Girlfriend Replacement Therapy

I just went out and bought a tub of Ben & Jerry's, walked back home and ate about a quarter of it while watching Doctor Who on BBC iPlayer. On the way back home I passed a Domino's Pizza, so I bought a pizza and a can of Sprite too.

I'm not being deliberately decadent for no reason, nor am I committing suicide by sins of the gullet. Today I finished a work placement and after this weekend I'm back in college, and that's a cause for celebration. Not that I actually disliked my placement - I liked it, in fact - or that I like college - because I don't. But the fact that I got through the placement largely unscathed is a real cause for celebration. Because, well, there's a recession on, and so everyone needs a cheerful evening every now and again.

This is the first Friday evening I've spent alone in a long time. My parents are out and my cat is asleep, and as for my girlfriend - well - she's in Oxford, with a phone sans charger. Were this a usual evening, I'd be celebrating in a rather more horizontal fashion. The best way to get over something that's finished, after all, is to get over, on top of and into someone else. It's the way of things.

But no such luck for me. Not that I'm complaining (there are a lot of worse things than being in your house on your own, I turned Doctor Who up to 11), but I'm lonely, wanting to celebrate and I haven't had sex for a while, so I'm a little grumpy. Note to the virgins out there: don't start unless you can cope with stopping. Took me a few years to get used to not having sex, and then of course I started having sex again, and so on and on the merry dance goes.

So what do I do spending a Friday evening without ladyfriend here? Why, I go and buy Ben & Jerry's, of course.

This took me longer than I'd originally expected, although I was prepared for every eventuality - I had my iPod in case of a long journey, my wallet, comfortable shoes, fantastic all-weather jacket and Thinsulate gloves. I walked casually to the nearest cashpoint. It's bitterly cold, but not actually windy or snowing or anything like that, so I was okay, really. Got cash out and headed into the Turkish supermarket, went straight to the ice cream freezer and riffled through the Ben & Jerry's. Cookie Dough, Caramel Chew Chew, Phish Food, Chunky Monkey... hmmm, no Half Baked. That's the one I really wanted. I mean, I'd set my heart and stomach on Half Baked. Right then and there, I was craving it more than I craved sex.

So I went into the next shop along. Cookie Dough, again. Phish Food, again. Does anyone actually eat Chunky Monkey? Gripe, moan, complain. Horny. Hungry. On to the next shop.

In the end, I walked all the way up to Costcutter, which is about half a mile away. On a cold night in a heavy jacket, that's a more arduous journey than you'd think. I felt exactly like Harry Brown looks. Into Costcutter, up to the freezer, and there it is. Half Baked. My prize. Handed over the ready cash that I can't afford to have handed over, back out of the shop, by way of Domino's, home. Power walked home, actually, through the pitch-black back alley that takes me home two minutes quicker. My time is that precious. Also I wanted the toilet.

You find me here, slightly sore, floating on the borderline between turned on and frustrated, tired and yet not tired, and achingly lonely. But on the plus side, I'm stuffed full of ice cream, and when I have that fighting my corner, I can go without the warm embrace of sex for a day or so longer.

School Belle

"I really have to work on our call girl system," said the receptionist at work.

There was a very short pause.

"Excuse me?" I said as I whipped around. Our receptionist is a cool black guy, with a crazy manner but very suave personality, always ready with a joke, a quip, or a holler of his catchphrase ("Do some work!"). Had it been anyone else, I would have been more confused.
"Yes?" he enquired.
"You did just say call girl system, didn't you?"
"No, mate," he grinned. "I was talking about our bell system. The bell that rings, you know?"

Bell... rings... rings... Belle?

Sorry, mind wandered somewhere there.

"Oh," I laughed with something halfway between relief and amusement. "I thought you said..."
"CALL GIRLS!" he cut across my sentence. "Yeah! Let's get the call girls in!" He bounced happily on the spot.

You heard it here first.

