And so the Saturday evening social happened. It was a sequence of events.
I say that because I’m genuinely not sure what else to say about it. I ate too much food; I drank too much cloudy lemonade. Olly was chatty, Amy was sparkling and Robyn looked amazing. That’s what happened; I don’t have much else to say.
I went home via Kentish Town Station, having quite forgotten the farrago of the previous night, on which I clattered down the 100+ stairs in lieu of a working escalator. A helpful young man noticed me struggling with my bag and managed to convince me to let him carry it down the stairs for me – which he did. Thank you for your help, young man carrying bag full of sex things.
*
In contrast to Saturday, Sunday was a much calmer, more relaxing and relatively chill day. A pleasant surprise was the attendance of my dear friend Christine, whose name badge I had spotted at the Friday meet and greet but wasn’t expecting to see. It made me feel better to see her there, and I found her presence soothing.
Amy‘s session was nice and relaxed. As we should all know by now, I’ve never been particularly interested in adding affiliate links, but there were enough tips in her talk to help, and she was wonderfully composed while delivering it. Michael‘s first session – “Yet More SEO,” as I wrote in my notebook – was quiet but informative, and gave me an ego-boost by putting my site through GTMetrix. I don’t plan to use TikTok (I fail to see what I could do with it), but Sherryl seemed knowledgeable enough about it.
I didn’t take any notes during Michael’s second session. I don’t quite know why this is, but I’m really not keen on Mastodon. Probably mostly because I fear the unfamiliar. In any case, I now know enough about it to take the plunge. By contrast, I’m really not ready to have a Patreon, but GOTN‘s talk about it was so enthusiastic that I genuinely got some ideas about what I’d do with one if I did.
Goodbyes were said; the raffle was drawn. At this point it’s just become a matter of waiting to win the raffle, as opposed to wondering if I will. For my inevitable prize this year, I chose a book of erotica, and then sat with Olly trying to identify if I knew any of the authors.
And then we all went back to the pub.
*
And so that was it, basically. I ate some more, drank some more and then struggled my way down Kentish Town for the last time. Fair enough, it wasn’t the ribald ending filled with debauchery one would expect. We also didn’t get to play “I Have Never”, which I still want to do at some point…
…but it was Eroticon.
It looked like Eroticon. It felt like Eroticon. At some points, it very much felt like nothing had changed; as if 2020 hadn’t happened and we were returning to what was promised. At others, it felt so different that I began to doubt my own memory – surely there was more to ‘con than this? Was there something missing, or did I just have nostalgia for something that may not have existed?
But it was what it said it was. Frankly, I don’t even know what else I could have been expecting.
As I said in my meet and greet post, I was uncertain about going to Eroticon this year. In the end, I did, and although I wasn’t sure if I would, I put a lot of myself into it, and got a lot out of it. Is that a win? Maybe it’s a win. I’m not too sure.
There are a few moments I want to touch on, but let’s do this in a vaguely chronological order.
*
The Friday night meet and greet was all right for what it was. I was one of the first there (of course), despite having stopped at a barber for a haircut and shave on the way(!); I decided to get a cloudy lemonade and wait, and although it took a while for the steady trickle of people to start coming, come they did. I was pleased to see Molly, Michael and Nick setting up (and nobody needed to ask my name or which colour lanyard I wanted – they knew by rote!), the sparkles on Amy‘s face, the incredible amounts of queer energy emanating from Quinn, and – of course – GOTN. Always a pleasure.
Seeing Olly, however, was a genuine surprise. I haven’t seen him for about five years and had no idea he was coming. He is still a genuine delight to talk to, and we vibed really well. That’s one of the things I love about ‘con – seeing people you don’t expect.
