[Backdated.]
I started doing NaBloPoMo at the beginning of this month not because I wanted to show off being able to write a vaguely coherent blog post ever day. I was fully aware of the fact that I'd need to backdate some entries. In fact, if you scroll back through the month you'll find that a lot of these entries are backdated. That's not really my fault. I've written the right amount of entries, if not exactly at the right times. I've put in as much effort as I can. Does that count as a fail or not? It doesn't really matter, to be honest.
I started doing NaBloPoMo in order to chronicle what I was doing with my life, due to the fact that at the beginning of this month I'd lost both job and girlfriend. I've no idea exactly what I thought the situation would eventually be at the end of the month, but I'm pretty sure I imagined it as being more dynamic than it is at the moment. I've got my girlfriend back (that much is evident if you've been reading these posts) and I had a mini crisis in the middle of the month, which thankfully didn't take hold, but I don't have a job.
Not really. There's been ad-hoc work for a few days here and there, but I'm not in possession of a permanent or even temporary job. No real solution.
I started the month by applying to a job I really wanted. In fact, it's the only job I've seen, ever, which I thought would be perfect for me. I haven't had much of a response from it - I've had two contacts from the company, both of which seem to indicate that they don't quite understand where my application's coming from. It's not a no, but it's sure as hell far from a yes. I'm now assuming that I won't get that one. Which makes me very, very sad. I worked ad-hoc after this and have applied for four other jobs. Things which require writing skills and experience with the internet. Yeah, I'm predictable.
Plus three agencies and one more job I applied for today. That makes nine routes into getting a job and no responses from any. But then again, I wasn't expecting much of a response. It would have been nice, of course.
I've also spent a considerable amount of time putting together a portfolio of reviews and articles (although mostly reviews) I've done in the past, ranging from the videogaming website I was a staff member of to the student newspaper I wrote reviews for and back to the monthly "magazine" I wrote and published (via an inkjet printer and home PC) by myself, from the ages of 11 to 16. Scouring, scanning, and typing up every damn word. The scans aren't great quality and, much as I like my own writing - even the reviews I may use from when I was about 15 - all this typing, when I know Im not going to use much of it, is a bit tedious. Nevertheless, a lot of the jobs I want require a portfolio, and if they want one they can have one.
The most galling thing, however, is that I know full well that the best things that I've ever written are all on this blog, and these jobs (apart from the first one) certainly aren't likely to take much stock in a sex blog. Needless to say, it's not something I'm freely mentioning in every application. I'm meant to be anonymous, for one thing. But there are plenty of humorous, thoughtful, erotic, and just plain daft entries in this blog for anyone's perusal. I like that, but it's not getting me anywhere financially. Then again, it was never supposed to, and that's why I've never freely advertised or put up epileptic flashing ad banners or massive adverts for porn or sex toy sites. It's just annoying that all my best writing is anonymous and some of the things in my portfolio are frankly quite shit.
So, yes. This is a bit disappointing. No high-powered, attached and positive Innocent Loverboy achieved over the space of a month. But at least I've managed to write some of my favourite ever posts this month, plus I had a fantastic time with the CCK social. I also did a musical thingy the other day which is part of my "IRL" perona, so I won't mention it here. And I have enjoyed the ad-hoc work so far. I've had some amusig conversations today with 47 concerning his new love interest. Plus I had a cool night out in London for the young raver's birthday. So - in some ways - I've been enjoying myself this month.
And when it comes down to it... isn't that what really matters?
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Total Agony!
[Backdated.]
My first experience of seeing sex on TV was on L!VE TV's Agony!, which was a version of an "agony aunt"-type show which had laughably bad actors playing laughably bad people in laughingly bad situations. These "agony" situations were clearly entirely fabricated to give enjoyment to the viewer who clearly either had no life (which explains why they were watching L!VE TV during the daytime) or was about 11 years old. Luckily, I was the latter. To make it even worse, L!VE added thought balloons to the acted sections, which usually involved the same lame jokes over and over again, and then some self-proclaimed "experts" (including one named "Miff", who was straight out of "irresponsible lad" subculture) talked for a while about how stupid everyone in the world was.
Great TV, eh?
The problems, lies as they were, all involved sex in some way. Evidently, as a pre-watershed programme, even L!VE couldn't show Agony! before 9:00pm (and, in actual fact, L!VE's late-night TV scheduling started at 10), but since they were tabloid TV at its very worst, "sex" appeared, insofar as they had male-actor-in-bed-with-female-actor, who was wearing nothing but a bra (well, she probably was but we never saw anything below the midriff). This, allegedly, was sex - or, at least, the moments immediately preceding or following it.
Because real women wear a bra in bed, sensibly cover up their lower half, and in the moments following orgasm enter into a deep and frank conversation with their men about whatever problem that's haunting them at the time, accompanied by huge thought balloons which appear out of nowhere and make sexist jokes. Evidently.
Still, this was the first time I saw any semblance of sex on TV, and there followed a few weeks of religiously watching the ridiculous channel so I could catch the few seconds of sexual non-activity, followed by a few years of watching L!VE TV after hours, which consisted of more awful home-produced shows, with occasional runs of Compromising Situations and then good-quality softcore erotica at 10:30.
Well, I say good quality. It didn't have any thought bubbles, and that was a step upwards.
My first experience of seeing sex on TV was on L!VE TV's Agony!, which was a version of an "agony aunt"-type show which had laughably bad actors playing laughably bad people in laughingly bad situations. These "agony" situations were clearly entirely fabricated to give enjoyment to the viewer who clearly either had no life (which explains why they were watching L!VE TV during the daytime) or was about 11 years old. Luckily, I was the latter. To make it even worse, L!VE added thought balloons to the acted sections, which usually involved the same lame jokes over and over again, and then some self-proclaimed "experts" (including one named "Miff", who was straight out of "irresponsible lad" subculture) talked for a while about how stupid everyone in the world was.
Great TV, eh?
The problems, lies as they were, all involved sex in some way. Evidently, as a pre-watershed programme, even L!VE couldn't show Agony! before 9:00pm (and, in actual fact, L!VE's late-night TV scheduling started at 10), but since they were tabloid TV at its very worst, "sex" appeared, insofar as they had male-actor-in-bed-with-female-actor, who was wearing nothing but a bra (well, she probably was but we never saw anything below the midriff). This, allegedly, was sex - or, at least, the moments immediately preceding or following it.
Because real women wear a bra in bed, sensibly cover up their lower half, and in the moments following orgasm enter into a deep and frank conversation with their men about whatever problem that's haunting them at the time, accompanied by huge thought balloons which appear out of nowhere and make sexist jokes. Evidently.
Still, this was the first time I saw any semblance of sex on TV, and there followed a few weeks of religiously watching the ridiculous channel so I could catch the few seconds of sexual non-activity, followed by a few years of watching L!VE TV after hours, which consisted of more awful home-produced shows, with occasional runs of Compromising Situations and then good-quality softcore erotica at 10:30.
Well, I say good quality. It didn't have any thought bubbles, and that was a step upwards.
Friday, October 29, 2010
"Culturally rich" is a phrase now.
[Backdated.]
So why did we go on holiday? Well, it's complicated.