Snark Mode Activated

"Why don't you like being in photos?" I asked H, as we made our way to the S&M café last night (not as kinky as it sounds, being as it stands for Sausage & Mash). "I like being in photos."
H tells me she's not keen on being in her company's 2010 calendar. It's hardly Calendar Girls, but she's not happy with it, anyway. TD also tells me she refused to go on University Challenge, even though she was asked. That's something I'd kill for, actually, but it's another of my life ambitions that will never, ever happen, seeing as how my university's selection day started this week during one of my shifts so I couldn't go (in short, I will die unfulfilled). But, anyway, I digress - why didn't either of these girls want to be seen? Because they're uncomfortable with the way they look.

I don't like the way I look either. I hate it, in fact. I've written about it before in extremely graphic detail, only it's clear that all I've done since then is put on more weight. It's clear from looking at me that I'm not even a guy with a fuller figure, even. I'm just a thin guy who got fat. That's what I am. I remember being thin and now I experience bulges where there shouldn't be bulges. I look down and I see moobs, huge thighs, and hair where there shouldn't be hair. (My hair grows very fast. I was absolutely convinced in my single days that I'd never get laid, never mind a girlfriend, because I had too much body hair. Case in point: I didn't have any facial hair three days ago, and as I write this, my beard looks like I've grown it specifically for style - it took Robinson a few months to do that - whereas the real reason I have a beard is because I didn't have any razors). I don't like my body, because I used to be tall, gangling, sweet and slightly handsome. Now I think I'm ugly.

But for all my physical flaws, I'd be all too happy to pose for a company calendar or go on University Challenge. Why? Because of my motto, temptamus delectare. "We try to please," it says, although in my case I prefer to think of it as "we aim to amuse." I know I can look like a prat sometimes, but I like that. I have no shame indulging in self-deprecation, so why should visual shame be any different? I mean, if it makes someone laugh, why not, eh?

That's how I'm trying to explain away the fact that I've put on a lot of weight. Hey, I'm sure at some point it will make someone laugh. And I'm still in a relationship and we still have sex. So that's something.

Anyway, here's a conversation I had recently (while typing this entry) with a bot who added me on MSN. I'm enjoying these.

Eliza says:
hi

ILB says:
Hey

Eliza says:
hi how are you today?

ILB says:
You're a bot.

Eliza says:
my name is paris I'm doing great today I'm 21 yrs old how old are you?

ILB says:
I'm four million years old. Technically. In the South American currency of your choice, bringing me up to about 10 or something.

Eliza says:
listen hun, I am just about to start my webcam show with jen, come chat me there in my chat room? We can cyber, I will get naked if u do..lol!

ILB says:
I'd like to, except I happen to be a largely ethereal being, so you being naked doesn't really do anything for me. You'd have to charm me spiritually and bring me back to a corporeal form, so we could even begin to cyber.

Eliza says:
I can show u how to watch free if u promise not to tell anyone else how to do it???PLEASE

ILB says:
I'll publish it in my next book and write a widely-read academic exposé on it. I'd strongly advise not giving me a redirect link, also, or the universe will spontaneously combust, and then it'll all be your fault.

Eliza says:
well since its free the law that u gotta be 18 (nudity involved), u have to sign up with a credit card for age verification! BUT .. Once you are inside, just clikc on "Webcams" let me know what name you use to sign in with so I know it is you babe! http://www.localpartyground.com/melia/ fill out the bottom of the page then fill out the next page as well and u can see me live for free!

ILB says:
Will there be Daleks?

Eliza says:
Please dont mention anything about that in the chatroom once u get in ok?

ILB says:
Of course not. A full-scale invasion from the legions of Skaro may not be appropriate conversation in a sex chatroom.

Eliza says:
OH SHIT.. k I am late to start my show, I gotta get off msn...I will see ya inside my chatroom babe.. remember not to mention that I am upgrading u for free... You can use your msn name to sign in so i know it is you..

ILB says:
Forever and ever, amen.