*
Saturday, for me, was characterised largely by the fact that I woke up incredibly early and got an Über to meet for the first time my dear friend Robyn. Robyn is basically the reason I ended up going to ‘con, as she made a very generous financial contribution that helped with my ticket and I felt like I should ingratiate her into the community (plus, after months of talking and flirting, I felt we ought to meet!). She took incredible amounts of notes in the sessions – I am amazed by her workrate – and, by the time the evening social came around (in which she looked AMAZING – we are talking incredibly stunning here, people), she was contentedly chatting away with people she had never even heard of before. I call that progress!
One of the best moments of entire weekend for me was introducing Robyn to GOTN and laughing at the amount of mutual fangirling that happened. It was genuinely difficult to tell who was more excited!
The Saturday sessions, even though I found it difficult to choose, I all enjoyed. Blake‘s session busted a few myths and gave me some stuff to research. I went to Dee‘s on a whim but really liked not only the content but the way it was presented. GOTN’s first session was great – I’m a little annoyed that I didn’t get to read this year, so this was a chance to pretend I was; plus, Robyn’s husky delivery made me hard, so thanks for that uncomfortable moment, gang.
I wanted to go to Neil‘s session all along and I’m pleased I did, for not only was it informative, he was hilarious! I ended the day with Dr Eleanor Janega‘s session – my one dead cert to attend, as I love what she does. This was a whistle-stop tour of sex history and she is a genuine pro (I wrote “she is a pro” in my notes, so it must be true).
*
I was fully intending, at this point, to skip out and go home to dump my bag and change my shirt before the Saturday night social. As it turns out, did none of these things. GOTN talked me into being one of the thirteen participants in ElectraStim‘s record-breaking chain. I’ve never experienced electro sensation before, and although I’m a genuine wimp, this was a fascinating and genuinely curious experience. Not altogether unpleasant, either, and I’m pleased to have been a part of something special.
And then we had the Saturday social, which was a sequence of events.
Here we go again Now I’m not looking back ’cause that pain is dead If history’s repeating It’s worth it for the feeling
Earlier today, for no particular reason, I trawled my computer and Facebook photos to find one specific picture of myself. I’m not that much of an egotist (honestly!), but this one certainly speaks to me.
I’m on holiday, standing in front of Blackpool Tower. I’ve got one hand in the air, striking an impressive pose. The wind is blowing back my hair and a bit of the T-shirt I’m wearing. This is the first time I’ve actually worn this tee. I wore it about three times before it mysteriously vanished, lost somewhere in the milieu of clothes I still have yet to be washed.
On my face is a rapturous, euphoric expression. At the time this was taken, I was feeling free.
This is, of course, history. I can look at this picture and remember the time it was taken; I can also look at it and see things long since gone. Youth I have long since passed. A tee I loved and lost. A place I no longer go to, in a group I no longer speak to. I’m even noticeably slimmer in the picture than I am now. Should I wish to, I could look at this picture and mourn the past, wishing I could recapture that feeling.
But I shan’t.
There’s a lot of pain in my history. Whether of my own making or not. I have issues with school bullies, the mental anguish I went through with the villainous conductor of the band I was in, and the tedious drudge through 2008 – 2010, doing a course I hated at an institution I despised, the only high points being sex and cuddles with my girlfriend.
I’m not very good at letting go, either. The smallest thing can pitch me into a spiral of traumatic memories and sneaky self-doubt. I’m meant to be working on it – of course I am – I’m just not very good at that.
But I think I’m getting better.
Maybe there’s something that makes the past more of a friend. Perhaps there’s a funny blog post I wrote about it – there are plenty of those – or a pleasant memory attached to the otherwise-hideous situation. The school bullies who ended up as friends. The conductor leading a round of applause for me specifically because of my contribution to the contest we won. The time I cried because of what happened at college while my drinking girlfriend stroked my hair and told me that she believed me.
It requires a lot of effort on my part – filtering out what I want to focus on. Bits and pieces are there; it’s just finding them that’s the problem.
But I’m working on it. And, if I really can’t do it – if there’s far too much else there and history is too much to bear – then there are always alternative realities to slip into.
