Category: Recollections (Page 9 of 9)

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

Boom, clap, I’m in me friend’s car

July 8, 2020 / Innocent Loverboy / 8 Comments

It’s another balmy day in Port Elizabeth and I’ve been attempting to float in the pool for half an hour now. I can’t float – it’s always been impossible for me despite the Seamstress insisting that it is – but trying is fun. At least being in the water is fun. I don’t like the heat, anyway, and being in water is a way to pretend it isn’t as hot as it is.

Louise isn’t in the water, because she’s paralysed with laughter. She’s been watching me flail around for a few minutes. I leaned back and almost floated for about a second before sinking into the water with a sound like the ‘drowning’ noise from Worms 2. Apparently my facial expression was what made her laugh. She hasn’t stopped.

“Hey, you,” she says. “Let’s go for a drive.”

I pull myself out of the pool with a huge reverse splash. The heat in the air dries me off almost immediately. Who needs towels?

“Didn’t we go for a drive yesterday?” I ask. “You drove me around the city. We went to the wharfs. We went to the café. We probably would’ve ended up in the bush if I hadn’t persuaded you otherwise.”
“That was then; this is now,” she replies, as if there’s some sort of weighted finality in this completely innocuous statement. I’ve no idea what she’s going on about, but I’ve long since decided there’s no point at all in questioning her. I shrug, walk through the French windows, throw on a loose T-shirt and pull on some shorts that I hadn’t been aware I still had.

She’s already standing by her car by the time I’ve locked everything and left through the front door. It’s quite a nice car, although I don’t really know anything about cars – I just think it looks nice. It’s a nice blue colour. To be frank, I’m just impressed that she can drive. She learned at 17 which, I remind myself, was two years ago. Still, she picked me up from the airport and has been driving me around a city I don’t know for two days now, so…

“Your chariot awaits,” she says (and yes, she seriously says that), holding open the passenger door. The seat is pushed all the way back, which I assume is because I’m a tall idiot with hecka long legs.

As is turns out, that’s not exactly why she’s pushed the seat back.

“I thought you said we were going for a drive,” I say, albeit quietly, as she climbs on top of me without so much as a preliminary warning.
“Eh… I lied,” she admits. “Surely you don’t mind this?” she adds, pulling off her top to reveal her breasts, huge and shiny, grabbing my hand as she does so and guiding it so I can feel how wet she is.
“Mind it? No, not really,” I say. Or, at least, I would, but I’ve got my lips wrapped around one of her peaked nipples and can’t really say anything right now.

I could spell it out in Morse code via small licks, I suppose. But I’m not sure that would work. I don’t know Morse code.

She arches her back while I work her with my tongue. She looks fantastic, but then again, she always has. I’m starting to feel the heat again, but then, I’m in a car with a beautiful girl sitting on top of me – it’s hardly an Arctic floe.

I won’t recall, later, exactly the particulars of how she manages to get my shorts off and my pants down without dismounting. It’s not that important anyway, I reason. She’s not wearing anything under her skirt which, I suppose, shouldn’t be too much of a surprise. She shifts; there are a few moments of silent anticipation, and then I feel her folds split wide as my smooth, firm cock slides in, her grinning the grin that she grins at my semi-gleeful, semi-abashed face (which, apparently, is what I look like every time).

I feel her inner walls squeeze, moulding themselves around my shape. I’m throbbing – a lot – but can’t really do much, stuck as I am into a car seat. She’s doing the work, merrily riding away, sliding up and down like only she knows how to do, giving me what I need… and, judging by the sounds she’s making (and yes, she is loud), she’s getting what she wants as well. I try to do something with my hands, but all I can really do is hold onto her sides. She doesn’t have a problem with that.

We’re having sex in a car. I realise this just before she orgasms – a huge, powerful, rolling one. She makes a kind of low guttural moan – almost bestial – as I feel her girlcum begin to cascade from her soaked sex, coating my shaft, and running down her legs, to boot.

She leans forwards, resting her whole body on me (but there isn’t too much of her, so this doesn’t hurt). I wrap my arms around her and just hold her. Neither of us say anything, but then what else is there to say? Good sex is good. I’m not going to look this gift horse in the mouth, specifically when the gift horse is a millionaire’s daughter who did quite a lot of pleading a few days ago to actually get me onto the ‘plane.

It’s only after we get back into the pool – we didn’t go for a drive at all, you’ll be totally shocked to hear – that I think to ask what she’s going to do about the large stain we left on the seat.

