Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Category: Sex

Innocent Loverboy’s Posts about Sex

4(nal) secs

I was three pints of Diet Coke into a raucous game of “I Have Never” when somebody – I forget who – said that he had never given, or been the recipient of, anal sex.

A few people drank, including the pretty French teacher who was leaving the following day, the Asian doctor who had treated my head injury less than 24 hours prior, and the Liverpudlian girl who was better at rugby than the 200+ other people in the centre. After a few seconds, I drank too.

I always drink – for this isn’t the first time it’s come up during such a game – for anal sex, but in truth, I’m not entirely sure if my experience counts. I certainly had my penis inside an anus, and it was certainly enjoyed by both parties involved, but (aside from what might be termed the ‘technical’ side of things) I don’t think it really counts as anal sex – mainly because of its duration: four seconds.

It’s not even as if I’m at all squicked out by anuses (anii? No, I had to look it up – anuses) at all. I’ve given analingus (and would again). I’ve penetrated anuses with my finger (my second girlfriend liked to have one finger in each hole while I licked her clit, so I became pretty adept pretty quickly). I’m not shy, or ashamed, to touch. I’m aware it’s sensitive and I’m aware some people like it.

Having said all that, my arse is a no-go area. I’ve even had offers, but I’ve said no. I’ve had enough gastric problems throughout my life to know that I don’t trust my intestines very much, and I know from experience that, even if I use the toilet, clean, wash and then get bizzy with it, my rear end isn’t a very pleasant place to be around. I’m not really expecting to be on the receiving end of anal sex anyway, but yeah. I’m the giver, in this case.

Right, yeah. My experience.

My four seconds of anal came after forty or so minutes of incredibly vigorous vaginal sex, so there was plenty of preparation there. She had, incidentally, had somewhere between three and five orgasms (I’d stopped counting after two) and had been fingering herself in both holes while running a bath in order to clean up. I hadn’t had an orgasm, myself (I had earlier in the day, of course), and right then, I was still hard.

“Can I help?” I asked unsteadily, as I walked into the bathroom having regained the use of my legs.
“Certainly,” she quipped, bending over with her hands on the edge of the bath. “Go on.”
“I’m waiting.”
And I shuffled forwards, angled myself into what I thought was the correct position (having only seen this in porn, and never really given it more than a passing thought), and carefully slid my shaft into her anus, keeping a hand on each hip to hold myself in place.

[Disclaimer: Don’t actually do this. Anal sex takes a large amount of preparation, careful planning, toilet time beforehand and lots of lube. Louise was incredibly wet in all areas and more than ready at the time, and we were two horny teenagers, but it’s more than worth putting a warning here.]

My memories of being inside – brief as the actual experience was – amount to the fact that it was:

(i) tighter than usual (I could feel everything)
(ii) warmer than usual
(iii) completely baffling for me
(iv) clearly very pleasurable for her, as she let out a low, deep moan very unlike her usual high-pitched shrieks of joy during sex

Ed Miliband using the classic phrase to dramatic effect.

I didn’t actually say anything, or do anything else. I was very stiff from all the sex and didn’t really trust myself to thrust. If memory serves, all I really said was “uh,” which was pretty much everything, as I pulled out immediately after I went in, and nothing happened afterwards. Louise gave me a giggle, and a kiss, and then went to get some towels.

With nothing else to do, I got into the bath.

So, no, I can’t pretend to be an expert and I’m not entirely sure if what we did counts. My memories, like the summer heat and the air around at the time, are hazy. But if we’re playing I Have Never, and anal sex comes up, then I’ll take a drink. Nobody really asks any further questions, but if they do… well…

…that’s what my blog is for.


I wish, and I say this with earnest sincerity, that I could bottle the feelings I have in my less lucid moments, for voracious consumption when fully awake and actually aware that I want to have sex.

It’s probably not as cut-and-dry as that; nor is it particularly practicable, I am aware. Both the sleepy daytime dreams and cosy quasi-wakefulness betwixt sleep and death probably warrant lustful feelings precisely because I’m not entirely in control of my body, and devolving somewhat into something more primal. I’m fairly certain that there’s even some amount of credence to the idea that my sexual desires, buried as they are in my unconscious during the day, find their outlet when I’m not wrestling them back.

It’s frustrating, then, that I have feelings like I did during yesterday’s rest (wherein I hit upon the idea of sex as a sanitary, clean, purely recreational activity with no ramifications whatsoever – stemming from idle thoughts of a social media friend and ending up, as ever, with the message pervasive in Emmanuelle), resulting almost invariably in RAGING HORN plus glorious visions and imaginings, that have all but vanished by the time I actually attempt to act upon them (as I also did yesterday).

[Check me out, English graduate over here, writing the previous paragraph as one complete sentence, including parenthetical remarks (twice) and unwarranted tense change.]