But the main reason is... it's nice. Yes, I'm unemployed, and she is a student. Neither of us have any money, despite my initial estimate of £210.77, which was swiftly raped by £155.90 hotel bills, £35.00 restaurant meals (with rude waiter included), and the necessary £28.20 train tickets. Plus money to get into Shakespeare's houses (you'd think, being dead, that he'd be okay with us not having to pay. But nevertheless...)
By the way, it's okay. I have a £89.52 cheque from the tax man and some money from ad-hoc work probably coming at some point. But you're not interested in that, right?
However, whatever the price, it was totally worth it (if I'm allowed to use the word "totally" and not end up sounding like a douche). Stratford is lovely, but it's the pleasure of enjoying each other's company without being on either one's premises - on neutral ground, to put it another way - which always gives the biggest thrill. It's the joy of travelling together, it's the absence of parental interference, and it's the deciding for yourselves what you do which makes the option of exotic sex in a place with more style than suburban Oxford or a random London borough that bit more exciting.
And hotel breakfasts. They're the best bit, of course.
So why did we go on holiday? Well, it's complicated.
But the main reason is... it's nice. Yes, I'm unemployed, and she is a student. Neither of us have any money, despite my initial estimate of £210.77, which was swiftly raped by £155.90 hotel bills, £35.00 restaurant meals (with rude waiter included), and the necessary £28.20 train tickets. Plus money to get into Shakespeare's houses (you'd think, being dead, that he'd be okay with us not having to pay. But nevertheless...)
By the way, it's okay. I have a £89.52 cheque from the tax man and some money from ad-hoc work probably coming at some point. But you're not interested in that, right?
However, whatever the price, it was totally worth it (if I'm allowed to use the word "totally" and not end up sounding like a douche). Stratford is lovely, but it's the pleasure of enjoying each other's company without being on either one's premises - on neutral ground, to put it another way - which always gives the biggest thrill. It's the joy of travelling together, it's the absence of parental interference, and it's the deciding for yourselves what you do which makes the option of exotic sex in a place with more style than suburban Oxford or a random London borough that bit more exciting.
And hotel breakfasts. They're the best bit, of course.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Sex in Stratford
[Backdated.]
The outside of this hotel looks like a Tudor building, the reception looks like that of a modern hotel, some bits of it look like a pub, the corridors look like they may fall apart at any moment and the rooms all look nice enough. It's a building that's paused mid-evolution. Very strange; very cool. This is as opposed to my girlfriend, who was so hot she had taken all her clothes off.
No, seriously, that's the reason. I hadn't seen her naked for some time, though, which is probably why I got pretty excited upon seeing her that way. Of course, the soft, gentle brush of skin against skin worked, too, as we got down to some pretty intense cuddles (intense cuddles are like cuddles, but to the max). It had been far too long. Too long. And we were on holiday, yeah, what are holidays for?
I slid downwards, kissing her cleavage, her belly button, and her thighs. Her legs steadily opened, and I dragged the tip of my tongue steadily up the lips of her vagina, as I am wont to do. She let out a long, guttural moan. I've missed that moan. I've missed the taste, the feeling. I've missed this girl. But there's no time for reflection, I reflected, this is time for action! So I took action. The repetitive action. Long, careful licks. Occasional changes of pace: flicks back and forth, gentle prods at the clit, using both lips, and the space between. Breathe. Do it again. Breathe. Blow gently along the line. Again. Again.
I adjusted my body, bent my neck to restore its feeling. Licked precisely between her lips, so I could taste the opening of her pussy. Warm, wet. Familiar but delightful. I kept licking, dutifully hitting the points. I could feel her orgasm vibrate before I heard her announce its presence, and I kept my head there, licking still, helping guide her through her orgasm. It subsided (although it took a while to do so), I stood up and cleaned my face.
We exchanged heavy breathing for a few seconds. I was hard. Throbbing. Needy. Eager. No lack of energy, no question as to what should be done. I practically fell on top of her. I penetrated her easily. A few seconds pause while I thought to myself, it's so nice, this. Being inside a girl. Inside this girl. I could feel the muscles of her inside walls squeeze, moulding themselves around my shape. I'd forgotten that even happened, or the degree to which I could feel it. I looked down at her, and started to move.
"I'm coming... I'm coming again!" she whispered into my ear.
"Come on then, do it," I grinned back. And continued to move as I felt it. More girlcum. More thrusting, more movement. Cresting a wave. It spurned me onwards. I kept going, faster and faster and faster. Good old honest-to-God sex. But to the max.
I felt myself about to orgasm as she was somewhere between three and four (I wasn't counting, particularly, I was more concerned with other things). I let out a little phattic utterance of my own as I felt my cum shooting out of my cock, filling her up. I knew she'd be feeling it drip out of her in a while, along with her own and whatever other liquid that may manifest itself along the way. Fantastic, intense vanilla sex. Awesome.
I lay down next to her. There was a huge wet patch where her pussy (my face, cock, &c.) had been. We exchanged smiles.
I love holidays.
The outside of this hotel looks like a Tudor building, the reception looks like that of a modern hotel, some bits of it look like a pub, the corridors look like they may fall apart at any moment and the rooms all look nice enough. It's a building that's paused mid-evolution. Very strange; very cool. This is as opposed to my girlfriend, who was so hot she had taken all her clothes off.
No, seriously, that's the reason. I hadn't seen her naked for some time, though, which is probably why I got pretty excited upon seeing her that way. Of course, the soft, gentle brush of skin against skin worked, too, as we got down to some pretty intense cuddles (intense cuddles are like cuddles, but to the max). It had been far too long. Too long. And we were on holiday, yeah, what are holidays for?
I slid downwards, kissing her cleavage, her belly button, and her thighs. Her legs steadily opened, and I dragged the tip of my tongue steadily up the lips of her vagina, as I am wont to do. She let out a long, guttural moan. I've missed that moan. I've missed the taste, the feeling. I've missed this girl. But there's no time for reflection, I reflected, this is time for action! So I took action. The repetitive action. Long, careful licks. Occasional changes of pace: flicks back and forth, gentle prods at the clit, using both lips, and the space between. Breathe. Do it again. Breathe. Blow gently along the line. Again. Again.
I adjusted my body, bent my neck to restore its feeling. Licked precisely between her lips, so I could taste the opening of her pussy. Warm, wet. Familiar but delightful. I kept licking, dutifully hitting the points. I could feel her orgasm vibrate before I heard her announce its presence, and I kept my head there, licking still, helping guide her through her orgasm. It subsided (although it took a while to do so), I stood up and cleaned my face.
We exchanged heavy breathing for a few seconds. I was hard. Throbbing. Needy. Eager. No lack of energy, no question as to what should be done. I practically fell on top of her. I penetrated her easily. A few seconds pause while I thought to myself, it's so nice, this. Being inside a girl. Inside this girl. I could feel the muscles of her inside walls squeeze, moulding themselves around my shape. I'd forgotten that even happened, or the degree to which I could feel it. I looked down at her, and started to move.
"I'm coming... I'm coming again!" she whispered into my ear.
"Come on then, do it," I grinned back. And continued to move as I felt it. More girlcum. More thrusting, more movement. Cresting a wave. It spurned me onwards. I kept going, faster and faster and faster. Good old honest-to-God sex. But to the max.