Eliza says:
AUTO-RESPONSE: hey just in the middle of my free webcam show if you want to watch click the link http://www.localpartyground.com/melia/

See, I may not look great, but I certainly have a way with bots.

The female orgasm doesn't exist...

...because there is no "the" female orgasm, I am reliably informed.

I know about some orgasms. I know you can orgasm vaginally, anally, clitorally and via the g-spot, although I'm unsure what the difference is, or what it feels like. I mean, I've had a verbal description, but from what I've seen, all the orgasms induce writhing and squirming and - hopefully - girlcum. The lady I gratefully had sex with approximately four times last night has experienced all of them, but the difference is a mystery to me. I mean, when I orgasm, I know exactly what's involved...

Someone enlighten me? How do all these different orgasms happen / feel? And when you orgasm from just a touch of the wrist, or kiss of the neck, does that count as a "touch" orgasm? And where does the excitement take centre stage in that case?

I may like to give young ladies orgasms as much as possible, but I'm still confused! Comment, please?

What with all the shenanigans and the goings-on, I forgot the right word.

A Colleague: "He's kind of... zoned out. He's just..."
ILB: "...Not there?"
A Colleague: "Right."
ILB: "Yeah."
A Colleague: "Although I sort of envy him. I'd like to do that, just go to another place."
ILB: "I thought you liked it here."
A Colleague: "No, I don't mean here! I mean just sort of... go somewhere else."
Another Colleague: "Leave this world, go to another world, even."
ILB: "That's a nice way of putting it."
A Colleague: "Yes, I want to do that."
ILB: "I've got a friend who does something that works for her to escape this world, and something that I've tried too... masturbation."
[A Colleague and Another Colleague stare.]
ILB: "Meditation! I mean, meditation!!"
[All laugh.]

Giving the Cold Shoulder Warmth

...also known as: "On the Hard Shoulder". It's a sign of the times when thinking up the entry titles is more fun than writing the entry.

Last night, feeling rather too ill for much else, I was snuggling the lovely drinking girl quite intimately (read: warmly), and - having nothing else to do - I kissed her shoulder. This got more of a reaction than I was expecting, but it was an appreciated reaction. In fact, she thinks that shoulder kisses are the most intimate kiss that can happen. A strange thought, perhaps, but not one that's largely unfounded. Let's have a think about this:

Cheek: Well, anyone can kiss your cheek. I mean, you can do that to your friends, or your mother. It's pleasant, but not too special (except if it's your significant other who you're kissing, natch).

Lips: This is an odd one, considering you can peck someone on the lips or have a full-on snog. And the second of these things - wonderfully intimate as it can be - can happen randomly (although I guess so can sex, but you know what I mean...). TD says that you're more likely to get snogs from prostitutes than you are a shoulder kiss. I'm more inclined to say that drunk girls will give snogs, although I don't really have that much personal experience... anyway, it doesn't have to be intimate.

Stomach: I'm not allowed to kiss this bit. But it's closer to...

Downstairs: Very intimate. Of course it is. But I guess prostitutes will kiss you, or let you kiss, there too. Plus, although I hate to admit it, you're more likely to do this with someone you're simply having sex with than you would with a lover you happen to be snuggling from behind. Plus, do you count it as a kiss? I love oral sex, but does it count as a long kiss with style, or a form of sex? Argh, the debating hurts my brain!

Back: Well, I like to kiss the back, actually. I'm not sure whether this is more intimate than the shoulder to kiss. It's unlikely that you're going to spend a long amount of time kissing anyone's back if they're not your lover, hence why I think it's intimate. Strangely, despite the amount of nerve endings there, you don't feel back kisses as much as you would in other areas (unless, like me, you are hypersensitive), so although it's a more 'lover' thing to do, it may not work for you (hint: experiment, damn it!) - but it's a contender.

Ears: An erogenous zone. And licking behind the ears is also very intimate. Something you can spend a lot of time on, as well. Another candidate.

Feet: Not something I've ever really gotten into, but then again, I did put a picture of my own up at one point.