It’s an interesting concept, albeit one without a definitive answer. GOTN ran a competition about it once, as did Erotic Meet back in the day. One of those things where it varies from person to person. Maybe you have a specific image in your head when you orgasm; perhaps an orgasm looks like something from the outside.
But what does an orgasm feel like?
That is, perhaps, a more difficult question to answer. Like anything, it does change according to the individual – but it is certainly more complex than “do they have a penis or a vagina?”. Sex is deeper than such a binary concept. Everything changes according to situation, method, mood, and even time. Every orgasm is different, so even if you experience a similar feeling each time, it may be more possible to try to describe one orgasm than… well, you know where I’m going with this, don’t you?
I know it’s hot. It’s been getting hotter all week, even if it’s a little breezier today than it has otherwise been of late. Going outside means getting hotter, but there’s no reason I can’t do so inside.
It had been four days since my last orgasm, and although I will admit that’s not a huge gap (and there have been much longer ones…), it’s still sizeable enough to be noticed. I’ve had an odd weekend, to put it mildly, and even wondered if I’d completely lost my sex drive until he made himself known. This afternoon I found myself alone, so after a cheese omelette, cup of tea and a Pokémon film, I decided to put him to the test.
It didn’t take long to orgasm. Usually it takes a while (stamina, innit?); this time, however, it wasn’t a huge task. A bit of Emmanuelle, a few minutes’ fantasising and a couple of sexy words, and I was done. A very satisfying orgasm.
The very moment I came (hitting my wrist, thigh and my ankle, if it matters) was like an explosion of heat. I didn’t just warm up; I flared up. Heat burst out all over my body, more apparent with every beat of my heart. Taking in some deep, ragged breaths, I leaned back and let myself bathe. Basking in my own heat, feeling it emanate from my very core.
Beatriz identifies.
I was a mess. Hair everywhere. Tears leaking from my eyes. Cum all over my hand. Blazing with fire.
I wasn’t even all there. All I felt was the heat. For a while, I was just a fireball.
A few minutes later I managed to gather myself together, clean up with a handkerchief I need to put into the washing machine (mental note for later) and pull myself back into the real world.
Things to do, more cups of tea to make, you know.
I’ve been reliably informed that it’s getting much hotter outside. But who needs it? As I’ve demonstrated so gracefully, with my chair, my porn and my dick… I’ve got all the heat right here.
Oh hai, sex drive. There you are. Where did you go? It’s been a while, friend. Let’s catch up. Fancy a cup of tea?
It’s funny that you should turn up, sex drive. I think I saw you briefly the other day, when I saw something on Twitter that shouldn’t have turned me on, but it did. Fair enough, it wasn’t my kink but something about the way it was presented got me feeling things. Something about the guilt-free abandon and amount of glee involved. I noticed you then. You were just sitting quietly in the corner, but you were there. I could have sworn it.
Maybe I had you with me last night, sex drive, when I got up from the nap on the sofa to transfer to the nap in bed. I didn’t see you, but when I got up and stretched, I felt the familiar twinge between my legs and had a fairly sizeable bulge to deal with before I could get to bed. Maybe you were there then. I don’t know.
Sex drive, you are very difficult to pin down. Ask me two weeks ago if I’ve spent any time with you and I’d say I had. Ask me earlier this week and I’d say that I hadn’t. I know that I should be a better friend, sex drive, and that’s my fault. I say that I don’t have the time, or the energy, or the resources to meet up with you. But you always have the time for me, and sometimes you turn up even when I don’t expect you.
Like that time three weeks ago when you said hi partway through the staff meeting at work. Or two months ago when I fell asleep on the bus and woke up very hard and very wound-up. You’ve appeared on long journeys and in my dreams. Sometimes you’ve even been more awake than me.
But I haven’t seen you anywhere, sex drive, at least not recently. I miss you and what your company brings. They say that I don’t need you, the voices in my head. They say that, because I’m not having sex, your friendship isn’t at all necessary. But that’s not true. I love you, I miss you, and I wish you weren’t so difficult to find.
