I didn’t know who J.D. Vance was until this morning, and now I almost wish I still didn’t.
Note the “almost”. I’m dismayed, but not surprised, that there are people that abhorrent still seeking office in 2024. What I am surprised by is how many people are taking about how JDV didn’t have sex with a sofa. I mean, of course he has. Look at his face and then tell me that man has never been caught in flagrante delicto with his nan’s favourite settee. It’s impossible to deny. I notice he hasn’t openly done so, which means he has something to hide.
Back in my late teens I used to get horny while watching Robot Wars. This wasn’t really a deliberate thing, nor am I particularly turned on by chrome; I just did once and it put the idea into my brain somehow. I’d go to Woodcraft just after Robot Wars finished, and since my main activity after Woodcraft was going home and crying, that was my Horny Time. I may have missed a bit of metal carnage now and then, but I was happy with that.
I’m not going to say the couch in the living room took the brunt of my horniness, but then I can’t say it didn’t play its part.
To my credit, though, unlike JDV I didn’t actually fuck the sofa. I’d have had to take my trousers off, and although in the end I always did, this usually happened after the show had finished… and often in my bedroom (where there wasn’t a piece of household furnishings to shag), or the bathroom. Back in these halcyon days, of course, I didn’t masturbate to orgasm, so I wouldn’t have left a stain…
…but I digress.
The invisible, intangible and completely fictional person my teenage self would have sex with – before Karolina, but after the “My Girl” I fantasised about at 14… I should write about her as well, at some point – could manifest in pretty much any room of the house, but it was easier to conjure her up in the lounge than anywhere else. Occasionally, of course, this would happen in my bedroom (what I charmingly referred to in my head as “sex fests” taking place on my bed, occasionally with the devil fellah). Sometimes the bathroom would be a better place to do it.
But it was easier, especially since I didn’t have to move that much, to just dry-hump the Chesterfield, using the pillows for support. Job done. I did, of course, run the risk of breaking it – it wasn’t the strongest in the world – but years later and I was having sex on it with the Seamstress, so it clearly survived that long.
So, although I wouldn’t say I had sex with my sofa, like JDV clearly has, I had sex on it, at least once with someone who wasn’t there; I may well have fucked my sofa, as a result: I was a seriously weird kid and did all sorts of odd things. This would just be one more thing to add to the list.
Won’t be doing anything on – or to – our new, inherited sofa, though. It may well be called a love seat… but that’s a compound noun… not an instruction!
It was only on my second night in the holding bay that I realised the chair I’d been sitting on could recline. One week earlier, when I’d been put in a chair, I’d assumed I’d be able to sleep in it. Sleep wasn’t something I did. The second time, I accidentally nudged a switch with my foot which turned the chair into a bed.
I still didn’t have an actual bed, but as I rationalised, the week beforehand I had been in a chair for about twelve hours before they found me a ward, and even longer before they found me a bed. This would be the same deal, I told myself, only this time I’d be in a more specialised ward than the AMU, and they wouldn’t move me until they found a bed.
Eighteen hours later I was sitting in another, less comfortable chair in the AMU waiting for a bed. They did, to their credit, find me a side room. I had a chair and a bed and a TV that didn’t work, plus an en-suite which I found very difficult to use. I wasn’t really expecting to spend another two weeks there, exactly. That’s just what… happened.
A week beforehand I’d been told I had possibly had a heart attack. Whatever the cause of the myopericarditis, it was incredibly painful. Morphine had helped me zone out and, during the interminably long bits of no sleep, I had found a way to watch The Producers on my ‘phone. Robinson turned up a couple of times, as did people from work. My parents made the occasional cameo. Apart from that, I had been left alone around the clock.
Gastro catastro
My second week was characterised by constant attempts at water retention while waiting for something more concrete. I wasn’t even aware there was going to be anything else once my gastrointestinal system had evened out. The swelling around my heart hadn’t quite gone, but that was now a secondary concern. It seemed as if they didn’t want to let me go at all, and although I did get half an hour’s grace period to vote, I did feel somewhat like I was waiting for something that didn’t exist.
