Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Category: Sex (Page 1 of 2)

ILB’s posts about sex, on this here sex blog

QuoteQuest: Good Job!

A good blow job is fucking art. It’s like playing jazz piano blindfolded for an audience you’re desperate to please. It’s improvisation and communication and skill and practise and a whole lot of love.

girl on the net

I’m not sure if I’ve ever even had a good blowjob.

Okay, stop sharpening the knives. This genuinely isn’t a slight on any of the nine people who have given me blowjobs over the years – I was grateful, in many ways, for every single one. The issue, I’m sure, is with me; my penis appears to be selectively sensitive. It reacts well to masturbation and it likes sexual intercourse, but it doesn’t seem to do much when being sucked.

Or I’m suffering from iron fist. Maybe that’s a thing.

Or maybe I haven’t ever had a good blowjob. That’s always a possibility.

Whatever the reality is, the idea of blowjobs appears to be something that almost universally appeals (although the first time I heard of blowjobs I ran to the toilet to be violently sick). I’ve seen it written somewhere (and forgive me for not remembering quite where!) that those with penes like being blown because it makes them feel like they’re in porn.

I’m not sure about that. There are a lot of blowjobs in porn, but then there are a lot in real life, too. Porn blowjobs tend to involve a lot of spit and quite possibly gagging. I’m not fond of the hacking cough that results – I mean, not in every porn scene, but quite a few…

…which brings up the other question. Power dynamic. Is there one? Male-gaze porn irregularly tends to depict the one getting the blowjob as fully deserving: either being hot enough, or desirable enough, or having done a good job at work or something. In these ideas, a blowjob is a reward: it reinforces the idea that men are dominant, and that women are, apart from anything else, the gatekeepers of sex, and if they choke a bit on the 9″ dick that all men apparently have, then so be it.

I’m hyperbolising a bit here. I don’t even watch that much porn. Blowjobs in softcore always involve a lot of hair, perhaps for obvious reasons.

Yet I’ve also seen a lot of people – of all genders – saying that they like giving blowjobs. Again, they like the concept, and (as GOTN’s rather excellent quote suggests) it’s difficult to get one right, so if they do, they have done a good (blow)job. I’ve talked to people who tell me that they feel like, when giving one, they are the dominant partner; they have, to an extent, control.

My friend Louise, who has given a lot of blowjobs, says this:

I like giving blowjobs simply because it gives me control. It’s a way of gratifying the boy without having him guide the whole experience. I get to call the shots, and I take my time doing it! Oh, and I like the taste of cum, which helps…”

louise

Which is fascinating. Like all aspects of sex, it must vary according to time, place, situation and/or individual. Louise, to her credit, adds that her entire aim in giving a blowjob is to get the recipient to orgasm without any extra stimulus (her nickname, Swallow, is probably the clue there), and that she is nigh on successful every single time…

…but that’s one person with one fixation. There are almost eight billion of us; we can’t all give perfect blowjobs.

I’m probably not the right person to ask. I’ve never given a blowjob, and I’ve never come from getting one.

But if you were to ask me about giving oral sex instead… sign me up for that one!

QuoteQuest

It’ll Never Work: ILB and his 53-X sex machine

In my early years of secondary school – say, years 7 to 9 – I spent many waking night hours trying to divine different ways to have sex on school property. Quite a number were simple – holes in the ground, under the table in a classroom, on the field in the morning mist, etc. – but some were more complex.

And then there was one which was downright bizarre.

When I started secondary school, I didn’t really know what sex looked like. After year 7 biology, I was at least aware of the missionary position (previously, I had been envisioning something similar to anal sex), and therefore, that was what my fantasies involved. I was even less aware of the time it took to have sex and was surprised at how brief it was – again, I was envisioning falling asleep inside someone and staying that way for the whole night – but, in my young head, that all made sense.

But what if you didn’t have to stop having sex? What if you never wanted to stop? Could you, hypothetically, have sex for as long as you wanted, without having to eat or sleep or exercise or do anything else at all, if you had the right equipment?

The right equipment

So here’s what I invented.

The 53-X was a box roughly the size and dimensions of a sideways kitchen ‘fridge, although bigger (obviously; it had to have two humans inside it), laid sideways on the ground, like a coffin. It was also mounted on a concrete pedestal around the back of the Science Block, but that wasn’t particularly important.

