to go to mass; I could just wait out Christmas watching questionable slapstick comedy mixed with gratuitous cheeky smut. I’d managed to upset my mum, who shouldn’t have minded as she is an atheist, by telling her that I’d decided not to go.

I can sit here watching Confessions, and things will be fine.

My finger hits the “last” button on the remote the instant my mum walks in and the TV channel jumps to The Box. Changes by 2Pac is on (again).
“Your grandparents have gone to mass,” she says in a voice saturated with disapproval. (My memory is telling me that a sex scene has just started on the channel and I’m missing it.) “Without you.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m… I’m too tired to go,” I lie smoothly.
“I meant to tell you, though, that if you don’t go to mass you won’t be able to sit here watching music videos. You’ll have to go to bed.”

Five minutes of kicking about in my room pass before I look at the clock and notice the time. It’s 11:25. I half walk, half run into the lounge.

“Changed my mind!” I shout. “I want to go to mass!”
My parents look at each other.
“But it’s in five minutes,” my mother says.
“But I’ve decided I really really really want to go! And it’s not too far away, and if you drive me…”

I sit in a chair next to my nan thirty seconds before our minister starts up. There are some huffy comments about how late I left it, but nevertheless, they’re pleased I’m here. I am too. This happens once a year, it seems fun, and I can always watch ’70s sex comedies on Channel 5. There’s no reason not to come to this.

And that’s how I started going to mass on Christmas Eve. Things have happened since then, of course – people have started to come and stopped again. As teenagers the cousins would all get drunk and then stumble to church and have a whale of a time. Once my auntie would drop the blood of Christ on the floor (and mostly my uncle’s trousers). Every year we would struggle our way through the descant on O Come All Ye Faithful (and we still do).

But it really doesn’t feel like Christmas without it.

The Amorous Milk

November 10, 2023 / Innocent Loverboy / 2 Comments

Some people call me the milkman because I always deliver pain.
Others think it’s because I’m a renegade milkman.
But the real reason they call me the milkman is…
I carry a bottle of milk with me.

It was seven-thirty post-meridian and I was just standing outside the Zoroastrian Centre on Edgware Road when I got a text.

It wasn’t full of doom and gloom, but then again, it wasn’t overly exciting, either. Alicia had run out of milk and wanted me to pick some up on the way to her flat. There was an M&S on the road, so it wouldn’t be difficult. Simple task, of course, and nothing unusual. I’m always buying milk. How would I be able to drink my tea otherwise?

But this made me unreasonably excited.

The relationship between Alicia and I was wonderfully uncomplicated. We would meet at her house (often on my way back from work); we would talk and eat; we would flirt and eventually have sex. We would sleep, spoon, maybe have sex again in the morning, and then we would leave for our respective lives. There were, of course, variations on this theme: on our first night together we watched Moulin Rouge! beforehand; on our second, she randomly drummed the main beat from Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo on my stomach. But the general idea was the same.

Image from Disney's "Cinderella" (1950) showing a magic spell. The magic looks a bit like jizz. — Neither Cinderella or the Fairy Godmother look like Alicia. Cinderella’s hair here is similar to hers, though.

What made this simple request special was that this was the first time she had ever asked me to do anything domestic. Maybe neither of us had ever considered this. I was her lover, not her maid; I offered to help her wash up after dinner, but she had consistently refused. I occasionally went to the fridge to get chilled water for immediately after sex. Once I put some stuff in the bin. But that was about it.

Here, I had an actual errand. Go to the shop. Buy some milk. Bring it with me to her flat, so I could have tea with her before sex, also with her. I’d never had to buy milk in any sort of relationship before. Rebecca’s mum always had a supply available and Louise preferred lemonade (although she also had some for me when I requested coffee).

Is this what being a husband is like? I wondered, as I stepped into the warm light of M&S (noting the contrast with the Harrow darkness outside). Providing milk to your lady with the promise of hot sex afterwards? Calm down, ILB. You’re overthinking things again. Just turn up with milk and a penis and that’s all she’s really expecting.

I chose semi-skimmed, paid and set off down the hill to Alicia’s flat. As usual, she opened the door wearing a nice dress and a smile. I nervously, but with an air of utter confidence, presented her with a bottle of milk in lieu of a hello. She smiled, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and beckoned me inside.

We had a lot of sex that night.