And now here you are once again. Hello, sex drive. Let’s be friends forever.
Yesterday afternoon, just after work, I went for drinks to celebrate one the birthday of one of my colleagues. I found myself, although not for the first time in my life, surrounded by women – as they got progressively more drunk, their conversation varied from the size of their boobs to different methods of contraception.
(At one point, one of them may have had said she hasn’t had sex since December. I didn’t quite hear, but…)
While I did my ILB Thing™ of sitting quietly in the corner making no noise, I did pitch in with a few conversations (I’m not that much of a pariah), especially when the topic turned to autism management and the different ways in which people stim. More discourse happened about the way to centre yourself when you feel overwhelmed.
“I suck my thumb,” said one colleague. “I know I shouldn’t, but I do. It helps me calm down.” “My ex used to suck her thumb,” I said without thinking. “She did it every night; I rarely saw her sleep without doing so.”
I shouldn’t have said that. Not because it wasn’t true, but because I’d forgotten it up until then.
Terminator II reminds me of her too.
As much as things remind me of my second girlfriend (second chronologically; I don’t have more than one girlfriend!), I do have to wonder if there’s anything that reminds her of me. I have a scarily accurate memory, so I can recall things and events from the past with some amount of detail – you’ll know this if you read my blog – but I’d forgotten about this.
I’d forgotten about this although I know so many things I shouldn’t. I know her married name and I know the name of her son. I’ve read her MA essay and even her Ph.D. thesis (I’m not acknowledged, even though we had sex on the floor while encoding some poetry readings, but then again she doesn’t mention her husband either, so…), both of which are very good. I even know where she works now and have to wonder if she is still as angry as ever.
But I’d forgotten about the thumb thing.
The seamstress used to try to justify this to me. It was a comfort thing, carried over since she was little. It happened while she was asleep and she couldn’t control it. Maybe it was a way to centre herself. It once happened when she had a cracked tooth and she couldn’t stop. Once she even told me it was because she wanted to feel like she had a cock in her mouth. The excuses kept coming, and coming, and coming…
But I didn’t care. I liked it. I thought it was cute.
In fact, I thought a lot of what she did was cute. I liked the patterns on her underwear. I liked the way she pronounced “Ph.D.”. When helping her pick a dress in the shop, I chose the one that showed off her boobs and she giggled. I liked that too. I liked how filthy her sense of humour she was and how she insisted that she used to be cool. When I noticed a chunky pair of sunglasses she had, she lent them to me and I liked that.
But I forgot about the thumb-sucking until yesterday afternoon.
Before I get into this, I want to make a couple of things clear.
I mean, I am, so…
Up until a few days ago I wasn’t entirely sure whether or not I would be attending Eroticon at all this year, or indeed any other year after this. Financially, I am in no position to be doing so; I also felt completely inadequate during the last one I attended and perhaps even more so during the aborted 2020 replacement. I also submitted a session idea that didn’t get taken up (which would have helped with the money… also, I was sort of planning it in my head already).
I’m not even sure I have the faith in the community that I used to, or if I do, it’s not to the same degree. There are always going to be the few that I trust and adore – and there’s one person coming this year who I know I’m going to be spending a lot of time with – but there are always those undertones that I’m not comfortable with. Specifically, there’s a streak of élitism detectable throughout the upper echelons, and that’s what makes me feel uncomfortable.
And yet here I am.
I’m coming for a number of reasons:
one, I’ve been to every ‘con since the first one back in 2012 and I really ought to keep doing so; two: I made promises to various people and I intend to keep them; three: my dear friend Robynmade a generous donation to aid my attendance and I owe her a lot; four: my therapist told me to go.
I will type that again: my therapist. told me. to go.
five: as you may have noticed, I’ve sucked at blogging this year. The intent is there, but the flesh is weak. I’m really wrestling with a creative block. Whatever else Eroticon may be, I’m hoping for it to be a way out of this.
