Go boil your head!

"You're a very naughty boy."
"I am?"
"You are."
"And why am I a naughty boy?"
"For making me come... lots."
"Oh... well, I have to admit that I did."
"You did."
"You're a naughty girl for letting me."
"Oh really?"
"Yes... do you want a spank?"

[thirty minutes earlier]

TD likes to have the bedclothes over her top half if I'm, ahem, concentrating on her bottom half. This doesn't mean that the bedclothes are all over her top half, with a bare bottom half, like some sort of reverse Russian doll; sometimes there are just covers over both of us. Since I'm quite a tall person, there's (possibly) a rather odd-looking result of my legs almost entirely out of the end of the bed and her head at the top of it. What's happening in the middle of it is where the action is.

So there I was, merrily going about the task and hand (or mouth), and being summer, and being hot, it heated up in there. I mean, it's generally quite hot. I don't mind being hot. But since I was being quite persistent, and enthusiastic (as is my wont), I could feel the heat rising around me. Despite what people may think, I'm not really a science person, but at least I know that hot air rises, and finding nowhere else to go, it collects and then sinks back down, heating up whatever's in its path. That's why Venus is so hot, she's got a very thick atmosphere. But I kept going, and all the while I was creating my own greenhouse effect, there with a heavy duvet above, a girl in front and my legs behind.

The heat was raw and intense. I felt a pounding in my head and beads of sweat forming... yet, all the time, I kept going, working towards the orgasm which I could feel coming. Yet, with her getting hot, I was getting hot too, and that added to the heat. My back flared up and started itching. Still, I barely noticed anything except where my tongue was going.

In the end, I could barely take it any more, but I knew I was there, and I'd done my task. Her orgasm came, and I kept licking until it had subsided... and then the duvet came off, and wonderful, cool, crisp air stung my overheated body. Oh, and then we had sex, and that was good.

I was on fire. But I didn't stop until she was, too.

Darkness there, and nothing more...

I'm lucky in that the bathroom in my house - complete with rather dodgy tiling installed with my parents, nice white bath that I can't get in because of my skin and shower curtain that I have to spend ages fixing before I can take a shower - faces out onto the street. There's a big window there and I can open it wide in the summer months, letting all the heat out, and hopefully some of the steam/water vapour too. (Interesting fact-o-time: Steam is actually invisible. What you see is actually water vapour condensing around the steam, but you can't see the steam itself.) This makes for a light, pleasantly breezy shower, with plenty of shaving opportunities on the huge mirrored wall (once the condensation has been cleared, anyway) - I grow hair at an alarming rate, so shaving's something of a ritual, when I can be bothered to do it. All in all, I quite like our bathroom.

TD's bathroom I like too, but it's in some ways the antithesis of mine. It's at the back of the house, and there's no window. It's also smaller. Her shower curtain is a real curtain, so it doesn't need fixing, and the shower works, unlike mine, which decides to go suddenly very cold at random intervals. It's a cute, homey little room, and while I doubt I'd spend hours in there, it's perfectly adequate for showers.

And kisses.

Yesterday I was standing there - for what purpose I can't actually remember, my short-term memory lapses from time to time and... oh, nice shoes you have there. What was I saying? Oh yes, I was standing in her bathroom, and she just walked in, totally naked. Evidently, a bath was in order. Then she shut the door, and without actually consciously doing anything, I turned out the lights.
TD grabbed me, and instinctively I leaned in for a kiss. We locked lips together and passionately kissed. Again. And again. In the complete darkness. I sent my hands down, and stroked along the contours of her body - over her back, down her sides to her svelte waist, along her boobs, feeling her bum - all in the total lack of sight. No windows here, no artificial light. Heightened senses of touch, hearing (her breathing was practically palpable), and even taste, as I kissed her neck and moved down to her shoulder.

I felt myself growing harder as we stood there, holding her naked body in my clothed arms (although I was only wearing a t-shirt, so there was a bit of my flesh there...), just feeling her. Feeling the body I know so well. Not looking, even if I could see I may not have looked. I just wanted to touch her.

Damn, it was hot.

Eventually the light went back on. The kisses finished, at least for the moment. A slightly flushed TD got into her bath. I sat there on her toilet seat, extremely turned on. I reached for The Secret Garden to read her the first chapter. And eventually I did.