There were two sections of the 53-X, mounted atop each other. The bottom section was for those with vulvas; they would lie supine on a kind of memory foam, which would mould itself around their body shape, making them feel comfortable and relaxed. The pelvic area would be slightly elevated; the 53-X itself would also provide sustenance if you wanted it to. It was completely self-contained, although not constraining.

The top section was for those with penes; they would lie prone, the foam on the lid, also moulding around and holding their body in place. Mechanics in the design would enable the genitals to connect; effectively, you could penetrate your partner, stimulants would keep you both sexually aroused, and the 53-X would hold you both in place for as long as you wanted.

There was also a satisfying sci-fi hiss when it opened or closed, accompanied by a dry ice smoke effect. Because of course there was.

You could stay in the 53-X for as long as you wanted, and while in it you would not stop having sex. Hours. Days. Months. Years.

FOREVER!!!

To my teenage brain, this was the hottest thing imaginable. Voluntarily (or involuntarily, I had a dream once about the 53-X being used as a punishment), one could get strapped into this machine and actually spend an incredibly long period of time having sex, which of course was completely taboo at the time and something I’d never, ever, ever get to do.

I also never imagined using the 53-X myself. It was always one of the faceless masses. I was just its inventor… although why I hadn’t been given a detention for inventing this sex machine in a school full of underage teens I wasn’t quite sure.

I’d work that one out later.

Why am I talking about it now, then?

Ah, that’s the big question, isn’t it? I last mentioned the concept, vaguely, twelve years ago; I’ve never touched upon it since.

The other day, with some work colleagues, we passed by my old school. It’s not in an area I go to much any more, and I hardly ever see it. But, as I looked out of curiosity, I spotted – among the jumble of new buildings and coloured fencing – the exact spot where the 53-X would have stood. Pristine. Untouched. In exactly the same state it had been when I walked across it all those years ago.

Its rightful place, waiting for it.

Not that I’d ever actually build it.

But isn’t that what science fiction is for?

Truth will open, truth will out

Six days after the first time I had sex, everyone found out.

To many people, though, this wasn’t the first time I had lost my flashing V. The year beforehand, the rumour had spread that I had had sex with Louise, when the truth itself was much more complicated. When it boils down, however, to “I didn’t actually have sex with her, but she asked me to start a rumour that I had“, it doesn’t seem too complex, but at the time it was.

To this day I still genuinely don’t know if any of my (former) classmates believed, at the time, that I did sleep with Louise – although I did sleep with Louise, three years later – or if any of them still do; I was never too clear on the matter.

This time, however, it was real and completely undeniable. No longer was I vague or coy, nor was I ashamed: I was a sexual being and I’d had sex, and I was going to be having some more, and although it came out in a relatively random way, I wasn’t going to not answer things any more.

“So are you seeing her tonight?”
“Yes, I am! I’m going up there right after school!”
“This relationship’s really going somewhere, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’m so pleased! It’s going really far, really fast!”
“What do you mean… you haven’t slept with her, have you?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s to be expected, I mean, we’re in a relationsh…”
“Wait, what?”

By the time the door opened and we made our way into the English classroom, everyone in the class knew I had done it. (And this time, everyone believed it.)

Their reactions ranged from polite, confused befuddlement to absolute horror (which didn’t do too much for my poor self-image). One friend, who had expressed amazement and hastily reassured me that it wasn’t because I was physically abhorrent and she couldn’t understand any anyone would have sex with me (that was Lightsinthesky’s take), eventually came out with what I assume everyone was thinking:

“But I thought you were against sex before marriage?”

I’ve never been against sex before marriage.

“No, I’m not aga…”
“You were, but not any more, right?”
“No, I’ve never been…”
“Because now you’ve had sex and you’ve changed your tune, right?”
“No, I’ve never been agai…”
“But you’re a Christian!”
“Yes, I am, but that…”

At which point our teacher entered and everyone shut up.

It’s not like the signs hadn’t been there. As early as year 7 RS, when I’d stood up in front of the class and said verbatim that I had no problem with sex before marriage (as it was an expression of love and marriage didn’t need to be necessary), and then written the same in my exercise book (my teacher countered with “can you love someone and not marry them?”, which is one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard a teacher say), it had been fairly clear to which mast my colours were nailed.