And so here I stand in front of the annual Meet & Greet, wondering if I will get what I want out of Eroticon, if anything unexpected will happen, or even if I am still welcome. I am, as always tentatively excited about this, so I cautiously dip my toe into the waters. Here’s hoping I find them clear, to some extent.
The Meet & Greet
Name (and Twitter)?
Innocent Loverboy, but usually referred to as ILB (pronounced “I’ll be” /aɪel’bi:/, not “illb” /ɪlb/). I have other names too; a few of you know my real name and I’ll answer to that. Frankly, I’m still amazed anyone talks to me at all so I’ll probably answer to anything.
I’m on Twitter as @innocentlb, but I’m not on any other social media platforms. Oh, and please don’t refer to Mastodon as “Masto”. That sounds like a supervillain.
Tell us 3 things you are most looking forward to at Eroticon 2023?
(i) I stole this from Molly wholesale, but it is “it’s finally happening”. Yes, I was a bit dubious of the whole affair as above, but I can’t deny that I am both relieved and excited that ‘con is back.
(ii) The social aspect. I’ve mentioned Robyn above, but I’m sure there will be a few there who I hadn’t realised were coming that I’ll know. There are always new people at ‘con (maybe too many, if I’m being honest, at the last one) and that might be fun. (I’ll also buy GOTN a drink. I don’t genuinely owe her one, but I always pretend I do and she hasn’t clocked this yet.)
(iii) I’m sure some of the sessions? Having looked through the running order, there are very few that move me so far, so I’ll make a choice at the time, but let’s be honest, I’ll end up at all the ones run by my mates. I am genuinely intending to rejuvenate my blog at ‘con, though, and I hope at least some of them help.
If there’s a session I’m not going to and I have no alternative I may well be in the coffee / break room, available for chats and hugs. I’m also willing to talk blogs if you struggle; I genuinely have decades of experience.
And I can do sex talk. Always can do sex talk.
Sadly with a change of venue this year for the Friday night Meet & Greet we won’t be compiling a playlist, but I know that everyone enjoys that bit, so… what is a song that always has you turning the volume up?
I actually don’t know where the Friday night is, but I’ll be going along whatever, so yeah.
At work recently we have been playing a lot of dance music (there’s a reason for that; it’s not just random) so, even though I don’t dance as well as I used to due to my increasing disability, I’ve been enjoying the rhythms. How about Don’t Stop Movin’ by S Club 7?
Don’t laugh; you like it too, don’t you?
At my wedding last year, the final dance was to SHUM by Go_A, so maybe that’s an option.
What’s the first career you dreamed of having as a kid?
As I told my educational psychologist during my genius diagnosis (yes, really), I wanted to be a film director. Throughout my childhood and adolescence, I wanted to be a cartoonist, a magazine editor, a computer programmer, a journalist, a peace campaigner, an English teacher, a campaign organiser based in Japan, a rock star and a comedian.
I am none of those.
What does your joy look like today?
A Vine compilation. I didn’t really catch the zeitgeist when Vine was a thing, but people are still making compilations on YouTube and they never fail to make me smile.
What is your favourite musical?
As anyone who’s paid attention knows, I am a massive fan of musical theatre, and it’s one of my greatest loves. It’s an unfulfilled ambition to end up on a West End stage (or any stage) and sing in a musical… and I have a fantasy about it, if that’s your sort of thing.
In any case, my favourite musical is Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat – it always has been – but I know all the words to Jesus Christ Superstar, Evita, The Producers and several others. I’m still working on Hamilton, but I almost have that too.
If you were the captain of a pirate ship, what would be the name of your ship?
The Sea Cucumber. Yes, that’s a Monkey Island reference, but I’d steal adapt it for my ship too. At school, we once had a challenge to build a seaworthy craft out of paper, and my group’s went through several changes before we named it #4.