My sister and cousin had both visited before gallstones were mentioned. Apparently, I have had them for some time and the sharp pains that I haven’t been having (seriously, I haven’t) have been coming from the gall bladder, which I will now be having removed. They decided to do that, but then didn’t. I was packed and ready to go when I was told that I would still be there for four more days in order to have another MRI.
47 booked a ‘plane ticket towards the end of my third week.
I was discharged for the third and final time on Friday. Neither wife nor bestie were home when I got here. I had the first orgasm in three weeks and it went EVERYWHERE. The following morning I sat quietly with the two people I love most in the world.
I love the NHS
I spent three weeks in hospital with mycarditis, pericarditis, chest and back and abdominal pain, sleep loss, fluid loss, COVID-19, D&V, gastroenteritis, gallstones and a chest infection. I got three meals a day, two offers of morning tea and biscuits, free showers with all the equipment, and even clothes, if the ones I came in had worn out.
Next week I am going to spend a night in UCH having my sleep monitored; two days later I am back in the clinic talking to doctors about how to go forward.
I didn’t pay a penny for any of this. I never will. I got a sick note from my GP – didn’t pay. Had to reschedule my biannual consultation with my neurologist – didn’t pay. They even offered to run me home in an ambulance if I didn’t have my own transport (but I did). I wouldn’t have paid for that.
Yes, I was bored. Yes, I was in a lot of pain. Yes, I got basically no sleep. Yes, I was in a chair for two days. Yes, I was in for a lot longer than I was meant to be.
But I was being taken care of and nobody asked why. They just did it, because that’s what they do.
You want a swingers’ party We’ll all chuck in our car keys Maybe try bukkake Now it’s always you, and me, and Dave…
You’ve never heard of Monique DeMoan, have you? Maybe you know her by her birth name, Cheyenne August Camarillo? No? How about Cheyenne, the name she’s credited by in Love Exchange?
I’m slightly more familiar with Eddie Jay, although mostly from things like cultural event of the century Hotel Erotica and that absolute cinematic masterpiece Personals 2: CasualSex.com. I couldn’t pick him out of a line-up, though. He’s skilfully also used a pseudonym here: the unidentifiable “Eddy Jay”. Wonderful.
Happy Pride Month, say the drapes on the wall!
What’s my point in life here? Well, said Claire, if you’ve been following this meme since I started it (or if you’re into soft porn yourself), you may well recognise some of the other names. Holly Sampson is a former Emmanuelle. Shannan Leigh is in a fair few things, including Virgins of Sherwood Forest, with David Usher, who’s also in The Exotic Time Machine 2, with Holly Sampson, who’s in Platinum Blonde, with Stella Porter and Tre Temptor, and Shannan Leigh.
Holly Sampson also once had sex with Tiger Woods. Just throwing that out there.
Appearance:Love Exchange, aka Romance Roulette (2001) Characters: Lizelle & Ben
Judging by the above and how incestuous this all sounds, it makes complete sense that Love Exchange is all about swapping partners. Jackie (Sampson) and Ben (Jay) are a married couple who move into a new neighbourhood, where they are almost immediately propositioned by the very creepy Lorenzo (Ben Brown, aka Anthony Skordi, who’s now voicing Star Wars video games), who runs a regular “sexual card game” which inevitably results in everyone shagging everyone else.
Except for Helen (Leigh), who doesn’t get to do much, or Bill (Richard Neale), who also doesn’t do anything, or Josh (Usher), who gets about two seconds of sex at one point. Holly Sampson gets her kit off, but even then, most of her sex scenes are with Gloria (Taylor Moore, from pieces of high art like I Love Lesbians 11). In fact, Gloria may as well not wear any clothes, judging by the amount of time she spends enjoying half the cast.
Into this domestic order we throw a new variant: on the first night, Ben draws Lizelle, Lorenzo’s wife, who is more than happy to go into a darkened room with him and yes I can also see where this is going let’s just get on with it shall we
Grab your partner, now let’s swing
Lizelle (who’s very game, it seems) leads Ben to a room which she describes as
It’s so sensuous… so surreal, don’tcha think?
but evidently not sensuous enough, as she proceeds to light nine soft porn candles and a joss stick to add to the ambience. Then, of course, she starts disrobing. Ben, naturally, doesn’t say a word; he just sits there with an inane grin, then starts kissing her while the camera pans around to reveal another twelve candles (do they have shares?), then after a couple of mix shots, we end up with one of those hairy softcore blowjobs.