I felt myself about to orgasm as she was somewhere between three and four (I wasn't counting, particularly, I was more concerned with other things). I let out a little phattic utterance of my own as I felt my cum shooting out of my cock, filling her up. I knew she'd be feeling it drip out of her in a while, along with her own and whatever other liquid that may manifest itself along the way. Fantastic, intense vanilla sex. Awesome.
I lay down next to her. There was a huge wet patch where her pussy (my face, cock, &c.) had been. We exchanged smiles.
I love holidays.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
I wonder who went?
Nice to see my (former) university's keeping up with the dating world's lingo:
(Seen at Senate House, University of London's Library, on a random door - no indication)
(Seen at Senate House, University of London's Library, on a random door - no indication)
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Sex sells
Just a quickie because I'm going to Stratford (upon Avon, not the suburb of London) tomorrow and really need to pack.
Porn spam. We've all had it, and even if you haven't, you've probably had porn, spam, or both. And porn spam is the bastard offspring of the two. With worse grammar. I got this little doozy in my inbox today:
Stay here he shut himself
Repeated mr nickleby was required to talk. Replied in company with his wife
End of some new friend
Wow, that sure turned me on.
Of course, this wasn't all. For all my sins, two of my (seven) e-mail addresses route through Yahoo! Mail, which is perhaps the worst system known to man or beast. And there, in the signature of this very e-mail that was sent to me (automatically, I've no doubt), was the proudest boast since Beowulf:
Do You Yahoo!? Tired of spam? Yahoo! Mail has the best spam protection around...
...which clearly didn't work on this one. Or did it? Maybe it looked like spam that needed to be in my inbox. After all, with the subject line...
Remember Jan*ine? She work~ed in our o~ffice. The g;irl with delecious ass! I saw her video:s her*e. Is i:t really her?
..wh!o can bl@.me it f.0.r th~i##nkin>g t€hat? It'*s s%o obviousl©y no≠t spα™m.
Porn spam. We've all had it, and even if you haven't, you've probably had porn, spam, or both. And porn spam is the bastard offspring of the two. With worse grammar. I got this little doozy in my inbox today:
Stay here he shut himself
Repeated mr nickleby was required to talk. Replied in company with his wife
End of some new friend
Wow, that sure turned me on.
Of course, this wasn't all. For all my sins, two of my (seven) e-mail addresses route through Yahoo! Mail, which is perhaps the worst system known to man or beast. And there, in the signature of this very e-mail that was sent to me (automatically, I've no doubt), was the proudest boast since Beowulf:
Do You Yahoo!? Tired of spam? Yahoo! Mail has the best spam protection around...
...which clearly didn't work on this one. Or did it? Maybe it looked like spam that needed to be in my inbox. After all, with the subject line...
Remember Jan*ine? She work~ed in our o~ffice. The g;irl with delecious ass! I saw her video:s her*e. Is i:t really her?
..wh!o can bl@.me it f.0.r th~i##nkin>g t€hat? It'*s s%o obviousl©y no≠t spα™m.
Monday, October 25, 2010
South Beach Cruisin # 3
Stars: Justin Slayer, Asante Stone, Nat Turnher, Esperanza Gomez, Isis Taylor, Cynthia Bang, Anastaysha Benz, Fransheliz Vasquez y Kara Tai!
Duración: 201 Min
Tamaño: 2.1 Gb
Resolución: 624x352
Formato: Avi
Capturas:
CD1
Descarga South Beach Cruisin CD1 Parte 1
Descarga South Beach Cruisin CD1 Parte 2
CD2
Descarga South Beach Cruisin CD2 Parte 1
Descarga South Beach Cruisin CD2 Parte 2
CD3
Descarga South Beach Cruisin CD3 Parte 1
Descarga South Beach Cruisin CD3 Parte 2
Duración: 2:32 Hs
Tamaño: 1.4 Gb
Resolución: 576x320
Formato: Avi
Capturas:
CD 1
Descarga Confessions Over Cocktails 2 Parte 1
Descarga Confessions Over Cocktails 2 Parte 2
CD 2
Descarga Confessions Over Cocktails 2-2 Parte 1
Descarga Confessions Over Cocktails 2-2 Parte 2
Ass Parade #24
Duración: 2:42 Hs
Tamaño: 1.4 Gb
Resolución: 512x384
Formato: Avi
Capturas:
CD 1
Descarga Ass Parade #24 Parte 1
Descarga Ass Parade #24 Parte 2
CD 2
Descarga Ass Parade #24-2 Parte 1
Descarga Ass Parade #24-2 Parte 1
Love Kara Tai 2 Febrero 2010
Duración: 2:02 Hs
Tamaño: 1.4 Gb
Resolución: 576x320
Formato: Avi
Capturas:
CD 1
Descarga Love Kara Tai 2 Parte 1
Descarga Love Kara Tai 2 Parte 2
CD 2
Descarga Love Kara Tai 2-2 Parte 1
Descarga Love Kara Tai 2-2 Parte 2
My Dad's Hot Girlfriend Marzo 2010
Duración: 27 Min
Tamaño: 258 Mb
Resolución: 768x432
Formato: Mp4
Capturas:
Descarga My Dad's Hot Girlfriend
My Wife's Hot Friends Abril 2010
Duración: 29 Min
Tamaño: 279 Mb
Resolución: 768x432
Formato: Mp4
Capturas:
Descarga My Wife's Hot Friends
My Wifes Hot Friend Abril 2010
Duración: 24 Min
Tamaño: 230 Mb
Resolución: 768x406
Formato: Avi
Capturas:
Descarga My Wifes Hot Friend
My First Sex Teacher Septiembre 2010
Duración: 27 Min
Tamaño: 262 Mb
Resolución: 766x432
Formato: Mp4
Capturas:
Descarga My First Sex Teacher
A Reflective Gift
I has a dream last night about a girl. A girl I miss. A girl I've dreamed about before.
I've never dreamed about having sex with her. Whcih is odd because that's what my subconscious does. In my dreams I have sex with people I shouldn't. People I'm not really attracted to at all. People I don't know, or have the same name as someone I know but are different.
Not this girl. I know who this girl is. She's one of my closest friends... or she was. I haven't talked to her for a while. When I think of her, I miss her. Staying up late to talk to her on MSN. Her pictures. Her videos. Her wit. Her accent. Everything about her, I miss.
Whenever I dream about her, I dream about closeness. I dream about cuddles, kisses, warmth, stroking. I dream about affection. Not love, not sex. Just affection.
They are dreams which I want more of.
I've never dreamed about having sex with her. Whcih is odd because that's what my subconscious does. In my dreams I have sex with people I shouldn't. People I'm not really attracted to at all. People I don't know, or have the same name as someone I know but are different.
Not this girl. I know who this girl is. She's one of my closest friends... or she was. I haven't talked to her for a while. When I think of her, I miss her. Staying up late to talk to her on MSN. Her pictures. Her videos. Her wit. Her accent. Everything about her, I miss.
Whenever I dream about her, I dream about closeness. I dream about cuddles, kisses, warmth, stroking. I dream about affection. Not love, not sex. Just affection.
They are dreams which I want more of.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Still got it.