These feelings – and the visions that come with them, that also act as an aide-de-camp to arousal (I had a particularly vivid sensory hallucination recently, so much so that I could feel the vaginal walls contracting around my cock) – would be of a lot more use if they could be bottled, preserved, and used during masturbation, or even sex itself. They’re the perfect blend of lust, whimsy, and the like of laissez-faire attitude that makes for fun and fancy free sex.

Unfortunately, I’m fairly sure that a major component of these semi-fantasies is that they involve being very sleepy, and as much fun as sleepy sex can be, I probably wouldn’t be a fan of dropping off during (although it does happen!).

But if I could just, as I said above, bottle those feelings, and keep them for when they are needed… why, if I could do that, I’d own this town.


Last week, because I am a wild rebel who leads a life of extremity and excitement, I bought myself a new diary from WHSmith.

Hold your applause; I’m not quite done yet!

For those of you who have yet to discover the delights of WHSmith diaries, they contain – as well as, you know, days and shit – a tiny, almost unreadable map of the London Underground (a Herculean task to decipher at the best of times) and – and I was surprised to find this – the skeletal National Rail map which, if you’re not aware, both displays all the major stations in the UK and makes some very dubious suggestions as to what counts as a major station.

Something I’ve been meaning to do for about seven years, and only remembered to this morning, involves going through the National Rail map and circling all the places I’ve had sex. Inevitably there will be some places NR scandalously left off the map, but then I need to use my memory for those, eh? So let’s go…

…and, just to make it that little bit more difficult, let’s go in order of frequency.

National Rail
If you squint and twist your head it looks like a bunny.

This isn’t actually on the map, as they’ve only listed the major termini (terminuses? No, that looks wrong.). It doesn’t list all the bits of London in which I’ve had sex – Barnet, Brent, Camden, City, Croydon, Enfield, Harrow – but then again, the tube map lists all those more accurately. Maybe that’s another blog post.*

(*No, it isn’t.)

Though I love Oxford – the atmosphere, the shopping, the architecture, the eateries, the bikes – and the fact that I must have had sex hundreds of times in Oxford – the thing I’ll always remember about it has to be the announcement on the platform. I did start formulating a story in my head about the Oxford announcer guy banging the Paddington announcer lady… but it never got any further than what I’ve just told you. Ay me.

Birmingham, et al.
Birmingham’s on the map, but the bits of Birmingham I’ve had sex in aren’t. I never managed to do so in the city centre, but I did so numerous times in Walsall, and once in Sutton Coldfield, so… you know… there’s that.
I don’t actually mind Birmingham as a place. It just looks unfinished. I took the coach up practically every week for a year and a half, and the area around Toys “Я” Us continued to look like a bomb site. But maybe that’s part of the charm.

Is the closest I can get, because the little town (with a Leeds postcode) isn’t on the National Rail map. It consists mostly of charity shops and estate agents and was a bus ride away from Leeds train station.
I cried in Leeds train station after a particularly difficult time in which I was convinced I had done something terrible. I’ve never been back there since.

Now we’re into make or break territory, really, because I’m not entirely sure which of these places I’ve had sex in a few times is the most numerous…! But let’s go for Bath.
Bath is perhaps my favourite place in the UK. I can’t really pinpoint why, but I love it. On account of the fact that I went there at least twice with a highly sexual girlfriend, I’m betting that it’s next down my list. I’ll probably end up back there at some point, of course.

Is probably next, mainly due to the same girlfriend. I like Brighton too, even though my most recent sojourn was a bit of a washout. Still, I saw Parasite there, so. Trivia tells me that it’s the only place where I’ve successfully had sex standing up, so that’s certainly worth a mention.

Bristol (Temple Meads)
“TAKE A GOOD LOOK, BRISTOL!” I shouted, standing completely naked at the window in the Radisson Blu looking at the lights twinkling around the Western night. Almost exactly twenty-four hours later I was having probably the best sex of my life in exactly the same room.

The last place I can think of, and the northernmost, in which I’ve had sex. I spent a week there in a hotel room with a hot girl who, at one point, woke me up in the middle of the night for sex. I mean, we did it a few times – once a day, if I remember correctly – but I remember the middle-of-the-night sex a lot more!

And the rest…

Cambridge, Canterbury (East), Marlow, Manchester (Piccadilly), Newport, Nottingham (I spent three years here and had sex only once!), Skipton, and Taunton all deserve a mention too; I think that I had sex once in each of these places, but I remember them all for more reasons than that!

Brandon and Stratford-upon-Avon aren’t on the map at all, but I’ve had sex there too!

Provence, France
Probably doesn’t count.

Port Elizabeth, South Africa
Definitely doesn’t count.

Boom, clap, I’m in me friend’s car

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 asked. “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?

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.

© 2020 Innocent Loverboy

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