This is a genuine shot. How’s that sponsorship deal working out?
Moving fast, then. Surrender doesn’t usually do this; their sex scenes usually involve quite a lot of disrobing before getting down to the action. Mind you, this scene is exactly halfway through the film (it’s a genuine mid-point); we’ve seen a lot of sex already, so maybe they’re expecting us to be desensitised by this juncture. I’m not complaining.
The music ratchets up a notch at this point. I think I ought to mention this, as it’s very curious – with various zither-like string arrangements it has an Eastern flavour, but it’s underscored by conga drums and features an electric guitar. It’s hardly the new In The Steppes of Central Asia by Borodin, but it suits the slightly new-agey setting and is sexy enough.
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920)
Talking of sexy enough, look at Lizelle. She’s absolutely stunning. There’s a kind of sensuality to her in the way she moves her body and uses her facial expressions which plays off Ben’s generic “hooray, I’m getting laid!” look. She manages to carry herself through the inevitable brief-sucking-nipples bit, end even a slightly overlong rubbing-her-body sequence is sexy.
Sing, sing, sing (with a swing)
LOOK AT HER!!!
The actual sex starts with Lizelle on top, with her riding Ben, her hands on his knees for support (a nice touch) and the cameraman briefly passing out because the shot suddenly angles strangely before righting itself. It’s not hard sex, but there’s a certain type of energy to it, and certainly a rhythm. It isn’t slow, and then neither is the following scene, a mix to doggy style, again with a fair clip of speed, but not too much.
Lizelle even looks over her shoulder to hold Ben’s gaze while he’s at work with the backshots, also a nice touch, and at what is (presumably) the point of orgasm she even bites her lip, not something I’d imagine most softcore actresses would think of (although maybe this was the director’s choice? I don’t know.). It’s all very pacey, very sensual, and nice to look at.
Lin-Manuel Miranda found wanting.
For a movie with so many scenes, why did I pick this one? Because it’s the one I keep coming back to. Love Exchange is a relatively new discovery for me and it’s practically packed with sex – there was plenty for me in the pic’n’mix. This one stands out because:
the setting is pretty
the music is pretty
the cinematography is pretty
Monique DeMoan is incredibly pretty
Eddie Jay is… all right, actually
Swing and a miss
I think Ben’s noticed us watching…
That isn’t to say that all the other scenes in Love Exchange are lacklustre. Most of them are good for a wank, or at least worth a watch. In fact, if you’re going to seek this out I would recommend you watch the entire thing from beginning to end, as it all makes a lot more sense that way. It gives the Surrender cast a chance to act, a rare occurrence. There’s clearly been a lot of thought put into the plot. Even some of the characters are fairly rounded, which adds a bit of weight to the “who are these people and why are they having sex?” background, which I need.
And, of course, now I’m going to go and seek out more things with Monique DeMoan in.
I indicated the bed. I had lied a little, perhaps; the bed I’d had sex on was facing the other way in the room, and the en-suite bathroom was on its other side… but this was the same design, the same size, the same softness, and – crucially – this was a Radisson Blu. It’s a nice hotel chain. Good memories. And this was free. What was I going to do, really?
Nobody answered, because there was nobody to share with me. I was talking out loud to myself (I do that a lot, anyway). I needed to say it, though. And, as I put my bag down and laid out my clothes, I ruminated on how lucky I was not to be put in Room 666. I was in 665. 666 may have been a “superior” room, but who knows at this point?
But I digress. There was only one of me, and I’d been given carte blanche to go back to my room at any point during the weekend (I did that in the middle of the day, once, during Day 2, simply because I needed a nap). I could claim ownership of the whole space, and I did – walking around the roomy room a good few times, trying (and failing) to decide if I was pleased, proud, grateful or lonely. I didn’t quite share that feeling for the rest of the weekend.
There was, however, something I did manage to do.