But for the moment I sat there, grateful of the light this time, so that after the hands had taken their turn in the darkness, I could admire her naked body for a while, under a gentle, forgiving light.

ante meridian

I'm feeling particularly frisky this morning, and I was when I woke up, which is odd. The phenomenon of 'morning wood' is no lie, but a couple of things are slightly wrong about the perception of waking up erect. First, it doesn't mean every boy ever wakes up horny; second, not every boy ever gets morning wood. I know, shocking. Then there's also the time you wake up being different from the time you are actually awake. You may have morning wood when your sleep ceases to be and you are thrust unwillingly into the land of wakefulness, but after an hour or so and you realise you're awake, you may not be hard at all. Despite what I've seen on Compromising Situations and, as you may remember, have done on certain mornings last June, you can't just wake up every morning wanting to have sex. Or, you might, but you'd have to at least sit up and blink a few times beforehand.

This morning wasn't like that. I woke up and I just wanted it. I could have taken the covers off my bed and have a young lady appear from nowhere and sink down onto my cock. That's what I wanted. I lay there for a while, blissful, imagining the feeling of sex, and then got a text from TD asking if I was still wanting to go to Oxford today. Well, yes, love. Yes, I do indeed.

Say "aaaaah, yes!"

It's nice to look after people. As ILB, I like to think of "looking after people" as one of my raisons d'être... and looking after an exhausted, hot, grumbly and frankly pissed-off TD is just one of those things I like to do. Suffice to say, I'd like to think she's no longer pissed off, grumbly, or hot (as it's night and there's no sun to fuck things up at the moment). I've been looking after her since Wednesday and even though we've now parted company (boo), I'm pleased that I got to play doctor for a good few days this week... plus, I didn't think I'd get to see her much, because she had work. An ill drinking girl doesn't have to work. QED, BITCHES!

We had sex last night. Well, okay, we had sex every night, but this was the first time I got to penetrate her, as opposed to the tongue-related pleasure time - work it out yourselves, gentle readers - and so it was a pleasant sensation that I'd missed sorely - the soft, warm wet sensation of entering her and feeling her inside walls mould themselves around my cock... well, you get the idea.
We were both sleepy by this point, and I figured that the whole fast-and-hard-fucking wasn't exactly going to curry much favour - I mean, it's great, but there's a limit. Plus, we'd spent the day doing lots of travelling, we were very tired, it was a warm and sultry evening, and we'd just watched Coco Avant Chanel, which is a very graceful film. Short, sharp shocks weren't really going to do it...

...so I started slow.

Gentle, long strokes. I proceeded to steady, firm strokes. Harder, but not hard. I built up a rhythm, sliding into and out of her... not slow, not fast. Same speed, same depth. Over and over and over and over again.
This was appreciated. At least, it was by me. Judging by what happened, it was by her as well. I think the general idea is, once you're used to something feeling good (especially if it's the "ooh, right there, that's the spot" form of feeling good), exactly the same thing happening again and again is going to intensify the pleasure. I mean, it works with eating sherbet lemons, and that's kind of like having sex.

So I kept going. Rhythmically.

Result:
ORGASMS: 1
BOREDOM: 0

That's what good doctors do.

The Thinker

I think a lot when I'm on my own, and especially while travelling, and especially especially when I'm on the train that gets me back to me local station. I don't know why, but on many occasions I'm devoid of material to attract my attention - like today. I had an iPod out of battery, a book I'd been reading for hours and wanted a break from, a newspaper I'd finished and energy roughly equal to that of a goldfish. So I sat, and I thought.

I don't like thinking on my own. It tends to upset me, and I don't know why, but when thinking while travelling, I have bad thoughts. And not the good type of bad thoughts. I think about bad things that have been said, and done, and they are both invasive and pervasive when I think about them. And soon, they're all I can think about, and me being me, I sit there and I think and I hurt.

And I hurt more and I think more and I hurt more.

But, as I observed this morning, when I hold my girlfriend - when I just hold her - just a simple action like that... when I hold her, everything else goes away. All the problems, all the strife, all the stress, all the hurt. Even if the hurt that I have is in some way related to her, she is beautiful and when I hold her, there isn't any. It's all gone, all of it's gone.