This was preceded by some apple crumble she had made with custard. I don’t like apple crumble or custard, but I was very good at pretending. Plus, I had tea to drink to get rid of the taste.

With milk.

Mothman

October 26, 2023 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

The first Nite Owl runs an autorepair shop. The first Silk Spectre is dying in a California rest resort. Dollar Bill got his cape stuck in a revolving door where he got gunned down. Silhouette… murdered. Mothman is in an asylum in Maine.
rorschach’s journal

It’s after nine in the evening and pizza has just been delivered. Apparently, this was a big part of the university lifestyle that I never got to lead. Three years up in Nottingham and pizza delivery only occurred to me once or twice. Here in Oxford, it happened after every essay was completed.

But they wrote more essays than I did, so.

This is the last communal pizza they will share in this flat. I’m an extra piece – an additional complication that they hadn’t factored in. To whit, although I’m sharing in the pizza, I’m trying to prove myself useful by getting a moth out of the window. The moth is winning this epic struggle.

“How much longer are you staying here, anyway?” I ask as I attempt an arabesque in order to find the moth behind a cupboard. She flies away and I injure my leg.
“We have to stay for a certain amount of time,” says E, “or we don’t graduate. Very few of us actually do that time, but we have to stay for…”

At which point the girl who nobody likes walks in. She exchanges a sour look with E, the Seamstress and the moth. I may as well not exist at this point.

There is a very long pause. Without a word, she crosses the floor, exits into her room and closes the door.

Everyone breathes out. I attempt to cup the moth in my hands; she escapes and I only succeed in slamming my hand against the wall.

“What was all that about?”
“We don’t know what to do with her,” says the Seamstress darkly. “It’s been long enough and I’ve no idea exactly how to repay her for…”

I don’t exactly know what they need to repay her for. It remains unsaid. I notice the moth hovering around a light; I try to vault over a pouffe to get some leverage, but I trip over it and fall. I continue the conversation as if I’m styling it out.

“I’m not a fan of the concept of revenge,” I say, finally taking a bit of pizza. “But there are things you can do to make her feel a little uncomfortable.”
“Play music,” suggested E, “really loud. Something she doesn’t like.”
“Maybe just leave the moth in here,” said the Seamstress, “seeing as how ILB can’t get her out.”
“Go into your rooms,” I said, “and pretend to have really loud sex, and she’ll get jealous.”

They both laugh at this, although there’s something in the laughter which shows they’re aware that we have, in fact, spent quite a large chunk of the day doing just that. To save my blushes, I hop across the room to open a large window on which the moth is now resting. I even try to coax her out. She’s having none of my bullshit.

The evening is filled quite pleasantly with pizza, graduation discussion and free-flowing conversation. This, clearly, was the university experience I missed out on; I may have done some interesting things in my time, but here I feel much more comfortable.

E eventually says she has to go to bed, but we all know she’s just wanting to leave us alone. With an empty pizza box discarded on the side table, we stand there in silence, looking at each other, for a few very heavy seconds.

The moth flies in between us at one point.

We retreat into her room. Clothes end up on the floor. A condom wrapper joins them soon enough.

The rest of the night is full of kisses and orgasms.

But I’m aware, at the back of my mind, that we are never truly alone.

THE MOTH IS ALWAYS WATCHING.

Revelations: IILLBB

August 31, 2023 / Innocent Loverboy / 2 Comments

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 𝕏 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.

Pink Off

August 26, 2023 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

“Everyone gets one page,” said Lightsinthesky. “You get one page; you can write whatever you want. Or draw something. But you only get one… pink and jeans! Pink and jeans! What is it with pink and jeans?! …page.”
“What if you finish your notebook?” I asked innocently. “Do you get another page in the second one?”
“I haven’t thought about…”
“Wait. What was that about pink and jeans?”
“Pink and jeans? Where?” he half-yelled, suddenly tensing in high alert like a startled meerkat.

I can’t really explain whether it was a 2002 thing or entirely localised around our borough, or even our school. Wearing a pink top paired with blue jeans (and, often, a large belt) had become a thing. As far as I was aware, it wasn’t even a deliberate fashion; it was just… a thing that happened.

I quite liked the look; Lightsinthesky – for whatever reason – hated it.

Being friends with Lightsinthesky came with its certain caveats: he liked to be addressed as “dude”; you could read one of his books but he would have probably drawn a cartoon of you somewhere there; he would invariably become interested in anything with a pulse (and fell in love with someone else every single day); he didn’t make much sense.