As soon as you have finished writing answering these questions, what are you going to do?
Oh, boy. It’s been a very long and difficult week full of unexpected challenges. This is written with the very last of my energy. I think the appropriate verb is “collapse”.
Complete the sentence:
I need… £2,500 in order to clear all my debts and have some money left over. Or, if that’s too much, maybe some cake.
Unlike pretty much all of my friends, I quite like this song. I’m honestly quite surprised that Molly remembers it. I can’t stand Daniel Bedingfield, but Unwritten by his sister is such an earworm that I’m prepared to give the whole family a pass.
I’m nice like that.
*
It was a Monday evening and I was headed out to band practice in an hour. By this point, everyone else had moved out of the house and I had the whole building to myself. I’d spent the whole day doing basically nothing but wandering around in circles and listening to my growing collection of MP3s – the last of which was, coincidentally, Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield.
One of my friends had written a damning indictment of the song on his blog at the time, which was probably why I downloaded it.
I also had some porn open. It wasn’t running, of course – Unwritten may be a fun song, but it doesn’t quite sync up with this scene from Virgins of Sherwood Forest – but I’d had it open for a while, the DVD valiantly whizzing in its little USB-connected device.
Natasha in front of the background scenery from Virgins of Sherwood Forest. Or similar, anyway.
“Feel the rain on your skin…”
I clicked off Windows Media Player when the song had finished and turned my attention back to the porn. Forty-five minutes until I had to go to band. Maybe I had the time to enjoy myself beforehand. Or at least start myself off. I unhooked my trousers, slid my pants off, sat back, curled my fingers comfortably around my shaft, and clicked play.
*
Band practice went past as it always did – a collection of adequate tunes coupled with me getting almost constant low-level verbal abuse from our musical director – but it had finished. During debrief in the bar afterwards, I excused myself to use the toilet, at which point I discovered that I was still hard. Quite an achievement considering that I had just spent three hours hitting things with sticks and I had had an orgasm shortly before that.
I resolved there and then to try for another orgasm once I got home – hey, it was my house now, I could have as many as I wanted – and was distinctly uncomfortable for the ride back to my side of Nottingham. Just before I got out of the car to follow my dick back up to my bedroom, our band manager asked me to add something to the website.
“Okay I’ll do that I’ll do that tonight I promise look tomorrow okay I love you bye bye!” I said in one breath as I channelled Billy Whizz on my way to the front door. Up the stairs, with my trainers, trousers, pants and T-shirt coming off at various points. Back to my room, computer on, porn back in, same scene, let’s do it again. Again. Again.
Sooooo horny.
*
Half an hour later and I’d finally managed to clean all the cum off my hand, belly, chest, neck and a bit of the desk that it hit. I was also considering sponging down my chair and going for a shower, but maybe that could wait. I admitted it: I love my porn.
Five minuted later and I was about to shut down my computer and actually go to bed when I realised that I hadn’t done the website update. I could do that. It would take me, what, five minutes? I could even put some music back on while I typed it up…
The first song Windows Media Player opened was the one I’d been listening to when I clicked it off a short eternity ago. Unwritten started again from the beginning, a nice accompaniment to the tappity-tappity-tap of my fingers across the keyboard. I was about to click submit on the web form when I realised that I hadn’t put a title.
What would be a good title for a general update?
“Feel the rain on your skin…” I typed carefully, reasoning that if the band manager didn’t like it (or, come to think of it, if he had an aversion to Natasha Bedingfield), he could always change it).
He never asked, and that post remained in situ for the rest of the website’s existence. The fact that I managed to hide the phrase “I have been watching porn” in the code remained so too.
I had a really weird dream last night. On account of the fact that telling other people your dream is usually quite dull (althoughIdoso), I’m going to try to make this at the very least a little entertaining for you.