I barely remember what our teacher said during that A2 English lesson. What I do remember, vividly, was the fact that all eyes were on me throughout, as if I were about to spontaneously combust or something. For the first time, I found myself enjoying the attention.

I was still replaying the conversation/revelation a couple of hours later, when on the coach to Birmingham. I was sure that they’d all still have questions (for me; nobody thought to ask Lightsinthesky, or my token black friend, both of whom had lost their flashing V the year prior), but right then, I was unavailable for comment.

Because I was on the coach, on the way to Birmingham.

For more sex.

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.

International (booty) call?

About a week or so ago, I made an international call to someone who doesn’t like speaking on the telephone. I knew this was risky – and her fear of a disembodied voice proved to be an issue the last time I saw her in person (to the point of her masturbating in the same room as me, so she wasn’t distracted by any noises I made) – but this was, to put it mildly, important.

I had something to say, and I wanted to do so without preamble… but then, what kind of friend would I be had I done that?

“Er, yeah, hello, this is ILB,” I said hesitantly. “I’m sorry for calling, I know you don’t like it very much. And it’s an international call, so I’ll have to be brief.”
“What’s this, a booty call?”
“Uh…” I looked around at this point, the grey work building I had ducked out of at lunchtime surrounding me like three looming monoliths. I couldn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, think of a place less designed to be making a booty call. “No, it’s not an 8,419-mile booty call. What it is is…”
“So it’s not a booty call?”

In all fairness, it’s not out of the realms of possibility for Louise to genuinely travel eight and a half thousand miles for sex. I’m fairly certain she’s done more.

“…and that’s why I think you need to check your e-mails. Do you still use that old address?”
“No, but I have the password for it. I mean, I used to use it for…”
“Sex,” I supplied. “You had a directory of people you liked to bang; do I have that correct?”

There were a few seconds of silence before she burst into a loud, wheezy laugh.

“Well, I can hardly use my work e-mail for that!”
“You can’t?”

Another wheezy laugh. I’d forgotten how breathless she sounds when she’s amused. Something else which slipped my mind in the intervening seventeen years.

“Okay, I’ll check. I’ll e-mail you what I find out.”
“Cheers. You’re okay with e-mailing me everything, yeah?”
“You tell me. How much of me do you want?”

What?

“What?”
“You’re the one that made the booty call!”

Wo ist mein Handie?

“So, apart from being silly, what would you say are your core strengths?”

She genuinely said that. I don’t mind the silly part. I just don’t have any strengths.

“Okay, well, I’m humorous,” I lied, “and sometimes making people laugh is my only aim in life.” (That part, at least, is true.) “And I’m knowledgeable. I mean, good for a quiz. ‘Brain’, they used to call me at school.” (That part, at least, is also true… mostly. Nobody’s ever called me ‘Brain’. I was ‘Brains’ for about a week.)

The interviewer smiled politely.

“You said you’re good at IT, and you can play the guitar,” she pressed, shuffling notes. “Are you good with your hands?”

Am I? I do, indeed, play the guitar. I type on keyboards without having to look and see where the keys are. I can flick through the shuffle feature on my iPod without having to do anything other than press the button twice. I can even write longhand, which… is a skill, I suppose.

Not to mention all the wanking, and additionally the fact that, two days ago, I brought someone to a shaking orgasm with nothing but my right hand and a generous helping of adroitness. The rhythmic beat of her clit against my thumb certainly suggests that I am good with my hands.

But I couldn’t say that. Nor could I say yes in all honesty. My left shoulder has been frozen for months and that arm doesn’t extend or flex. Doing the YMCA is impossible, as is playing the violin. I also have a tendency to drop things – pens, phones, my glasses, sex toys.

I don’t think my left foot has ever recovered from having a full-size Doxy impact with it from a great height.

And, of course, I can’t take a firm hold of a breast while licking someone out. I discovered this, again, the other day. The best my hand could manage was to flop around limply on her stomach, like a dying fish.

But I couldn’t tell her that either. I needed to have some sort of answer, though, one that would get me the job.

“Yes?” I settled on.

The gift of brevity.