There's this chat room I go to. Every Sunday. I own it, actually. Not that it was my brainchild to begin with, but I've been going ever since I was in my mid-teens and a few years ago I took ownership. The first chat session after I became the overlord was fantastic - one of the best. It has regular visitors, one of whom is 47, and another of whom... is Louise.
Who turned up in chat tonight, completely unexpectedly.
Since there were loads of other people in chat (a rare occurrence, but a really nice one - the chat room's still got its pull after eleven years), she didn't say anything too untoward - even if she is a little unrestrained at times - but at one point I did go and make some toast and hot chocolate (another chat ritual for me) and came back to find this comment left in my absence:
[Louise]: This room isn't half as sexy without [ILB] in it.
I left a lasting impression, evidently.
Who turned up in chat tonight, completely unexpectedly.
Since there were loads of other people in chat (a rare occurrence, but a really nice one - the chat room's still got its pull after eleven years), she didn't say anything too untoward - even if she is a little unrestrained at times - but at one point I did go and make some toast and hot chocolate (another chat ritual for me) and came back to find this comment left in my absence:
[Louise]: This room isn't half as sexy without [ILB] in it.
I left a lasting impression, evidently.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Las gemelas lesbianas [película] [1 link] [Español]
Reparto: Jade Maecella, Crystal, Jocelyn.
Idioma: Español
700Mb
http://depositfiles.com/files/3spof7f6h
Idioma: Español
700Mb
http://depositfiles.com/files/3spof7f6h
Parejas necesitan dinero urgente - [1 Link] [Español]
Parejas necesitan dinero urgente
Peícula
Descarga Directa
Idioma: Español (españa)
1 sólo link
387Mb
una película de Ann Lorca que incide de manera desenfadada en las escenas de castings de parejas. En ella podremos encontrar 4 escenas diferentes, resaltar la que protagoniza Justine Sade.
1 link depositfiles (quitar espacios)
http: //depositfiles.com/files/tyf97g4pz
Peícula
Descarga Directa
Idioma: Español (españa)
1 sólo link
387Mb
una película de Ann Lorca que incide de manera desenfadada en las escenas de castings de parejas. En ella podremos encontrar 4 escenas diferentes, resaltar la que protagoniza Justine Sade.
1 link depositfiles (quitar espacios)
http: //depositfiles.com/files/tyf97g4pz
Top 100 Sex Bloggers: 2010
Hey, check it out, it's the 100 greatest Sex Bloggers of 2010 from Between My Sheets. I made it in at #97 last year... let's see where I am this year.
Alexa from The Real Princess Diaries(removed; see here)- TBK from The Beautiful Kind
- Iona and James from SapioSlut
- Quizzical Pussy from Quizzical Pussy
- Sadie from Sexie Sadie’s Stories of Seduction
- Vixen from Secrets of a Blue-Eyed Vixen
- Adrian Colesberry from Adrian’s Blog
- EA from Easily Aroused
- Guy New York from Quickies in New York
- Joan from Better Than I Ever Expected: Sex and Aging
- 25 Things from 25 Things About My Sexuality
- AAG from AAG Blog
- Bad, Bad Girl from BBG Blog
- Holden from Packing Vocals
- The blogging team at Sex is Fun
- Elle from Kink Unleashed
- Rachel from Rabbit Write
- Clarisse from Clarisse Thorn
- littlegirlyone from littlegirlyland
- Remittance Girl from Remittance Girl
- Mistress Arabella from Bombsells & Rockstars
- Axe from Unspeakable Axe
- Coke Talk from Dear Coke Talk
- Jack from Writing Dirty
- Kayar Silkenvoice from Silken on Sex
- The blogging team at Gentle Nibbles
- Sinclair Sexsmith from Sugarbutch Chronicles
- Lilly from This Could Be Dangerous…
- Kit from Blogging Dangerously
- Mistress Lilyana from Mistress Lilyana
- Blogging Slave from The Blogging Slave
- suggestivetongue from suggestivetongue
- Library Vixen from Library Vixen
- Oatmeal Girl from Submission & Metaphor
- Riff Dog from Ashley and Me
- Rockin’ with a Cock In from Light Switch
- Dick and Jane from Dick-n-Jane
- Shasta from Stiletto Diaries
- Athol Kay from Married Man Sex Life
- Padme and Anakin from Journey to the Darkside
- PrettyPowerTools from Pretty Power Tools
- Dark Gracie from Gracie’s Playground
- Mollena from The Perverted Negress
- The blogging team at Sex in the Public Square
- The blogging team at Pop My Cherry Review
- Emma and Maymay from Kink on Tap
- Dave from Glimpses of Dave
- Jake from Facts and Friction
- Sylvanus and Mina from At Longing’s End
- Lucy from Sexy Blogtime
- Ms. Naughty from Ms. Naughty Porn for Women Blog
- Wendy Blackheart from Heart Full of Black
- Cin from Seeing My Own Reflection
- Holly from The Pervocracy
- Lady Pandorah from Lady Pandorah’s Sanctuary
- The blogging team at Cuntlove
- Jiz Lee from Jiz Lee
- Aubrey from Vagina Drum
- Black Pearl from The Filthy Ramblings of a Dirty Girl on Lock
- Dallas from Naughty Americans
- Jerry Jones from Little Submissions
- Sir Zoomer from Vanilla-Xtract
- Chantelle from Chantelle Austin International
- Gloria from Gloria’s Oversexed Mind
- Insatiable Desire from Insatiable Desire
- Spring Flower from A Girl’s Gotta Have Options
- Epiphora from Hey Epiphora
- Wilhemina from Heartbreak Nymphomania
- Erin from Let’s Eat Cake
- Autumn from The First Day of Autumn
- Kyle from Butchtastic
- Cheeky Minx from Love Hate Sex Cake
- Diva from Debauched Domestic Diva
- Femme Fagette from Femme Fagette and Wanton Lotus
- Janie from A Hundred Ways to be Perverse in the Library
- The Secret Slut from The Secretive Slut
- Curvaceous Dee from Curvaceous Dee
- Jefferson from One Life, Take Two
- Kris from Phone Courtesan and Experience Kris
- Lila from ¡Qué sinvergüenza!
- Essin’ Em from Essin’ Em
- Shon Richards from Erotiterrorist
- Violet Blue from Tiny Nibbles
- Evey from Voyeur on Display
- Miss Mia from Things You Can’t Ask Mom
- Coy Pink from No Need to be Coy
- Mistress Matisse from Mistress Matisse’s Journal
- Audacia Ray from Waking Vixen
- That Toy Chick from Desk Full of Dildos
- Britni from Oh My God, That Britni’s Shameless
- SSS and ♀ from Sweat Shop Sissy
- Ferns from Domme Chronicles
- Jerome Nichols from Let’s Talk About Sex
- Dreamwalker from Dreamwalker Sadistic Poet
- Dr. Petra from Dr. Petra Boynton’s Blog
- Viemoira from Cavern of the Beast
- Shirley from Reptillian Prostitute
- Carrie Ann from A View from the Floor
- Sophia St. James from Sophia St. James XXX
- Anyone else
Friday, October 22, 2010
Blogger FAIL
Dear Blogger,
While I love you to pieces for everything you have done in allowing me to write a sex blog for a hell of a long time, your new front page is a shambles. Yes, I know it's more simplistic and everything, but the thing is this: I have four Google Accounts. The one that I use for Blogger - the one that, incidentally, doesn't sign into Google Mail, since ILB e-mail routes through Yahoo! - happens to be the only one that isn't automatically filled in, as it was on your previous sign-in page, which appeared to let Firefox save the username and password, logging me in in less than a second via some deft keystrokes (T, tab, return).