Both nights there I masturbated in the big squashy armchair in the corner of the room. I wasn’t sure if I would be completely able to do so, but I didn’t feel comfortable in the little desk chair, and the bed was too squashy. I feared not being able to get up from it if I lay on my back to wank, and indeed I fell out of bed on Day 1, so that was… fun. Searching around for one, I put a towel on the cushion, sat on that, and worked my way towards orgasm with no more aid than my imagination.
Both times were satisfying, fruitful and productive. I used up a lot of the tissues they gave me. Sorry, Radisson.
Also, neither time did I think to shut the window, or close the blinds.
That was a lie. I did think to do so, but I decided not to. It was incredibly unlikely that anyone would see me on the sixth floor of a massive hotel, especially since I was in the corner. I liked to hear the sounds of Manchester continuing apace outside, and the twinkly lights coming on through the dusky sky were a perfect backdrop. Plus, I told myself, who cares if there’s someone wanking in a hotel room? People masturbate all the time. It’s a hot evening; nobody’s going to judge me even if they do see.
I mean, they might have, but I didn’t want to test the theory.
As I said, I was alone. But, on both nights, as I sat there in the stillness, Manchester’s hum low under my post-orgasmic haze, I felt comfortable, satiated, and totally at peace with the orgasms I’d chosen to share with the world.
I’m sure this is true of most, if not all, of us, but it certainly is for me: I live a much more colourful life in my dreams than I actually do in reality. I’ve expounded on these somanytimes that I’ve sometimes wondered if it’s worth running a dream journal too (before I realised, of course, that many dreams are dull as fuck to read). However, because this is easy good content and I really love a good listicle, here’s something I thought up last night.
[Fifteen-minute break here because at this point ILB locked himself out of his flat. He had to wait barefoot in the corridor for his letting agent to come and let him back in. Nicely done, ILB. Very sensible and mature.]
GOTN recently re-shared one of her old posts in which she listed everyone (and, I suppose, everything) weird she has had sex with in her dreams. It makes for fascinating and, let’s be honest, slightly disturbing reading. In my continuing quest to be both fascinating and slightly disturbing myself, I thought it would be a wheeze to steal adapt this idea and make my own sex dream list.
So here I present to you
ILB’s List of People He’s Had Sex With in His Dreams
In no particular order:
Katy Hill. The only famous person on this list. I also had a dream in which she was having sex with fellow Blue Peter presenter Stuart Miles. In a lift. While I was watching.
Three of my friends from secondary school. More specifically, the Manics fan with whom I wanted to have sex (also my first kiss, again in my dreams); the Floof before she went a little weirder in her later teens; and Bob, for whom I always had a soft spot. None of these I felt particularly proud of. In fact, Bob was wanking off my toe, but my psychologist said that was probably just my penis in a different place, so I’ll go with that.
One university friend. I felt really guilty about this one. RS was our class representative so everyone told me this was out of respect, but I couldn’t shake this one. I never looked her in the eye after this.
Two blogging people. One of whom I’ve hugged (she knows who she is) and one of whom I’ve felt up, been felt up by and very nearly did have sex with. It’s a testament to my temperance that I didn’t. I still had a dream about it, though, that very night.
Four out of eight people I’ve genuinely had sex with. This shouldn’t really come as a massive surprise. What is a surprise is that it hasn’t been all eight. In all these dreams – featuring Rebecca, the Seamstress, Catherine and my now-wife – I’ve had a massive dick. Like, really big, more so than my UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS. Who knows what the message is here?
One secret crush. I’m not even sure if I’ve mentioned her here. I also had a dream once in which I had three girlfriends, of which she was one. (I, predictably, woke up shortly after inviting her over.) The first time I met her was on a sofa, so that’s where it happened.
and
The soft glow of electric sex.
Samus Aran. I don’t know what turned me on the most about this one – maybe it was the long blonde hair, the perfect body, how adventurous she was in bed – but what I think got me going was the soft hiss her body armour made while different bits of it disengaged. That’s the good stuff.
That’s my sex dream list. But as for where I’ve been naked in my dreams? That, my friends, is a completely different story.