Shoulder: So, is it? Well, it's certainly not something that would occur to you to kiss (unless you are 'aware') if you're just having random sex. But it's an erogenous zone, like the ear; it's a lover's advantage (especally during spooning), like the back, it's exciting, like the lady garden - and it's pleasant, like the cheek. It's also clearly not something that's designed to be kissed, which makes it unexpected. And that's naughty. Yep, all the boxes ticked there. We have a winner!

Or do we? Does anyone have anything else they like to kiss? The possibilities are... well, not endless, but there are a lot of them...

London, Dating, Camgirls, and Utter Stupidity

So, there's been a shocking revelation via the letters page in the Metro this morning. Some girl can't find a boyfriend in London and therefore every boy in London doesn't actually want a girlfriend and is automatically after one thing. And, let's face it, so am I. I want it now - it's the best feeling when you know it's coming, and whoever you get it from, it's all the same really. That's right: money. I don't have any and therefore I'd like some. Damn you, whoever invented money (Romans? Or beforehand? I don't really know, or care). But anyway, back to the post.

I'm assuming that this girl is referring to sex, which is the thing that automatically all the boys in London are after. Why, yes, of course they are, my dear. Because girls don't really like sex, do they? Boys get erections and chase skirt, and girls end up forced into an act they absolutely hate.

With an attitude like that you're not likely to get any sex yourself, never mind the boyfriend you claim to be looking for.

Having said that, it is - of course - painfully obvious that this girl is deluded. She just happens to have met some wankers. But girls in London (those you can meet over the internet, anyway) sometimes don't do themselves any favours. The majority of girls on sex dating websites and listing services are camgirls, who will attempt to scam you out of some money (but won't get any of mine... because I'm too smart, and don't have any anyway!) by promising you sex, and may not even be girls in the first place. It's likely to put you off any sort of Internet dating, not that match.com or Guardian Soulmates or... any of the others... seem to work that well either.

And what if you are a real girl looking for love, or even simple honest-to-god sex? You're going to be extremely difficult to find among the sea of camgirls. Sex bloggers are a lot more reliable. I met my lovely girlfriend through writing a sex blog and she's not even from London.

Anyway, this girl who took it upon herself to text Metro deriding all the males in London is wrong. I'm willing to bet any amount of money (don't take me up on that, you'll be sorely disappointed) that truckloads of lovely boys have texted in to correct her by pointing out that they, in fact, are looking for girlfriends, rather than That One Thing. From my experience, anyway, boys are more inclined towards romantic endeavours than girls are. Or is that just cynicism?

Oh, also, you can have sex with your girlfriend if you want. Did anyone point that bit out...?

Blabbermouth

"What do you write?"

"I write articles about sex," I said cheerfully to the doctor. Check me out, talking casually to a doctor I just met casually wandering about. I hadn't even checked to see if there were any children around. Bad ILB. Don't mention the fact that you're a sex blogger - even a veiled hint at it - and always check for children. Not that there were any. Phew.

"Fantastic!" ejaculated the doctor, a bit like the Ninth Doctor in fact. "Where do you write these things?"

"Um, uh." Talk your way out of this one, ILB. "On the Internet." No, no, no. Do not say that.

"I also write poetry... and plays and... er, I write songs. I'm in a rock band!" Nice recovery. "And, er, er, I did a degree in English, and I wrote half a novella for my dissertation..."

Fortunately, that did the trick. We talked about rock bands for a bit and the doctor, distracted by the witty banter, didn't mention sex any more.

But I really shouldn't get carried away like that. After all the stuff with Belle that seems to have happened during one weekend in which I've been absent from the glorious Internet(s), you can't be too paranoid careful. Note to self, ILB: read your own stuff.

Adequate product placement

So, I was at this... court today. Nothng to do with me, of course (I haven't been "court" yet... ho, ho!) - I was just a casual observer. At some points a bored observer, at others a sleeping observer. When the court was in session it was actually more interesting. Anyway, so my mind wandered at points, and you know what happens when my mind wanders. No, I thought, definitely not. You don't want to be getting hard in the middle of a legal trial. That makes you even more confusing than before. So I tried to stop thinking about making the lurve, and concentrate on something else. Clearly, I needed help.