“Oh, that’s okay,” she says brightly. “I’ve got a sponge and some cleaning fluid. It gets the stains out of anything. I’ll clean it up tomorrow, and then we’ll go for a drive. A real one this time.”
“You’ll clean it up? Surely you’d let me do it, after what you just gave me.”
“I’m the one who came, and besides, it’s my car.”
“It is,” I demur. “But surely I could at least help. Carry the bucket, or something.”

It takes me a while to convince her that “carry the bucket” isn’t a euphemism for anything. But, by the time I’ve finished explaining, she’s right back to where she was an hour ago… on the side of the pool, watching me flail, and wheezing with laughter.

Cockblocked by… myself?

July 4, 2020 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

For the past year or so, my gut has left me alone. I was formally diagnosed with IBS a few months ago, after repeated and increasingly uncomfortable tests to make sure it wasn’t Crohn’s or UC or something new that’s going to end up named after me. A less stressful job that I quite like, some tablets with friendly bacteria (which makes me seem like a wanker, but just go with it), and – dare I say it? – drinking more water (it is free at work) have all helped, and whereas I do still have issues with my stomach, attacks are less common, and when they do happen, rarely debilitating.

Mind you, when they happen, they really happen.

As you may have realised from my last few posts, I haven’t had sex for a very long time, and non-penetrative sexual contact (while something that has happened, rarely) is the most I’m doing. I’m not going to push the issue, or talk about it much here, but very little has been happening of late. The other day, however, my girlfriend started talking about getting some new sex toys, and my interest was piqued.

I was in the bathroom when she asked it.

“Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m… I’m on the toilet.”
“Okay, I was thinking… after you’re finished, maybe do you… do you want to play?”

The fact that I’d noticed our Doxy had been moved from the corner of the room to her side of the bed floated into my head.

“Play? Play! Yes! Yes, I want to… I’ll be with you in an… aaaaaaargh…”
“What is it?”
“Nothing, nothing…”

Of course, that was a lie. It was something. The instant she had mentioned play, my entire abdominal system compressed into a ball with roughly the density of a neutron star. I leaned forwards, stuffed my fist in my mouth and screamed silently.

I kept promising, of course, that I would be with her soon. Zounds, but I wanted to be. The problem was that, with my gut deciding to have a go at shibari without having consulted me first, I could barely talk, never mind move. I couldn’t wield a Doxy, wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on using my fingers, and if it came to oral sex (DEAR GOD I MISS GIVING ORAL SEX AND IT HAS BEEN SO LONG), I doubt I’d have had the focus to give as much time and attention as I usually do, what with my body experiencing an internal French Revolution, complete with guillotine.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I… aaaaaaaaargh…“
“It’s okay – you stay in there as long as you need – we don’t have to…”
“No, I want to… it’s just… aaaaaaaargh, fuck!“
“Seriously! Take care of yourself first!”

Discord wants a glass of water — “A little glass of water, please?”

It’s not really like I had much of a choice in that situation. So that’s where I stayed, sitting, for the next hour or so, continually swearing at the entirety of my gastro-intestinal system and wishing, not for the first time, that I could just rip it out, if only temporarily.

She did bring me a glass of water, though, so it’s nice to see that she doesn’t consider me a complete disappointment.

Archaeology

June 20, 2020 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

I know I’m in my thirties. I’ve been in my thirties for a while now (so says the blogger with the word “boy” in his sobriquet), and will be for a while yet. I just don’t feel like it.

Admittedly, I don’t really know what I’m expecting being in one’s thirties to feel like. Part of me feels old, very old… old enough that most people at work, and what feels like half of my family too, is younger than me (my friendly colleague who did my annual review last year was 22!). I wasn’t really expecting to be anywhere by this age… but then again, I never thought I’d live this long to begin with.

But then sometimes I completely forget that I’m in my thirties. I accidentally told someone the other day that I was twenty-five, not that I look it. At some points, it feels as if I haven’t even left my late teens, which (considering that was now two decades ago) is a thought both terrifying and a little sad.

I sometimes feel like I didn’t age too well because I never really had a “wild period”. I was a good kid, and while I wasn’t the world’s greatest teenager – because who is? – I could have been a lot worse. I wasn’t overly confrontational, nor did I overindulge in any of the adolescent vices, avoiding as I did smoking, drinking, drugs, and even masturbation (until I was 17). I didn’t go out a lot (or at all, really, unless you count Woodcraft); I did all my schoolwork (often at school, so I didn’t need to do it at home); I was relatively civil to everyone.