I need more time to hold her, because when she's not there, I have more time to think, and when I think too much, the bad thoughts come back, and I hurt.

Beast of the Night

Either I stop watching Doctor Who, stop wondering what Bête de Jour looks like, and/or stop thinking I may have seen Abby Lee in the crowds of London, or I have these dreams.

I think I'll go for the dreams...

I'm standing in a long queue to buy Bête de Jour's book. TD is there too. La Bête is standing to one side wearing a paper bag with eyeholes over his head. I persuade TD to go up and talk to him. As we approach the figure, a colourful character approaches us.
"Excuse me, are you Bête de Jour?" I ask.
"Yes," says the colourful character, turning around, "I am." I notice he's an ugly man with... well... horns on his head, but has very nice eyes. He has an outsize chin.
"Ah... you probably don't know who we are," I say, "but I'm Innocent Loverboy."
"Innocent Loverboy?" queries La Bête.
"Yes, I'm him," I reply as he shakes my hand eagerly, then turning to TD and shaking her hand too after admitting he doesn't know her blogging name. She informs him that she is The Drinker.
At which point we return to the TARDIS and discuss the events that have just transpired.

Yes, you did read that correctly.

Popping the Cherry!

I saw a play yesterday: The Cherry Orchard by Anton Chekhov, adapted by Tom Stoppard. This is a play that both my father (who is an actor) and myself hold very close to our hearts, because... well... we've both been in it. Together, in fact. This limited run at The Old Vic was something I had to see, basically. I managed to astound even myself when I got the last two tickets for the entire run booked on Monday, and so yesterday we sat down and watched it.

OHM.
EYE.
GOD.

This was something new. It was a different interpretation from the one we'd done (we'd been in Samuel Adamson's version), so even though the action and plot was the same, the dialogue - while keeping faithful to what Chekhov had intended - had been tweaked a bit here and there. But that wasn't the most impressive thing - the fact is that the play was flawless. Perfectly cast, wonderfully staged, and such fluid movement. Awesome.

And then there came the bits with the sex in.

Okay, so there's no sex in The Cherry Orchard. Not really. But there's a bit in Act II in which Yasha, the slightly dodgy manservant who I played (with relish, I might add), makes advances on and ends up kissing Dunyasha (big change of name there), the younger, impressionable and attractive female servant, who is hopelessly in love with him. I knew it was coming, and cracked a grin when I saw it happening. What I didn't expect was for them to have a full-on kiss, and for them to then flip over and end up in the missionary position on the floor of the stage...

...I swear that's not in the script...

...followed by Yasha continuing with his lines while Dunyasha... is she actually doing that?... is undoing his belt and... yes, she's definitely unzipping his trousers. Dear God, Stoppard's put fellatio in this play!

Curse you, Samuel Adamson! All I got when I was Yasha was a brief kiss!

At which point the other characters all came on and they were forced to cease their dalliance and Dunyasha made a hasty exit. Yasha looked pleased and the play continued as I expected it to.
Interestingly, I'm not making any of that up, either. I wonder what Chekhov would have thought?

In Soviet Russia, face books you!

I really hope this is not real.

Once in a Lifetime

Amora has a board displaying the virtues of sex in a relationship and a contrasting board displaying the virtues of casual sex. I'm assuming by casual sex they actually mean one-off, random sexual encounters. I mean, that's the kind of casual sex they have in porn, and as we all know, porn reflects real life so vividly and realistically. I wish I were a teacher / fireman / nurse / film star / director / sailor / soldier / prison guard / pirate, they all get so much sex!

I've only ever had one-off sex once. To be honest, I didn't think it would be a one-off. The way my brain works, it went something like, "well she thinks it will be a one off but she will be so turned on by my passion and charm and i'll please her so much that she will fall almost instantly in love with me and we will be together for a long long time and omg i love wobbuffet!" This, in fact, happened, just... later that year and with a much more lovely and beautiful girl. In this case, I had sex, it was awful, I felt horrible and didn't do it ever, ever again. That's what comes from being bad, I suppose.