Penetrate

Just before I slide my smooth, firm cock inside her, I’m euphoric. Not just at what is happening, or what has happened up until now, but about what’s about to happen.

I like the smooth, spreading motion that her lips do as I ease myself inside. The way her labia minora tease the head of my cock, the very tip feeling everything as I go further… deeper.

I like how hard I get, growing harder than I thought I could while inside her. As her inner walls contract around my shaft, I can feel it all. The pulse. The movement. The warmth. So hot, so wet. Where I belong.

I love, love, love the sensation when she tightens up around me. Sometimes I wait for this before I start moving. Sometimes I don’t. It happens after we finish as well.

I am euphoric for all the things I’m about to feel, buried deep inside her cunt.

It hasn’t happened for years… but I’ll never forget the feeling.

And I am craving it right now.

Getting my nose tickled (aka: oral sex is bae)

I cry a lot. I’ve been crying, on and off, for most of my life – it’s something I’ve done since I was very small. Crying is generally my default reaction to pain or distress – I remember crying when I failed to make the University Challenge team; I cried for weeks when my Eroticon session idea was first turned down. I was recently asked, by a client, if I cried when I found out that I was losing my job. I did. I told her the truth.

The other night I cried when it suddenly dawned on me that I wasn’t giving oral sex.

I love oral sex. Love it. But, due to Circumstances, I haven’t been able to engage in cunnilingus for… maybe over a year now. Perhaps more. I used to do it practically every night, whether as a precursor or epilogue to sex or not (it works spectacularly well on its own); more recently, however, I haven’t had the chance. It’s a difficult thing to ask – which, since the question generally is “can I please try to give you as much pleasure as possible and hopefully make you orgasm?” – seems like an odd thing to say.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep (and I don’t sleep well at the best of times, so this is quite often), I rehearse oral sex in my head. I imagine her scent, her warmth, and the shape of her thighs. I wrap my hands around her legs – or hold onto her hips as she closes them around my head. Breathe in, bathing myself in her heat, getting used to her presence.

This is how I used to perform oral sex. A gentle lick to the pussy lips to feel them out. Even if I’m desperate, I’ll try to be as measured as possible. It’s not a race. I’ll flick, with my dextrous tongue, back and forth, over the lips…

all the way up…
all the way down…

…again and again and again. Sometimes I’ll pause at the top, holding myself just over her clit. Occasionally I’ll be thumbing her clit as well, but not this time. This is just oral. As I said before, it’s what I love.

When she’s ready (because consent is sexy), I’ll go a little deeper. Swivel my tongue in broad circles, tasting her, each one getting a little tighter, until I can gently part her soft folds and lick her deeper inside. I feel the pulse of her heartbeat through her inner walls, the flush of her labia against my cheeks, and her stiffening clit beating as my nose presses it. I’d go as deep as possible, keeping my breathing steady, but continue my tongue movements.

Rhythmically.

This might be where my hands come into play – where might she like them? Cupping her breasts? Stimulating her nipples? Teasing her mound, or perineum, or anus? When I’m giving oral sex, I’m all about her pleasure. I’ll do whatever she likes if it helps.

I’ll continue the lapping motions, lips open, nose against her clit, warm breath, for as long as it takes. Maybe she’ll put her hands on my head; maybe she’ll feel her own breasts. Maybe she’ll just bite her lip and let her eyes flutter closed and enjoy. Sometimes she moans; sometimes she shakes; sometimes she even lets out a sort of guttural screech. I like it when she says “yes!”. It lets me know that I’m doing well.

If I’m good, maybe she’ll come. There’ll be a spreading sensation as she gets wetter and wetter, and I’ll keep licking her, all the way through her orgasm. I like the taste of girlcum in my mouth. I may get some on my chin, or nose, but that’s okay. It’s messy. Sex is, by nature, messy. I’m not making any pretentions otherwise.

When she’s finished, I’ll pull back, a trail of gold sparks breaking as I do so. I’ll lick my lips (or wipe them with a tissue, if there is one – or the back of my hand: that works, too). I’ll ask her is she is all right, Maybe she wants to cuddle afterwards; maybe she wants t be fingered, or held, or fuck. Whatever her desire is, that’s what I’ll do. But I’ll start with oral sex.

Because it’s what I love.

And that’s why I’ve been crying… because I ache for it.

…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.

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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