I was on the way back from Manchester, and I was alone. I’d stopped off at… somewhere, I’m not entirely sure where… but the station was empty, for myself, an unassuming couple sitting on the bench, and a sleepy member of staff who looked as if he would rather be anywhere else, doing anything else.
I had used the combination disabled toilet / baby change, and to break up the tedium, I decided to spend the rest of my wait gaming in the customer lounge.
Said customer lounge was a large, sad, square room with uncomfortable wooden benches. I huffed my bag off my shoulders, fumbled for my Game Boy Advance, sat down gingerly, and was just about to push the power button when…
Slap. “Unh.”
No, that was just my imagination. Let’s get back to Ice Climber.
Ice Climber is a perfectly acceptable way to pass the time.
Slap. “Aah!”
Okay, that was definitely real. I knew that sound, too. It was very familiar, and not just from porn (although that was, of course, the first place I’d heard it). I’d even made it a few times myself, despite never thinking I’d even get the chance.
But it was unmistakable, even without my prior knowledge. The telltale sound of flesh against flesh, skin meeting skin, pushing out the air between them and the very slight echo. Yeah. I knew what this was.
The only question was, where was it coming from?
Slap. “Oh!”
Turned on, ashamed, I prowled around the room trying to puzzle out the mystery. A cursory glance around the platform outside and I noticed the lack of the couple on the bench. The sleepy guard was looking the other way… and there was no other activity.
Slap. Slap. Slap. “Mmm… mmm… mmm!”
As the slaps and moans increased in terms of pitch, tempo and volume, I could definitely discern the direction they were coming from. The wall to my left. The wall, the thin brick wall, to my left. The wall separating my empty customer lounge and the disabled toilet / baby change.
The disabled toilet / baby change! That suddenly made perfect sense! I was the single boy perfectly content to sit and play Ice Climber; they were the horny couple deciding it would be a better use of their time to go and have sex in the disabled bathroom. (I mean, I don’t blame them; I’ve done that.)
How decadent. How risqué. How blatant. How…
how…
…sexy.
I even managed to pinpoint, through a sound I’m not even going to try and transcribe, what may very well have been an orgasm. It was certainly, if not that, a finishing move.
I didn’t quite get around to playing much of Ice Climber, but I did get my train. In fact, when it arrived, the couple were back on their bench, looking for all the world like nothing untoward had happened. Cool as you please, they stepped gracefully into a carriage. I followed suit, and as they swanned away into the milieu of seats, I traced them with my eyes…
…and regarded them with nothing short of ardent worship.
BILL: I don’t suppose you have super-strength. MIKAAL: Not the carrying-a-500-pound-sopping-wet-gorilla kind of super-strength. BILL: Oh well, the European coast is only about five miles from here. I’ll see you there. MIKAAL: What are you going to do? BILL: The backstroke.
Cry for Justice
Life has an odd way of slotting things into place. Occasionally it takes a little push – case in point, I get evicted from yet another place and find a new one so quickly that I’m now typing surrounded by packed boxes. More often than not, though, things just happen, and while it’s not always the wisest thing to do to sit around waiting for them to do so, it’s nice to notice them when they do.
I was jettisoned by my second girlfriend for no stated reason, but the message I got from the whole thing once I’d stopped crying was that I couldn’t give her everything she wanted, or at least everything she thought she was due. I didn’t have a job, or a car, and I wasn’t even particularly hot. One more thing I wouldn’t have been able to give her, as it turns out, would be children, and that was something she desperately wanted.
She now has two blonde ones, having married a Dutchman and Completely Moving On. I’d never been sure if I wanted children, although I’m now absolutely certain that I don’t, but back in Spring 2021 I was told that I can’t. The prospect of no fertility was presented to me like I was on my deathbed, and the fact that I reacted like I’d just seen Father Christmas produce a particularly big toy from his sack caused the first of many very confused medical professionals.
Months of waiting and twojizz rushes later and I still don’t have a definitive answer.
This isn’t the post I wanted to be writing at this point, I’ll be honest. I wanted to be able to say that I was utterly, irreversibly, 100% infertile (and STD-free, come to think of it) and finish it off with something like “…ladies.”
But I’m almost there.