The thing about portraying casual sex / one-night stands (even if they don't happen at night) is the fact that they (the encounters) happen once, so with a bit of artistic license you can shape them into whatever you want. They can be totally anonymous or happen between two friends, or prospective lovers, or seemingly just at random. And they're made to seem so appealing. In truth, one-off encounters probably are usually really good (I was just unlucky and, let's admit it, foolhardy). If they're not going to happen again, both participants are probably going to give it as good as they can. You should be doing that anyway, every time you have sex, but say you don't have sex every time, and you get lucky once, you're really going to go for it. Hot, sweaty, wild sex. I think it lacks something without any real passion, but nevertheless, I can see the appeal.

But the casual encounters aren't portrayed like that in porn, and especially not in erotica. It's always very intimate, very passionate lovemaking between two highly experienced people who know exactly what to do and exactly what time to do it, even if they are either having sex with a complete stranger or happen to be a virgin. And yet in spite of (or possibly because of) that, there's still a vague, untraceable appeal to just "have sex with someone". As if it just happens once in a while. People on Craigslist seem to think it will all the time. It certainly does for Jake.

And yet it does happen. I've been reliably informed... please don't see this, or run me through with a sharp sword for it... that a person I know once had random sex, up against a tree, in a jungle, at 4AM, while it was raining. With a medical student, no less. In fact, Louise (not the same person) - who I've mentioned here once before - will gleefully list her one-off encounters... those that she remembers, anyway. It's probably easier for ladies to get them. Then again, I'm a boy, so I would say that.

I don't really want to have casual sex. I'm in a relationship anyway, so I wouldn't even if the opportunity were presented to me. But it's an interesting concept, isn't it, that something so wondrous, that used to be regarded as "a very special part of a loving relationship between a man and a woman" (Science Now!, Year 7 Biology), can also be something that just happens... once?

Depends on who it is, I suppose!

A Secret

I'm afraid that my significant other will develop crushes on other men, because that will start me trying to force myself to become more attractive, and I don't find myself attractive.

"Do not read beauty magazines; they will only make you feel ugly."

In*To*Me*See

So, for those of you not in the know, I am currently in training for a job. Because of the nature of the work, the training takes place during term-times and I finished my placement this time last week, meaning that technically I'm on summer holidays at the moment. I've never stopped working in academic years anyway, insofar as I happened to be a teaching assistant for the first two years after university. But with summer holidays come the doube advantage and disadvantage of wanting to go away, and in some cases being able to. My annual camp I was unable to attend, due to the training being a fucking bitch and overrunning.

My lovely girlfriend, however, should be well on her way towards Edinburgh right now, to sample the delights of the Fringe festival; this, naturally, makes me both jealous and lonely, but it doesn't mean that I'll be alone forever. Still, I have to wait a week, and that seems pretty damn long to me.

We had our Obligatory Last Night™, er, last night. A lovely meal in PizzaExpress (that's where we had our first date, incidentally, so it's almost like a ritual - returning to the place of origin, like a homing rat. In a nice way, that is. A nice homing rat.) followed by a return home and watching Secretary.
"That's a very sexy film," I said, when she suggested buying it in HMV. I'd never seen it, but all anyone ever says about Secretary is "that's a very sexy film", so I thought I'd carry on the trend. The claim isn't wrong, actually. It's very sexy. It's also creepy and a little disturbing. But creepy and disturbing in the way that gets you sexually aroused, rather than in the Pan's Labyrinth-style way. Not that that wasn't good either. Anyway, yes, watch Secretary. During one (of the few) scene(s) in the bath I noticed how much Maggie Gyllenhall looks like TD. I remarked upon this and it seems the compliment was well-received. Always nice to know.

It occurred to me afterwards that Secretary's a film that you wouldn't really want to watch with anyone other than a lover, or possibly on your own. I can't imagine two friends sitting enjoying the spanking scenes, can you? "I say, Carruthers, this film is rather artful, wouldn't you say?" "Yes, Phillip, it is a ripping good wheeze, eh, what?" The image doesn't leap to mind, really.