For most of my teenage years, though, I was battling quite severe depression, of the type that most people misconstrue as “attention-seeking”. I didn’t have much energy after all the crying and self-harming and nights spent lying awake wondering if my life was a failed one and I should just give up.

I’m not sure what my twenties was supposed to feel like, either. I didn’t really do anything at university (all my escapades were outside thereof – again, mostly Woodcraft). Despite all the stories one hears about students – wistful nostalgia about having “come alive” while there and so forth – nothing happened to me. I didn’t particularly enjoy university as it is, and the fact that after my finals the celebrations consisted entirely of a hot chocolate in a coffee shop with a bunch of mature students, themselves in their thirties, should probably tell you all you need to know.

The bits after my university life were just as sedate. Going out now consisted of being in a friend’s house watching DVDs with a pizza from Domino’s. Social media wasn’t a thing (MySpace was around, but I wasn’t really using it), so I didn’t really have any way of contacting people I didn’t have the numbers of to text.

I also didn’t date, nor did I sleep around. Or sleep with anyone. Or come close. I’m not hot enough, nor am I bold enough. 20-year-old me would have been all over hookup apps, had they been a thing. Still.

For most of my twenties, and all of my thirties so far, I’ve been attached. I had about half a year of being single around the age of 25/26, and about a month again in 2012. As much as being attached is pleasant (I work best in relationships), I do feel sometimes like there’s been the occasional missed opportunity. I wasn’t ready for my third relationship – I was still suffering from being broken up with – and I spent subsequent years meeting hot people at Erotic Meet, Eroticon, etc. being completely unavailable.

I know, it’s all the kind of “what-if?” situations that are completely unknowable, but it’s the not knowing that’s killing me.

Why am I saying all this?

Because last night I remembered someone. A real person, too, not an unreal girl. I spent most of the morning trying to find her, and when I finally did (I had to follow links through a huge number of Facebook profiles to do so), I barely recognised her. She was there, but she was different – married, a mother, having a stable job and wearing sensible clothes, taking holidays in sunny destinations. She looked like, well, like a parent.

This is the girl who used to chat to me for hours. She’s the girl who openly talked about how much sex she was having and how much she was enjoying porn. She’s the one who advised me to watch the Paris Hilton video (I did watch it, but only once… and I’ll never do that again!), the one who counselled me after my first relationship ended, and teased me mercilessly about touching herself while we talked.

I don’t recognise her.

So what’s the lesson here? Maybe my good memory is starting to play games with me. Or maybe I just remember things so vividly that they seem much more recent than they actually are.

But we age. We all do. And perhaps, just perhaps, we change as we do so.

Canal

June 16, 2020 / Innocent Loverboy / 0 Comments

If I could have sex tonight, I would.

To be perfectly frank, I had been thinking the same thing for a fair while. Every night, really. But this specific night felt a little different. There was more hope in the air… or, at least, that’s what I felt, as I stood there on the bridge, feeling my way along the LEDs lighting it up.

Of course, I wasn’t going to be having sex. There was a huge, raucous-sounding bar at the far end of the bridge (which I suppose is what I was subconsciously heading towards), but I wouldn’t be going in – for a start, I was 17 so wouldn’t be allowed in anyway. Also, what would I do if the impossible did happen and I randomly chanced upon someone who found this idiot sexually irresistable?

“So, do you want to come back with me to the room in the YHA I’m sharing with three other guys?”

I’d already called my parents, and I didn’t have anyone to text. I stood there on the middle of the bridge, staring down at the canal; I even considered walking off into Manchester on my own, before mentally shaking myself into the realisation that walking through Manchester, a city I didn’t know, on my own at the age of 17 probably wasn’t smart.

A giggle came from what I assumed to be the beautiful people who populated the first floor of the bar. A short while later, a happy-looking couple walked down the bridge, past me, arm in arm and enjoying the balmy spring air.

“Le sigh,” I said, and that’s right, I did say that out loud. “If I could have sex tonight, I would.” Perhaps I thought that saying it out loud would have made it come true. I wasn’t telling anyone except the Mancunian air, so it wouldn’t have had much of an effect.

I also probably wasn’t the only 17-year-old in Manchester to have been thinking that at that point. But then I didn’t know how to find them.

I hunched my shoulders and traipsed back to the YHA where I found my travelling companion and his dad watching Titanic in the lounge and discussing how it wouldn’t have won any awards had it come out a few years later.

I allowed myself a rueful smile at the assumption from half my sixth form that I was going to Manchester for Easter to meet someone for sex. As far as I was aware, that couldn’t have been further from the truth.