My sperm are doing odd things. Fertility isn’t one of them. Nearly all of them have misshapen heads which wouldn’t get through an egg, never mind making it far enough to attempt to do so. Some of them break in half easily; some keep going in circles; some just die without explanation… and quite a few of them are swimming backwards.
No, I didn’t know that was possible either.
Everything else about my semen appears to be healthy – in terms of viscosity, appearance, scent and all the other things they test for. It’s just the spermatozoa that aren’t working… which, come to think of it, is the result I was sort of hoping for. I had to have the “no, I genuinely aren’t trying to conceive / no, I genuinely don’t want help from the fertility clinic” conversation with my GP, but I was expecting that.
What I wasn’t quite expecting was the fact that a special note had been added to my results commenting on how there was rather more volume than they would normally be expecting…
Hi. You may not remember me, of course, but I think you might. I certainly remember you. I learned how to spell your name, at least. Occasionally I spoke to you, although we rarely – if ever – exchanged more than pleasantries. But then, you never said much to anyone at all. You were quiet, unassuming, and impenetrable.
But then that all added to the mystique.
You never even seemed to mind that I bunked next to you on that residential. There weren’t many spaces left and I took one between you and my geeky mate. He was a friend, of course, and I just liked your general vibe. You radiated an air of calm, cool collectedness, which made me feel at ease. At that time, I wasn’t particularly enjoying life, and you helped.
The other thing that I associated with ‘the Sercia vibe’ was your air of general innocence. Because you were so quiet and somewhat detached, you seemed to carry around a certain amount of purity. You were sweet, slightly abashed and almost virginal. You were also very pretty, which helped complete the look.
What was the big thing for me, of course, was the reputation you had.
It didn’t suit you at all, and yet you seemed unfazed by it, to your immense credit. You said, in your soft, dreamy voice, that you had never kissed anyone without that leading to sex – and, since that was during I Have Never, I would assume you were telling the truth. Your closest friend, who was slightly more forthcoming with information even when not playing I Have Never, would talk about you in ways that you never contradicted.
The air around you and your general attitude didn’t really fit with the picture that was gradually painted of this hypersexual, promiscuous dynamo who would sleep with pretty much anyone at the drop of a hat basically because she could.
“Sercia,” your friend said, “had a lot more sex than me in the earlier days. Of course, she had started when she was 13, so there were a few years between us and I had to catch up…” “That’s quite early…” someone said uncertainly. “Ah, yes it is, but that’s Sercia; you know what she’s like.”
But did we? Did we really?
At the time, of course, I had a huge, unrequited crush on Leaf, and I didn’t need another one on you, Sercia. You were out of my league anyway, and in any case, I wasn’t going to be hooking up at any Woodcraft event, on account of the fact that… well… it’s me, isn’t it? People don’t go for me. I only ever got to kiss Leaf because she was drunk.
But my brain built up this fantasy anyway.
Get into the castle and rescue Rachel!
Somehow, inexplicably, we’d end up in a relationship. On the last night, with nobody else in the room (which never happened; it was a major thoroughfare, people had sex in the smaller rooms), we’d have sex, and it would be a moment of glory given your beauty and experience (and my enthusiasm). For the next couple of years I would spend my spare time ferrying myself between Nottingham and Solihull – a much shorter journey than London to Birmingham – and we would enjoy each other’s company, and each other’s body.
Judging by what you said, it would only take a kiss. But I wasn’t going to try that.
What you don’t know, Sercia, is that I almost tried it. On the last day of the residential, I was going to ask you out. You hadn’t raised any objections to sleeping next to me for three days, you were single, and you were quiet enough to say no without anyone else finding out. Had I actually asked Leaf, I would have been so embarrassed by her rejection that I would have hesitated on going to any further events. I didn’t want to jeopardise that.
Besides, I liked your general vibe. You were fun. It would be fun.
But, of course, I didn’t. I didn’t (and still don’t) do asking people out. I wasn’t even sure what to say, or how to say it. The one and only time I did, it didn’t go too well.
So I didn’t say anything, and I didn’t do anything. Because I never did. And you never knew what was going on in my head every time you sighed in your sleep or turned up at breakfast looking perfect.