Time grew short. Three whole chapters of the story we're (I'm) reading, just so we could finish it off before she went away - which we did. Anyone suggest us a new story? And then the bedtime came, and I settled back. Spooning her from behind, like always, but this time I managed to be angled into a rather odd position, so my face was very close to her back, rather than in her hair or over her neck like usual.
I could see her back rising and falling gently as she breathed, feel her skin under the one hand I had wrapped around her waist, and detect the warmth of my own breath falling onto her back as I lay there. And her (summer) perfume didn't hurt either.

And I relaxed and enjoyed the warmth and the intimacy of this, a night I will remember, because frankly, over the next seven days, I'll jolly well have to, I say, what?

Sorry, old bean, don't know what came over me just then.

Spam, spam, spam, spam...

I got some delightful spam today:

Men with large instruments don't have to go down on girls.

A lot of men resort to going down on women as that is the only way of satisfaction they could offer to desperate lovers. Thanks to new technologies every man has a chance now to please his lady with his enlarged stick.

Hmmm. So... is this trying to make me buy their product or not? Can't I do both? I both go down on ladies and penetrate them anyway, so do I both buy and not buy their product? Either way I win, surely?

Help, my brain is melting!

The Chart Show

A friend of mine has created a shag chart. A shag chart, that is, which only centres around people in a particular community. A community we are both part of, of course. This chart is a construction of circles, representing people, and different arrows, representing - respectively - one-way crushes (dotted lines), relationships and/or kisses (dashed lines), sexual contact (a line) and sex (two thick lines very bold and obvious). He's not actually on the chart; in his words, "I need someone to have a one-way crush on me, so I can get onto the chart somehow." But then again, if he were, he'd need to jiggle the chart about a bit - it was so complicated, he had to use maths to work out where everyone should go in order to keep the lines straight.

He knows all the stuff on the chart because, during a community excursion a year and a half ago, he asked me for details about any enduring relationships in the community and I ended up going to the hotel staff at 1 in the morning and asking them for pencils and paper so I could write it all down myself. (My chart had curvy lines, but then again, it was all coming from memory so I kept adding bits to it). Some of the lines have question marks, and some are marked "feigned" - there's that fabled 'kiss' between me and 47, which is really just very clever camera angles indeed, but at least it adds to the chart.

Oh yeah, I'm on the chart too.

My friend keeps referring to me as either a slut or a stud. I am neither - although, you know me, you could call me whatever you liked and I'd probably meekly agree with you for the sake of not causing an argument - it just so happens that I've slept with a couple of people (2, to be precise) from that community, although one of them - the ex - I bought into the community with me. Big mistake. She's not around any more, and we are that much better off for it, methinks. This community also happens to be the group from which I gained my first kiss - a moment I remember with cringes now, although I'm pretty sure I enjoyed it at the time, my first sexual experience - although it was little more than a touch - and from which I went on my first date... although you probably couldn't call it a date, we weren't technically in a relationship. Nevertheless, I told it all to my friend, and he kept adding lines.

I'm just not that much of a deviant.

Look at the other side of the chart, where Unassuming Lothario stands. This guy, though I like him as a person, has arrows spiralling off at all directions. And they're all double-ended arrows too. All his attempts - all his conquests - are successful. No 'one-way-crush'-related dotted lines for him. Unassuming Lothario, smug in his tower of sexual victories, in totally unaware of this chart, charting all his misdeeds. It's only two hops from him to me, anyway - but of course he doesn't know that.

I look at this chart every now and again. My friend updates it sometimes - I'll remember something and he'll change or add; colour-coded for different sexualities; there's even talk of making an animated version of it (although that says less about our little group than it does about the fact that some people have far too much time on their hands). And the odd thing is, this isn't even a group of people who make a point of being sexually liberated, like The Woodcraft Folk. We all appreciate the same things and that brought us together. It just so happens that we are all young(ish) people and we all at some points have to compete with Unassuming Lothario, whom we have in our midsts.

There's another meetup happening for us towards the end of this month. Although I'm pretty sure that absolutely no sex is going to happen on the day itself, I can't wait to see if it does!

Ready... steady... go!

Some people say it's all about the chase. Upset by failure and lovesick in my first year of uni (first time around), a friend of mine - who I have since lost contact with, but remember vociferously disagreeing with her because she differentiated men and ladies so staunchly - told me categorically that girls, all girls, like to be chased. This is, of course, based on the solid fact that every girl knows exactly who has a crush on them at all times, cunningly takes notice of how far everybody who has aspirations on them has gone, and never misinterprets the genuinely kind guy giving them a hug or buying them a drink or asking them to dance as being a genuine friend, because they are always trying to get themselves hooked up.