This one doesn't do that, and as a result, whenever I want to log in as ILB I has to go through the laborious process of typing out the whole e-mail address followed by the whole password, which takes about five seconds in total, and that is a waste of my precious time.
I can't stop you using Google accounts, because they bought you, but this would all be a lot easier if you just let people create a Blogger account, with which you could sign into Blogger and blog, and nothing else. You did that in the past and, while I didn't mind creating another Google account initially, I have four. And this one isn't automatically filling itself on your new fromt page because your new front page is a gateway to Google Mail, and I don't use this one for Google Mail.
Blogger, Google, sort this one out.
Yours irritately,
I.L.B. x
While I love you to pieces for everything you have done in allowing me to write a sex blog for a hell of a long time, your new front page is a shambles. Yes, I know it's more simplistic and everything, but the thing is this: I have four Google Accounts. The one that I use for Blogger - the one that, incidentally, doesn't sign into Google Mail, since ILB e-mail routes through Yahoo! - happens to be the only one that isn't automatically filled in, as it was on your previous sign-in page, which appeared to let Firefox save the username and password, logging me in in less than a second via some deft keystrokes (T, tab, return).
This one doesn't do that, and as a result, whenever I want to log in as ILB I has to go through the laborious process of typing out the whole e-mail address followed by the whole password, which takes about five seconds in total, and that is a waste of my precious time.
I can't stop you using Google accounts, because they bought you, but this would all be a lot easier if you just let people create a Blogger account, with which you could sign into Blogger and blog, and nothing else. You did that in the past and, while I didn't mind creating another Google account initially, I have four. And this one isn't automatically filling itself on your new fromt page because your new front page is a gateway to Google Mail, and I don't use this one for Google Mail.
Blogger, Google, sort this one out.
Yours irritately,
I.L.B. x
Thursday, October 21, 2010
The Zebra Project
[Backdated.]
When I was in year 8 I got a crush on a girl who it was pretty much guaranteed that nobody else would get a crush on, mostly because nobody noticed she was there. She was virtually silent, sitting in the corner of every classroom saying absolutely nothing. She hated being asked to speak in public at all, possibly because of her voice which was quite squeaky. Moreover, the only time she was mentioned by anyone else - other than in conversation with me - was in connection with her intelligence, or - sadly - in racist remarks (she was, so I hear, part Mauritian, and had a nice tanned skin).
I don't know why I fancied her so much - but I did. I think the mysterious inaccessibility had some effect on me, as did her appearance. In year 11, when I mentioned her in passing to a friend, my friend remarked, "she's well pretty," which was about as close as an accurate description as you'd get. And she was. She had a remarkably well-defined face, gorgeous skin colour, dark eyes, nice teeth which showed when she smiled, and very long, black hair which reached down well past her shoulders.
I referred to her as "the Zebra Project", due to my attempts at that time to hide most things from everyone, revealing my unrequited affection to only my three closest friends (well, one of them. The other two got it out of him somehow.) - and somehow managed to wrangle my way into sitting next to her in year 9 Science lessons.
But the thing that intrigued me most was the fact that, clever as she was, she seemed to be attempting to get away with doing as little as possible. The SEN register on our head of year's wall - which I memorised because it had me on it - listed her as "EWO??", which suggested that she may have been playing truant. She rarely did any homework, yet when she did it was always of a high standard and made most (but not all) teachers forget about any misgivings; in fact, it was probably this intelligence which provided the mask for her to hide behind. I remember her doing some English homework during a Maths lesson (the English lesson was directly afterwards), scoring the highest mark in year 9 Science with no indication of being at all interested in the subject, and gaining a National Curriculum level 8 in the year 9 SATs for English, becoming the first student of the school to do so... well, joint first. I was the other one, naturally.
But she never seemed to want to be there. If she had her way, she told me in a whisper once, she'd be at home playing with her German Shepherd (the dog, not a real German shepherd - although that conjures up some disturbing imagery...), who apparently ate one of her Nintendo 64 joypads. Just because.
She also disappeared at the beginning of year 10 for a couple of months. Turns out she was in hospital for some strange undefined illness. I don't think I'll ever work that one out. Her best friends weren't telling.
This pretty, intelligent, enigmatic girl sort of vanished partway through the sixth form. I don't know where she went. Maybe she'd had enough. Maybe she sort of disappeared into the background. I never found out enough about her. But I liked her. I liked her a lot. I daydreamed about the ways in which we could be together. I wrote a play in which the protagonists included myself and her. It was all very sweet. Very innocent. And it lasted a long, long time - through most of year 8, all of year 9, and part of year 10. I never said anything, or did anything, about it. But apparently, somehow, she knew. She knew all along. She just never said anything either.
I wonder if she ever thinks about it any more.
When I was in year 8 I got a crush on a girl who it was pretty much guaranteed that nobody else would get a crush on, mostly because nobody noticed she was there. She was virtually silent, sitting in the corner of every classroom saying absolutely nothing. She hated being asked to speak in public at all, possibly because of her voice which was quite squeaky. Moreover, the only time she was mentioned by anyone else - other than in conversation with me - was in connection with her intelligence, or - sadly - in racist remarks (she was, so I hear, part Mauritian, and had a nice tanned skin).
I don't know why I fancied her so much - but I did. I think the mysterious inaccessibility had some effect on me, as did her appearance. In year 11, when I mentioned her in passing to a friend, my friend remarked, "she's well pretty," which was about as close as an accurate description as you'd get. And she was. She had a remarkably well-defined face, gorgeous skin colour, dark eyes, nice teeth which showed when she smiled, and very long, black hair which reached down well past her shoulders.
I referred to her as "the Zebra Project", due to my attempts at that time to hide most things from everyone, revealing my unrequited affection to only my three closest friends (well, one of them. The other two got it out of him somehow.) - and somehow managed to wrangle my way into sitting next to her in year 9 Science lessons.
But the thing that intrigued me most was the fact that, clever as she was, she seemed to be attempting to get away with doing as little as possible. The SEN register on our head of year's wall - which I memorised because it had me on it - listed her as "EWO??", which suggested that she may have been playing truant. She rarely did any homework, yet when she did it was always of a high standard and made most (but not all) teachers forget about any misgivings; in fact, it was probably this intelligence which provided the mask for her to hide behind. I remember her doing some English homework during a Maths lesson (the English lesson was directly afterwards), scoring the highest mark in year 9 Science with no indication of being at all interested in the subject, and gaining a National Curriculum level 8 in the year 9 SATs for English, becoming the first student of the school to do so... well, joint first. I was the other one, naturally.
But she never seemed to want to be there. If she had her way, she told me in a whisper once, she'd be at home playing with her German Shepherd (the dog, not a real German shepherd - although that conjures up some disturbing imagery...), who apparently ate one of her Nintendo 64 joypads. Just because.
She also disappeared at the beginning of year 10 for a couple of months. Turns out she was in hospital for some strange undefined illness. I don't think I'll ever work that one out. Her best friends weren't telling.