Suddenly, the door burst open.

"Hi there, BARRY SCOTT HERE! Do you have problems with FEMALES, LUST, or MIND IN DIRT? They're a challenge for some bloggers, but not for CILLIT I-L-BANG!"

The results were apparent immediately.

"Simply get out your phone, and engage in flirty texts. Look what it does to your willy! Good as new!"

That didn't make any sense. Surely sending flirty texts for a while would have enhanced my turned-on-status, but it worked. I think that I was concentrating more on the grin slowly unfurling on my face, and the act of texting, than thinking about sexytimes. (Don't worry, I'm better now. I can easily equate the two.)

I am a convert.

"CILLIT I-L-BANG cleans up your MIND!"

Bang! And the flirt is on...

I suck in other ways, obviously...

Hey. Hello there.

I'm sorry I've been a bit rubbish lately. I mean, I've still been writing posts but there hasn't been anything of discernible quality for a bit (well, not since this anyway). I haven't exactly run dry, but I haven't been feeling good about myself for a while and therefore I lack the energy to write anything on the preconception that it's going to be bad writing. Like Bad Science, but with words.

Why don't I feel good about myself? Well, I'm not sure. I mean, I have a very poor self-image anyway, despite indication to the contrary - my girlfriend, evidently, is still pleased that I am me, my supervisor at work called me a genius the other day (why, yes; yes, I am) and I've made it onto the Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2009 (at a paltry #97, but at least I made it onto the list this year, along with other people of whom I approve). But still, I'm feeling a sense of dissatisfaction with whatever I do at the moment, and I've little idea why.

I just think I'm comparing myself to other people and that's not something anyone should really be doing. I should be planning my Christmas gig, but I'm not, because part of me is convinced that nobody will turn up - despite the fact that people did turn up last year, 4 to be exact, but it was one of the best gigs I've ever done - yet still I rehearse, in my front room, in front of a crowd of 20 imaginary people. I was in An Education, but you can't see me, apart from a blurry few seconds, and I've had some positive feedback from the tiny book I wrote (mostly from LS, to whom my thanks are due) and yet I'm still a little annoyed at myself for writing it.

I just feel inadequate. I feel like I've tried to do all these things and yet I'm not-quite-there and never-will-be. Ironically, like I'm one of the last few on the list. Within reach, but slipping, perhaps?

Evidently this will pass. I just can't make that happen myself.

My favourite season, autumn, didn't come. We skipped straight from spring to winter this year with an extremely short Indian summer in between the two, but it was hardly much of a break. I'm trudging to my work placement in the cold and I'm returning in the dark, despite sometimes finishing at 3. It's weighing rather heavily on me, this end-of-year.

It's going to be a long, long, long, long Sunday afternoon...

How to look good naked

I mean, clearly she's naked. It's obvious. I know there are two windows between me and her, and that she's in the house on the other side of the road. But I'm sure she's naked. Either that or she's wearing a skin-coloured, skintight top with fake nipples, and so far I've only ever known one person to wear one of them, and that's Brüno. Yeah, she's naked. I can tell it by the way her boobs move.

And this begs the question, exactly what the fuck does she think she's doing? I don't even know if those are net curtains, it's probably just slightly dirty glass. And she's... dusting? She's cleaning her house? Naked? I'm all for freedom and liberation, and the human body's a wonderful thing, but... but... does she know what sort of people are over here? Here, in my workplace? Does she know the kind of people I work for? It's just not... well... appropriate!

And yet, there she goes, merrily flicking away with her dusting cloth, cool as you please, tits out for the world to see (or any curious ILBs that happen to be at the wrong window at the wrong time). This isn't even vaguely arousing. It's just... confusing. I mean, there are kids around here and yet she's...

...ah. She's gone.