Girls like to be chased, she informed me. Keep trying and eventually she may deign to let you into her life. Hmmm. (For the curious, I did keep trying, and got nowhere. But that's because I'm ILB, evidently.) Reading through her e-mail, it slowly dawned on me that she had nowhere considered the fact that:

a) girls get crushes on boys too
b) some boys don't know how to 'chase'
c) how the fuck does this work, anyway?
d) she had just lost the game

So, apart from being far off the mark, my friend had also verged on the sexist, assuming that for a relationship to start, a boy - always a boy - had to pursue a girl until she gave up and let him take her. Hmmm (once again), wonder if she was born in mediaeval times? It would explain a lot. As a matter of fact, I recalled the beginning, duration, and end of her first relationship; it started by them accidentally revealing their mutual attraction over IRC. Hardly much of a 'chase', young lady.

I propose a different scheme.

In my way of doing things, girls actually start fancying boys themselves. Instead of sitting in their high towers and wating to be swept off their feet by the first muscular, attractive and brainless stud to come their way, they actively take part in the 'chase' themselves? Or at least do something? Because otherwise, it's always the boy's job, and we - the less-fair (or even laissez-faire) sex - are doomed to initiate everything. Ever.

Hell, in some cases, boys are waiting for girls to do something, because they have a fear of failure. I mean, I've had two relationships and I've never yet asked someone out successfully. Some of the most successful relationships I've seen (not mine) have started with lady throwing herself at man, which of course was exactly what man wanted.

Yeah... I wish. Not likely that will ever catch on, is it? Not while people like my friend are around, anyway.

I wonder if her boyfriend ever got that dinner that he demanded she make for him...

Babble

I make people fall asleep by talking to them. At least, this is what my girlfriend says and I'm still not entirely unconvinced that she's telling me I am a very boring person. Nevertheless, I call her every night, I read her a bit of a story (yes, really) and if she hasn't fallen asleep, I talk to her until she does. I don't reasonably think that The Little White Horse, Heidi, A Little Princess, The Ordinary Princess, Tom's Midnight Garden or The Dragonfly Pool would send you to sleep by themselves, so I have to admit that TD is being truthful when she says I have a soothing voice.

Do I? Do I really? I fought off partial deafness at the age of 5, took up the violin at 9 and sing lead vocals in a rock band as well as having been acting on and off. Result: I've got a really loud voice, and to top that all off, I was born and bred in North London and my accent swerves unnervingly between BBC English / RP and North London / Home Counties at regular intervals. Yeah, so Americans find my voice mysteriously sexy, but they're American and apparently British voices make them cream (their words, not mine!).

I don't think it's my voice that soothes, exactly. I made H practically fall asleep by giving her a hug once, and Mini has felt comfortable chatting to me in Regent's Park with her head in my lap (this was years ago, but I remember it) and one could visibly see that she was relaxing, so maybe it's my presence that's the clincher. Even so, some people - my sister instantly springs to mind, as she begs attention from everyone else so why not you guys? - seem aggravated by me being around, as if they have to show off to distract people from the fact that ILB is nearby.

I think, and this is wild speculation but it's the best I can manage right now, that it's mostly psychosomatic. If you're programmed to be falling asleep at night, and your significant other is on the 'phone to you, this tells your body two things: one, you are meant to be falling asleep; two, your other half cares enough to call you, and in the absence of anything to say or do (when you are together, there's something else to do, but that's last night's subject, thank you very much!), they go so far as to read you a chapter or two from a book. Well, if that were me, I'd feel pretty much cared for, right?

And cared for equals relaxed, and when you're relaxed it's a lot easier to fall asleep.

So I'm pretty sure my voice has very little to do with it. And maybe it's for the best that my colleagues and our clients, my girlfriend and my friends, my family and their families, and anyone foolish enough to see a play or listen to my band has to deal with it. It's best contained in my mouth, I think. Hang on while I answer this 'phonecall...

What's that? You want me to record a talking book? Syndicated worldwide? I'll be right with you!