The story took place a couple of years ago when I was still working in my previous job. I had an evening shift which consisted of a two-hour training session from 8pm to 10pm (I know; this never happened, although I did occasionally finish at 10!). I decided to take the scenic route and hiked down Hadrian’s Wall (or something similar), avoiding the gang of hoodlums throwing stones through battlement windows.
My kitten. Hi, Willow. I miss you.
Since the barrage of stones was getting heavier, I decided to circumvent getting hit by taking a detour through the small village from Hot Fuzz. On the village green was a small, bedraggled kitten, on whom I took pity. Other members of the local community (including my wife) located and brought me other kittens, who we put into a little pile on the middle of the green.
At some point a little gaggle of fluffy ducklings came along without a mother and sat among the kittens.
I did the sensible thing, pulling my ‘phone out of hammerspace and calling the RSPCA. Of course my ‘phone never works in my dreams, and Googling “RSPCA animal rescue” took me about fifteen attempts. I gave up several times to search and locate more kittens, but eventually I called them. Then the police appeared out of nowhere and I decided to hide under some stadium seating. There was, also, a very large bomb there. I didn’t really consider this a problem.
The police found me and started trying to interrogate me; they were waylaid by the gang of hoodlums from the beginning, who had started throwing stones at them. They suspected me. I protested, pointed out who it was, and then decided to tell them about the bomb.
It then went off, at which point they decided to believe me.
I made it back to the village green just in time to get to work. An RSPCA van was there, manned by two guys I went to secondary school with (including the one who I worked with recently who mysteriously vanished in October). Since all the stricken animals had gone, and the two guys were loading up the ostrich (because of course there was an ostrich), I assumed they had taken the kittens and ducklings into their care.
With everyone gone, the animals safe, and my wife deciding to return home, I finally made it to work.
Naked.
If anyone can explain why I had an orgasm in my sleep at this point of my dream, I’d be very grateful.
I blearily opened my eyes. My digital alarm clock showed a time of 02:30. That was chucking out time at the union bar plus half an hour for a kebab and possibly some more drinks. Usually I’d stay at the club until 01:45, duck out before everyone else and get chips and cheese before heading back to my room alone.
Always alone.
But this was the night where I’d decided to go back to my room at midnight and get some sleep. (If there was one thing I needed, I reasoned, it was sleep.)
Blam! Blam! Blam! “Oi mate, got any porn?”
Evidently, however, some people had other ideas. I was in my pyjamas – a rare occurrence, but a fortunate one. I thought, vaguely, of making no noise and pretending I didn’t exist – which would have been easy, since most people on my corridor seemed to assume I didn’t – but, since the knocking would have probably broken down my door eventually, I opened it.
“PORN!” shouted a very large, very drunk boy I had never seen before.
I blinked. There in the corridor stood an assemblage of large, drunk boys. The only one I recognised lived in room 1, which was the large room on the corner where we usually watched movies. I was in room 3, which was about the size of a matchbox.
“Hey, ILB,” said the boy I knew. “We were wondering if we could borrow your Emmanuelle porn disc.” “I have an Emmanuelle porn disc?” I said. I wasn’t fooling anyone – in fact, I had two. One of them had been fast becoming my favourite thing to watch. The other less so. (In fact, one of them had arrived while my parents had been visiting. I said it was a book and didn’t open it until much later.)
I didn’t know how he knew I had one.
“PORN!!!” shouted one of the other boys, in a voice which probably woke up most of the city. Maybe all the lights went on at the same time, like in the last scene of Diana.
“Sorry about him. Could we borrow your Emmanuelle porn disc?”
Obviously the answer was no. Last time I’d lent someone something it had come back broken. I’d even paid for a £30 flight to Germany for the guy in room 2 who brought back a different girl every night. I never got that back either.
“Uhm, no…?” I ventured. “It’s not, not, not… good,” I lied. “It’s very baaaad porn; I think I’m going to… sell it…”
And I shut the door before any of them could say anything.
“PORN!” somebody said.
I went back to bed wondering how anyone had managed to find out I owned any porn.