Damn it. I was enjoying the confusion.

Bored at work? Never!

provocative texting: ur doin it rite

She: "If I change my name to [where I'm working], will you do your placement on me?"
Me: "Change your name to Course. Then I'll just be doing you for two years."

Talkin' 'bout An Education

I sat in the cinema yesterday awaiting the screening of An Education.

My mind flashed back to the past, before all this, back to when I was younger but no less Innocent. Back to the filming of An Education. Going into makeup and coming out dressed as an Oxford student. Sitting in the green room chatting to the guy playing the barman. Rolling, rolling up, Soundspeed! Take seven, action! Walk across the set, slight smile on face, holding a (fake) beer. Signal some other students. Say the line. Do it again. Chat animatedly to Dominic Cooper in the lunch break about the different versions of The History Boys. Get in Rosamund Pike's way, hurriedly rushing back to the starting point. Camp costume designer straightening my jacket, coat, trousers. Over and over. Walk across the set. Cameo, in a film.

Best feeling in the world.

So the film started. Fantastic soundtrack. The acting was amazing - I don't think anyone gave an Oscar-winning performance, but this should scoop a few BAFTAs. I'd give a full review, but I'm in it, so I'd be highly biased. But the Nick Hornby script was spot-on. Sharp, funny, and cinematic brilliance. Not the best thing I've seen this year, but certainly one of the best. Only nine major characters, really, of which four are the most focused on, plus two or three more minor ones. I grinned broadly at the wit and felt highly attuned to this film. That's the mark of a Good Solid British Comedy. And on came the scene I'm in, about a third of the way through.

Best feeling in the world.

Carey, Pete, Dom and Ros stand about saying this and that. At this point, I walk past holding my beer and wearing my vague smile. And yet... nothing. I'm not there. I am confused. I recognise the camera shot... Damn. This was the shot they took when I walked behind the camera so as not to obscure view. In shot: my mate playing the barman. Well, he would be. He got a great part. But no me. There's my cameo... gone.
Change of shot. Carey, Pete, Dom and Ros sitting at a table in the bar. In shot: my mate playing a student who looks almost exactly like my girlfriend. (I-ro-ny!) In the background: a mix of students drinking pints. I know I'm one of them. In fact, I know which one is me. Yes, I'm in this film, but still. You can't tell it's me. You can barely see anything, never mind my face. Me, and a bunch of other students, just walking around pretending to drink. There's my voice, in the background, somewhere. But no four-second cameo. I'm in this film (and I got paid for it, too)... but just barely.

Deflated.

I picked up a little after a few minutes. I mean, they can't show everyone. And I shouldn't be ungrateful, either. Some more of my fellow Supporting Artistes barely got a look-in. I think a few of them probably weren't in it at all (barring the background noise, which we all took part in). And hey, I was in a film. And it was a good film. The plot got more intense, the music was still excellent and I started enjoying it a little more. I thought I could definitely see it again. In fact, I'm going to, right? Why not? Here's a film that many people could grow to love.

Best feeling in the world.

And then came the final bits. Sentimental. Happy ending, but tinged with sadness. Some beautiful shots of Oxford finish the film off, and I'm reminded of how much I like the place. I miss it, and I miss her, and I remember back in my fledgling days, when everyone thought I'd end up there myself. But I didn't.

Deflated.

And so I left the cinema with very mixed emotions. Fantastic film which contains two moments of great poignancy for ILB. I wasn't sure quite what to make of it... if I'd seen it without reading the script, what would I have said? What would I have thought? And so I remained largely silent.

Got into a car with four of my friends. Everyone had a smile broader than the one I'd had when I did the filming. The brothers were bantering back and forth. Young raver was telling a story of something that happened at Hallowe'en and making everyone laugh. I sat in the passenger seat at the front, glancing at the Paddington Bear air freshener. Relaised the presence of everyone else. I was surrounded by the friends and allies I've known since I was four. Just another Woodcraft trip to the cinema.

Best feeling in the world.