This pretty, intelligent, enigmatic girl sort of vanished partway through the sixth form. I don't know where she went. Maybe she'd had enough. Maybe she sort of disappeared into the background. I never found out enough about her. But I liked her. I liked her a lot. I daydreamed about the ways in which we could be together. I wrote a play in which the protagonists included myself and her. It was all very sweet. Very innocent. And it lasted a long, long time - through most of year 8, all of year 9, and part of year 10. I never said anything, or did anything, about it. But apparently, somehow, she knew. She knew all along. She just never said anything either.
I wonder if she ever thinks about it any more.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Kinsey X
[Backdated.]
When I was in year 7, I eventually came out to my classmates as celibate.
I say my classmates, rather than friends, due to the simple fact that in year 7 I didn't have any friends. I began to make real friends towards the summer term and at the beginning of year 8 I was part of, effectively, a group of four. By the time I reached the sixth form, everyone seemed to like me, but nevertheless, at the beginning, there was virtually nobody.
"Don't tell anyone you believe in faeries," my mother told me, "or you'll have lost all your friends before you've made them." Naturally, I told everyone that I believed in faeries; I wanted friends who liked me for me, and I wasn't going to alter myself according to that - similarly, I was open about the fact that I was a pacifist, strict vegetarian, liberal Christian, and celibate. (I'm still three of those things and - if you are curious - yes, I do still believe in faeries.) Then again, it was my mother who told me that she thought I was celibate, so she's partially to blame.
I don't think she meant "celibate" anyway, I think she meant "asexual". Interestingly, one of the foursome I ended up as part of - not me, though - is probably the most asexual person I know. He's never shown any signs of interest in romance or attractive members of either sex, preferring instead to have married physics (he's doing his PhD on astrophysics as I write this, please forgive me if I avoid the "it's not rocket science" jokes). He's a lovely guy, but shows all the signs of being Kinsey X, and that goes beyond the initial impressions of shyness. But originally, I thought that was me.
You see, I'd gotten to year 7 and had started secondary school being uninterested in sex. In fact, I was interested, but didn't want to admit that to anyone. I had a conversation with my mother, which I remember word for word - "I'm not heterosexual," I said, "I'm not homosexual, I'm not bisexual, I'm not self-sexual, so what am I?" So my mother explained to me the concept of celibacy - except she probably meant asexuality; celibacy is a freely chosen state of sexual abstinence, rather than just not having the feeling - and I readily agreed that that sounded about right. So I attached the label to myself: celibate. I didn't have to worry about the whole dating or sex thing. After seeing what it had done to some people I knew, it was a relief.
Eventually I told everyone. I had no shame, I had nothing to hide - I was already an outcast, after the first thing I said to anyone on my first day - "violence isn't the only solution" - had branded me a cissy anyway. I was going to be a cissy by conviction if anything, and so I told everyone I was celibate. Naturally, they took this well. Well for them, of course, because that meant they had something else they could bully me for.
Turns out, of course, that I wasn't at all celibate or asexual, because halfway through the year, I got a crush on a girl. My primary bully worked out who it was in about half an hour, but I managed to worm my way out of total embarrassment by pretending that I actually had a crush on my imaginary (girl)friend. Of course, this meant that I got bullied for having an imaginary friend at the age of 11, even though I hadn't, so eventually I went back to the celibacy story. It made me original, at least.
By the beginning of year 8, all that debacle was forgotten. I had friends, and everyone had forgotten about why they were bullying me in the first place and started afresh because I was clever. And I no longer had a crush on the fashionable blonde Cockney girl I had had in year 7, nor did I pretend to have an imaginary friend. I was, as they say, free-and-easy, and no longer had a sexuality to have to define myself by.
And then, of course, I got a crush on another girl - and this one lasted for over two years. But that's not really something I should talk about...
...yet...
When I was in year 7, I eventually came out to my classmates as celibate.
I say my classmates, rather than friends, due to the simple fact that in year 7 I didn't have any friends. I began to make real friends towards the summer term and at the beginning of year 8 I was part of, effectively, a group of four. By the time I reached the sixth form, everyone seemed to like me, but nevertheless, at the beginning, there was virtually nobody.
"Don't tell anyone you believe in faeries," my mother told me, "or you'll have lost all your friends before you've made them." Naturally, I told everyone that I believed in faeries; I wanted friends who liked me for me, and I wasn't going to alter myself according to that - similarly, I was open about the fact that I was a pacifist, strict vegetarian, liberal Christian, and celibate. (I'm still three of those things and - if you are curious - yes, I do still believe in faeries.) Then again, it was my mother who told me that she thought I was celibate, so she's partially to blame.
I don't think she meant "celibate" anyway, I think she meant "asexual". Interestingly, one of the foursome I ended up as part of - not me, though - is probably the most asexual person I know. He's never shown any signs of interest in romance or attractive members of either sex, preferring instead to have married physics (he's doing his PhD on astrophysics as I write this, please forgive me if I avoid the "it's not rocket science" jokes). He's a lovely guy, but shows all the signs of being Kinsey X, and that goes beyond the initial impressions of shyness. But originally, I thought that was me.
You see, I'd gotten to year 7 and had started secondary school being uninterested in sex. In fact, I was interested, but didn't want to admit that to anyone. I had a conversation with my mother, which I remember word for word - "I'm not heterosexual," I said, "I'm not homosexual, I'm not bisexual, I'm not self-sexual, so what am I?" So my mother explained to me the concept of celibacy - except she probably meant asexuality; celibacy is a freely chosen state of sexual abstinence, rather than just not having the feeling - and I readily agreed that that sounded about right. So I attached the label to myself: celibate. I didn't have to worry about the whole dating or sex thing. After seeing what it had done to some people I knew, it was a relief.
Eventually I told everyone. I had no shame, I had nothing to hide - I was already an outcast, after the first thing I said to anyone on my first day - "violence isn't the only solution" - had branded me a cissy anyway. I was going to be a cissy by conviction if anything, and so I told everyone I was celibate. Naturally, they took this well. Well for them, of course, because that meant they had something else they could bully me for.
Turns out, of course, that I wasn't at all celibate or asexual, because halfway through the year, I got a crush on a girl. My primary bully worked out who it was in about half an hour, but I managed to worm my way out of total embarrassment by pretending that I actually had a crush on my imaginary (girl)friend. Of course, this meant that I got bullied for having an imaginary friend at the age of 11, even though I hadn't, so eventually I went back to the celibacy story. It made me original, at least.
By the beginning of year 8, all that debacle was forgotten. I had friends, and everyone had forgotten about why they were bullying me in the first place and started afresh because I was clever. And I no longer had a crush on the fashionable blonde Cockney girl I had had in year 7, nor did I pretend to have an imaginary friend. I was, as they say, free-and-easy, and no longer had a sexuality to have to define myself by.
And then, of course, I got a crush on another girl - and this one lasted for over two years. But that's not really something I should talk about...
...yet...
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Straight to the Point
[Backdated.]
The first time I ever felt romantic was when I spotted some Point Romance books in the Parcmarket at Center Parcs in Elveden Forest. Yes, that's a very long time ago - I must have been about 9, perhaps, maybe even younger. My family had been going to Center Parcs for a while, but I probably hadn't spotted the Point Romance books first time around. (For those US readers or further afield, "Point" is a brand of books marketed for early-to-mid-teen readers. I've been reading Point Fantasy since the age of eightish.) But on a book spiral in the corner of the Parcmarket, there were some. I approached them.