You came to a few more events, because of course you did, but you were conspicuously absent for my last few.
“What happened to Sercia?” I asked my geeky friend. “No idea. I haven’t seen her either. Maybe she’s just busy with… Sercia stuff?”
Yes, what exactly did you do when not at Woodcraft? Nobody had heard you talking about anything but sex. Trying to imagine your life was almost impossible, like envisioning a stupid professor or a competent Tory Prime Minister.
But kindly take this letter as an indication that I did very much like you.
Because I never told you, and I think you ought to know.
JS: How did the flat viewing go? ILB: Oh, yeah, good. Lucie (our agent, who looks like Chelsea Clinton) is going to send me a form to fill in. I think we can get it. I hope we can get it. JS:All right. Tell me more when I get home.
There wasn’t anything more to tell when they got home. Lucie had clearly clocked off for the day and, since we’d been ghosted by one agency already after a viewing, this didn’t bode too well. (I actually got the form from her this morning, so maybe there’s a chance here.)
“Why did you think to say she looked like Chelsea Clinton?” “That’s more of a guess. I mean, she does look a bit like Chelsea; she’s tall, blonde and pretty. But she’s got the wrong shaped head. It’s more like an oval. She reminds me more of…”
There was a pause.
“…of… well…” “It’s a porn star, isn’t it?”
It took my brain a while to parse that. I’d just done the first active thing in the whole week since becoming laid up with a massive cold on Monday. I wasn’t really fully awake yet.
“Yes?” I decided upon.
In all fairness, when I recognise people it’s usually because I’m recalling someone from porn. Some of them, like Krista Allen and Lisa Boyle, are both incredibly hot and totally unique in looks, and although I’ve met a fair few people who remind me of Amber Newman, this one escaped me. Who, exactly, did this Lucie remind me of?
ARGH! SHE’S COMING TO GET ME!
Erika Jordan leapt out of my head the instant I sat down this afternoon, followed almost immediately by a crunchy reel in my head of basically everything I’ve ever seen her in, although I’d temporarily forgotten, it seems, that this is also her. That’s certainly somebody I’ve had a fair number of orgasms too.
Poor Lucie. She has no idea what she’s managed to awaken within me, although realistically, I’m not entirely sure she noticed me much, on account of the fact that my parents wouldn’t leave her alone. And I’m sure that she isn’t that similar to Erika. I mean, I thought of Chelsea Clinton at first.
Until my mother said, “what is she doing?”
And now I’m never going to not be able to see it. Cheers, mum.
As a meme writer, I will admit to being lazy. Long posts are one thing, but in choosing scenes for this here porn meme I have developed a tendency towards gravitating towards scenes I know, or at least scenes I think I do from my youth but have since rediscovered. I am aware that there are probably hundreds, if not thousands, of sex scenes I haven’t (yet) seen… but I am more comfortable, if not secure, talking about something I know.
I mean, that was the initial aim of the meme when I started it, right? Do only scenes I like to prove the worth of softcore because I like it so much? (I will admit that only lasted a couple of weeks, of course; I had to give a negative review at some point…!)
But then, as I said, there are scenes I have yet to see. One of these, sent to me by reader and correspondent S.A., was nothing if not completely unfamiliar.
Appearance: Hot Line, Series 2: “Where Were We?” (1996) Characters: Stefanie & Allen
That’s not really how you kiss, is it?
There’s probably a reason for this. I have, in fact, mentioned Hot Lineonce before, but only once. It’s a series that kind of slipped under my radar, having been broadcast on UK TV (I suspect Living, or maybe ITV?) sporadically, but not really having the staying power of Compromising Situations or Passion Cove, which were shown in full on L!VE and Living respectively.
It is, effectively, nothing I haven’t seen before – another American drama series with sex scenes – but, as I genuinely haven’t seen a lot of it, I have very little idea. What I do know is the set-up: callers to a titular “Hot Line” tell the host Rebecca (initially erotic thriller queen Shannon Tweed; later former Bond girl Tanya Roberts) about their sexual escapades. Rebecca broadcasts them.