And he had his phrases.

Han Solo and Obi-Wan Kenobi in Star Wars: A New Hope (1977). Nothing to do with pink and jeans. — It ain’t there. It’s been blown away.

“My God, that woman’s got a huge arse.”
“People will lose body parts.”
“Fluff! Aah-aah! Fluff of the universe!”
“Yes, she is intensely shaggable.”
“Look at her, she’s nice.”
“Totally blown away.”
“Don’t start activating my annoying meter.”
“Pink and jeans! Why? Why do they all wear pink and jeans?”

For that, none of us had an answer. There was no reason the girls in our sixth form shouldn’t wear that combination. It wasn’t something the boys wore, even the gay ones – it was a cis girl thing. And, although I didn’t mind it as much as Lightsinthesky did (his vitriol was unfounded), he had a point: wearing pink and jeans was increasing.

Following one particularly amusing lunchtime where I genuinely thought he’d pass out from all the yelling he was doing (as it may as well have been Jeans for Genes Day judging by what we saw), I finally bit the bullet and asked.

“Oh, it’s just easy,” said my unconcerned friend. “Jeans are comfortable and some tops are pink. It’s not deliberate, it’s just a thing that…”
“…thing that happens, yeah. I got it,” I helpfully added, pausing as Lightsinthesky’s latest tirade against the combination of fuchsia and cyan floated through the wall. “It just seems to irritate Lightsinthesky, that’s all.”

There was a pause.

“Of course it does,” she tinkled with a grin. “Why do you think we do it so much?”

A couple of days later I talked him into letting her have a page of his second “book of dude”. Her contribution consisted mostly of drawing of houses, trees, hills, the sun and the text “PINK & JEANS RULES THE WORLD!” in bold black writing.

I don’t think he ever got over it.

As far as I’m concerned, though, I don’t suit blue jeans, but one of the looks I find sexiest is someone wearing jeans on their lower half, with nothing on top at all…

…ladies.

Relaxed? Horny? I’m So Confused!

August 4, 2023 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

I don’t know which path you’re taking
If it’s bent or straight
All I know is I’ve found something
That will take me home again

It’s the middle of summer and school is a distant memory. I’m lying on my back in the overgrown field of grass near the local estate that used to belong to a stately home. The home itself is now a café; the grounds are open to everyone. The Sun is high, her heat radiating down onto us. I’m relaxed – more so than I have been in days. Weeks, even.

I’m not a happy person. Recently I’ve been turned down by the one person I ever thought to ask out. Depression comes and goes, seemingly at random. This is a rare moment of calm in the maelstrom of doom and gloom that my life has become.

I am horny, of course. But that’s to be expected. I’m hard nearly all of the time and, since I don’t masturbate, there’s very little way of getting rid of the shameful horn. I don’t think any of them have noticed, although right now I don’t really care. I’m relaxed. That’s all I need.

We have been here for a couple of hours. Earlier on, we listened to a singing competition on the radio VW brought with him, in which various people of our age sang the female verse from Teenage Dirtbag to win a small cash prize. The Floof was discoursing loudly about how attractive her boyfriend was. Most other people were being quiet, but very handsomely so.

“HEY, LOOK!” VW yelled at one point. “I’VE GOT TWO GRASSHOPPERS HAVING SEX ON MY HAND!” (Maybe it was the mention of sex that set me off. I’ve no idea.)

But that was a while ago. We’ve had food and drinks, and we’re now just lazing about on the grass. I’m nearly asleep… and I may well be, were I not so horny. There’s a dull thud emanating from the throb of my hardness, echoing through my body in time with my heartbeat. I can practically hear it reverberating through the dry grass I’m lying on… the soil below… the planet.

Relaxed. Horny.

And none of the people around me have any idea.

If I could have sex now, I think – and not for the first time – I would. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I’d have sex here and now, under the heat and in the long grass.

Someone says something at some point and we start to make our way slowly back home while VW talks at some length about DragonBall Z. I’m only half-listening, walking along unsteadily while my erection begins to melt away and I feel more comfortable in the khaki trousers I’ve been wearing.

I get home, cool off and have a long, cold drink. I lie back on the little sofa in my room and take a few deep, steadying breaths…

…and, within a few minutes, I’m hard again.