Well aware that they were written for girls, I attempted to look as if I was interested in something else. There were other books on the spiral, but they were so uninteresting I've forgotten what they were about, never mind what they were. What I noticed, more than anything, about the Point Romance books was the combination of front cover picture and strapline. The front cover pictures, drawn lavishly in pencils by Derek Brazell, always depicted a moderately attractive girl, often partnered with an outrageously attractive, yet wet-looking, boy. But the straplines were what stayed with me. "Do single girls really have more fun?" asked Kiss Me, Stupid. "Language is no barrier to love," declared French Kiss. And the one I remember most... Two-Timer, which posed the brain-wrangling question: "Double the fun... or double the heartache?"
I was a mixture of intrigued and appalled. Despite having known about sex since the age of about two, here was an outright depiction of human affection, in literary form. I was convinced, at that point, that I was celibate or even asexual (but that's a bigger story, and deserves another post on its own, so I won't go into it here), so I was shocked at how interested I was. I kept sneaking glances at the books' covers, and reading the straplines over and over and over again. Every time, the slightly squiffy, wrenching feeling in my stomach returned. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, so I kept glancing. Two-Timer intrigued me more than all... could someone be romatically involved with more than one person? I hadn't considered that before!
I returned to Center Parcs a year later, and they were still there. Once more, I looked. Once more, I felt the wrench. But again, I failed to make the leap to actually physically picking them up and reading the blurb, never mind buying one. My money went on fudge from the sweet shop (Treats), which was probably more fulfilling for a boy of 10 to buy. But I would always remember them, those books - which seemed to hold some sort of hidden treasure: something I couldn't quite grasp, but wanted to. Or thought I wanted to.
I'll always remember them - their sight, the scent of the shop, where they were in it. And yet I never read them.
So I bought them from Amazon. All of them - well, six. There are a lot. But six is a sizeable number. And guess what? They are fantastic! Formulaic, yes - unassuming, unattractive but studious girl (with attached best friend as unswervingly helpful sidekick) versus devastatingly pretty, man-eating slut vying for affections of brainless but very handsome new boy on the block, who's either a rock musician, foreigner or older college student (or all three), plot kept helpfully ticking over via telephone calls, unexpected liaisons, implied sex (yes, I know - I was surprised too, but the protagonists are all sixteen, so that's okay, right?) and a happy resolution. It's all one narrative, but it's a very malleable one. And the (female) authors are surprisingly adept at shaping said narrative to both suit their own ends... and cover enough pages to be considered a novel. Fantastic!
I'm currently working my way through Summer Dreams, Winter Love (strapline: "Everyone warned her to be careful..."). Yes, I could probably read it in half an hour. Hell, I probably will when it comes to the next two on my list. No, I'm pacing myself - a couple of chapters at a time, mever mind how gripping this harmless piece of fluff is. And no, I'm not planning to write one myself, Mother. I don't think I could... I'd be too unorthodox. And too explicit, I'd wager.
But it's pleasing inside to think that, just maybe, somehow, these Point Romance books, in a corner, in the Parcmarket, in Center Parcs, flicked a switch in me somewhere. They are, perhaps, the seedlings that grew into the roots of what we know as ILB.
Now isn't that a scary thought?
The first time I ever felt romantic was when I spotted some Point Romance books in the Parcmarket at Center Parcs in Elveden Forest. Yes, that's a very long time ago - I must have been about 9, perhaps, maybe even younger. My family had been going to Center Parcs for a while, but I probably hadn't spotted the Point Romance books first time around. (For those US readers or further afield, "Point" is a brand of books marketed for early-to-mid-teen readers. I've been reading Point Fantasy since the age of eightish.) But on a book spiral in the corner of the Parcmarket, there were some. I approached them.
Well aware that they were written for girls, I attempted to look as if I was interested in something else. There were other books on the spiral, but they were so uninteresting I've forgotten what they were about, never mind what they were. What I noticed, more than anything, about the Point Romance books was the combination of front cover picture and strapline. The front cover pictures, drawn lavishly in pencils by Derek Brazell, always depicted a moderately attractive girl, often partnered with an outrageously attractive, yet wet-looking, boy. But the straplines were what stayed with me. "Do single girls really have more fun?" asked Kiss Me, Stupid. "Language is no barrier to love," declared French Kiss. And the one I remember most... Two-Timer, which posed the brain-wrangling question: "Double the fun... or double the heartache?"
I was a mixture of intrigued and appalled. Despite having known about sex since the age of about two, here was an outright depiction of human affection, in literary form. I was convinced, at that point, that I was celibate or even asexual (but that's a bigger story, and deserves another post on its own, so I won't go into it here), so I was shocked at how interested I was. I kept sneaking glances at the books' covers, and reading the straplines over and over and over again. Every time, the slightly squiffy, wrenching feeling in my stomach returned. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, so I kept glancing. Two-Timer intrigued me more than all... could someone be romatically involved with more than one person? I hadn't considered that before!
I returned to Center Parcs a year later, and they were still there. Once more, I looked. Once more, I felt the wrench. But again, I failed to make the leap to actually physically picking them up and reading the blurb, never mind buying one. My money went on fudge from the sweet shop (Treats), which was probably more fulfilling for a boy of 10 to buy. But I would always remember them, those books - which seemed to hold some sort of hidden treasure: something I couldn't quite grasp, but wanted to. Or thought I wanted to.
I'll always remember them - their sight, the scent of the shop, where they were in it. And yet I never read them.
So I bought them from Amazon. All of them - well, six. There are a lot. But six is a sizeable number. And guess what? They are fantastic! Formulaic, yes - unassuming, unattractive but studious girl (with attached best friend as unswervingly helpful sidekick) versus devastatingly pretty, man-eating slut vying for affections of brainless but very handsome new boy on the block, who's either a rock musician, foreigner or older college student (or all three), plot kept helpfully ticking over via telephone calls, unexpected liaisons, implied sex (yes, I know - I was surprised too, but the protagonists are all sixteen, so that's okay, right?) and a happy resolution. It's all one narrative, but it's a very malleable one. And the (female) authors are surprisingly adept at shaping said narrative to both suit their own ends... and cover enough pages to be considered a novel. Fantastic!
I'm currently working my way through Summer Dreams, Winter Love (strapline: "Everyone warned her to be careful..."). Yes, I could probably read it in half an hour. Hell, I probably will when it comes to the next two on my list. No, I'm pacing myself - a couple of chapters at a time, mever mind how gripping this harmless piece of fluff is. And no, I'm not planning to write one myself, Mother. I don't think I could... I'd be too unorthodox. And too explicit, I'd wager.
But it's pleasing inside to think that, just maybe, somehow, these Point Romance books, in a corner, in the Parcmarket, in Center Parcs, flicked a switch in me somewhere. They are, perhaps, the seedlings that grew into the roots of what we know as ILB.
Now isn't that a scary thought?
Monday, October 18, 2010
Awfully Different
[Backdated.]
Still don't feel like writing about it, so I'll write about something that happened today.