This “one person lynchpin” thing appear to happen a lot. The main character in Red Shoe Diaries gets letters. The lady in Passion Cove owns a resort. The slightly older woman in Bedtime Stories has a… brothel, maybe? Something to do with sex, anyway. Hot Line is a phone-in show. Go figure.
Anyway, right, the scene I was meant to be talking about…
You can’t see their faces here because that’s Artistic Directing. It’s deliberate, see.
This is a second-series episode written by a curious team of someone who worked on Supernatural and somebody who worked on Biker Mice from Mars. The story itself is fairly threadbare but sustainable enough for a thirty-minute episode. Married couple Stefanie (Bari Buckner, who hasn’t done much but went on to play the imaginatively-named “Screaming Woman” in the second Jurassic Park movie) and Allen (Mark Porro, who has had a more varied career including Love Street, Babylon 5 and Days Of Our Lives, which made my wife giggle!) are trying for a baby, but end up continuously getting…
…interrupted? I suppose that’s the most accurate word? They’re not going to have a baby like this, anyway.
Take this scene, which starts with Stefanie and Allen i’m sorry that’s a really stupid haircut i’m never going to be able to unsee that and seriously what was the hair and makeup department thinking mark porro deserves better kissing, disrobing amid giggles and letting out curious noises.
IKEA: the wonderful everyday.
By which I mean Stefanie says “hmm” a couple of times. Not the sexy moan hmm, but more like she is having a try at a tricky Sudoku and isn’t quite sure about it. We also get some bog-standard softcore between-the-breasts kissing and a highly staged tumble onto some bedsheets that may or may not have been there until this point. I’m not entirely sure it matters.
For all the posturing there has been so far, you can kind of stretch to believing these two are genuinely into each other. Fair enough, it’s just kisses and clothes for the first 45 seconds, but it’s done with enough enthusiasm to point towards them being keen to DO IT, as well as familiarity to indicate the fact that they are a couple. It’s also relatively immediate, indicating some degree of spontaneity.
Of course, that cup behind them contains Water of Life.
Stefanie flashes a cute little smile a fair few times while Allen does… something to her, I don’t know, it’s kind of ambiguous… and then at about 01:03 we get some actual sex, first with Allen on top and that very familiar “bum between legs – zOMG SeXuaL iNTeRCouRSe!” shot. A few mixes later and it’s Stefanie in the driving seat, riding Allen with a new more overlaid “hmm”s and a very well-decorated flat in the background.
It kind of continues in that vein for a while, except for Stefanie saying “oh!” in a voice reminiscent of a dowager duchess in a British historical drama series, which made me laugh. What is, I’m supposing, the orgasm scene comes immediately after this, but considering just how it’s more Sounds™, it’s hardly the most explosive.
And then there’s a fade to black because of course there is.
I think I went on that and had a lovely panoramic view…
So what do I think of this new-to-me scene? Well, it’s nothing special, and it also have a brief runtime of 02:31. I don’t think it will be making The General Rotation. However, having said that, it’s not bad. I can’t get past Allen’s hair, but Bari Buckner has a nice, natural-looking body and the motions between them – during the buildup and the sex – are both natural and energetic enough to cement the fact that they are a couple who still have the spark.
Why they want to bring a baby into this domestic order, I’ve no idea.
The music even matches the thing. It doesn’t quite sync, but it’s inoffensive instrumental rock with what I’m assuming is meant to be a saxophone at points. It works with the energy of the scene, and it’s not too drippy or soft like other short-form series often have in their scenes. Whether this is a Hot Line thing or not I have no idea. It’s good, anyway.
There are a few unanswered questions, of course. Why are they having sex on the floor since there’s a sofa right there? Where did they find lightbulbs that give very bright white illumination? How is there a matchstick model of the London Eye on the table behind them when it hadn’t even been built yet? What’s in the lone coffee cup? Is Stefanie actually part of the landed gentry? Who did that to Mark Porro’s hair and how much would it cost to hire the hitman?
Why are neither of them wearing a wedding ring when they are married? Are they very up-to-date and advanced people?
All the important questions. But then I’m sure radio host Rebecca covered them. I haven’t seen the episode, but that’s totally my headcanon.