My little sister graduated. She is four years younger than me and that, coupled with the fact that she is a girl, makes her my parents' preferred child. She is the golden one to bow down and worship, and so we did that. Well, I say we; my parents went merrily along, I cut in with humorous asides (well, I thought they were humorous), and she basked in the glory of graduation. And alcohol.
It wasn't a big graduation, like mine, nor was it particularly grandiose, like TD's. But it was kind of nice, in its own ridiculous way. And speaking of ridiculous...
Hang on, I know that girl! I sat up, craning my neck to see, like a meerkat who has sensed something amiss. Yes, I definitely know that girl! I had a crush on her almost ten years ago! (At least, that's what I thought. It was more like eight, but who's counting?) She's older than me! Is this her second degree? Or third?
I quickly consulted my "here is your guide to the ceremony, see if you can find your name in minuscule print" guide. Yes, there she was, same name (except actually not, due to ther fact that she is married now and has a different name from the one they listed), undergraduate degree. So I was curious as to why she got to this so late. After all, mature students pick up undergraduate degrees later in life, but the last I heard, she was going to university - first time around - at the same time I did. Something to idly wonder about, you know.
Except I ran into her at the after-graduation party thingy.
"Uhm..." I started. And then I was struck dumb, and pointed.
She looks different somehow. Put on weight?... No, that's not it. No retainer?... No, I wouldn't have noticed that. She looks... different. Not attractive any more.
I knew exactly where I knew her from. Church. She seemed to have difficulty in placing me, though, which you'd think is strange, since everyone told me I had a rather obvious desire to date her and yet she ended up going out with one of my best friends. That sort of thing may hav stuck with her. It hadn't.
Her parents didn't recognise me at all. Which is also strange, since I did an impression of him at church once and everyone laughed.
I don't go to this church any more.
And that... that must be her husband. On Facebook, he looked rather imposing. But here, he looked almost as out-of-place as I felt, but then again, he was probably dwarfed by the amazing spectacle of me in my awesome formal suit of awesomeness.
Eventually, I asked the question.
"Well, I took a gap year," she said, "and then I did my degree." And that finished the matter.
Hang on. A gap year, that's one. A degree, that's three. That makes four. But it's been four years since I finished university. Whatever possessed her to do her degree for six years? Did she repeat the first, second and third years twice? Did she go extremely part-time? Did she just forget to go? (She forgot about me, so that's plausible.)
I never did ask her, so I never found out. But then again, I never asked her out at the age of approximately 17 either.
Old habits die hard.
Still don't feel like writing about it, so I'll write about something that happened today.
My little sister graduated. She is four years younger than me and that, coupled with the fact that she is a girl, makes her my parents' preferred child. She is the golden one to bow down and worship, and so we did that. Well, I say we; my parents went merrily along, I cut in with humorous asides (well, I thought they were humorous), and she basked in the glory of graduation. And alcohol.
It wasn't a big graduation, like mine, nor was it particularly grandiose, like TD's. But it was kind of nice, in its own ridiculous way. And speaking of ridiculous...
Hang on, I know that girl! I sat up, craning my neck to see, like a meerkat who has sensed something amiss. Yes, I definitely know that girl! I had a crush on her almost ten years ago! (At least, that's what I thought. It was more like eight, but who's counting?) She's older than me! Is this her second degree? Or third?
I quickly consulted my "here is your guide to the ceremony, see if you can find your name in minuscule print" guide. Yes, there she was, same name (except actually not, due to ther fact that she is married now and has a different name from the one they listed), undergraduate degree. So I was curious as to why she got to this so late. After all, mature students pick up undergraduate degrees later in life, but the last I heard, she was going to university - first time around - at the same time I did. Something to idly wonder about, you know.
Except I ran into her at the after-graduation party thingy.
"Uhm..." I started. And then I was struck dumb, and pointed.
She looks different somehow. Put on weight?... No, that's not it. No retainer?... No, I wouldn't have noticed that. She looks... different. Not attractive any more.
I knew exactly where I knew her from. Church. She seemed to have difficulty in placing me, though, which you'd think is strange, since everyone told me I had a rather obvious desire to date her and yet she ended up going out with one of my best friends. That sort of thing may hav stuck with her. It hadn't.
Her parents didn't recognise me at all. Which is also strange, since I did an impression of him at church once and everyone laughed.
I don't go to this church any more.
And that... that must be her husband. On Facebook, he looked rather imposing. But here, he looked almost as out-of-place as I felt, but then again, he was probably dwarfed by the amazing spectacle of me in my awesome formal suit of awesomeness.
Eventually, I asked the question.
"Well, I took a gap year," she said, "and then I did my degree." And that finished the matter.
Hang on. A gap year, that's one. A degree, that's three. That makes four. But it's been four years since I finished university. Whatever possessed her to do her degree for six years? Did she repeat the first, second and third years twice? Did she go extremely part-time? Did she just forget to go? (She forgot about me, so that's plausible.)
I never did ask her, so I never found out. But then again, I never asked her out at the age of approximately 17 either.
Old habits die hard.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Headfuck
Do I have my own agenda? Of course I do. Everyone writes with their own agenda. Everyone has their own unique way of seeing things. Everyone feels the way they feel and they can't help it. But what do I write? How do I put how I'm feeling in words? I should be more eloquent than "I feel like shit." I should be more descriptive than "everything's gone wrong." I should be more blasé than "things happened", but more restrained than "I may as well be dead." Even with the most laissez-faire attitude that I could take (and given a lot of the stuff that's been written in this blog, that really shouldn't be too different), anything I wrote would have to explain, or describe. Or both. Even a sequence of events would be... painful. More painful than I can begin to describe.
Eventually I will get around to relaying this weekend's events, hopefully in sequence. But until my head allows me to do that, it's not going to be happening. And even if it does, "easy" doesn't come into it anywhere. And no, before you ask... I still don't know what I did to deserve this.
Eventually I will get around to relaying this weekend's events, hopefully in sequence. But until my head allows me to do that, it's not going to be happening. And even if it does, "easy" doesn't come into it anywhere. And no, before you ask... I still don't know what I did to deserve this.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
[Hold]
Not really up to explaining. Just to say that everything sort of went a bit wrong, and normal service should be resumed as soon as I've put myself back together.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
HNT: Eye-L-B
My eyes are my only physical feature I'm truly happy with. They're a lovely shade of blue, have the right eye/eyelid proportion, and shine when the right light is on them (in this picture, there's the glare of a studio light to help that, plus I was incredibly tired). They also have the ability to hold an incredible amount of tears, should the need arise. If I look happy, or sad, my eyes complement the rest of the physical mess nicely. Thank you, God.
A gay friend of mine who had a crush on me for a short while (although how short I've never been sure!) once told me that my eyes have the curious quality of being full of tears all the time, like I'm constantly weeping. "Oh, but I am," I replied. "I'm always crying... on the inside." I don't think he believed me. And besides, so what if they sometimes water a bit? It just makes them sparkle that little touch more!
Ah well. I had to post a positive HNT some time, though, right?
A gay friend of mine who had a crush on me for a short while (although how short I've never been sure!) once told me that my eyes have the curious quality of being full of tears all the time, like I'm constantly weeping. "Oh, but I am," I replied. "I'm always crying... on the inside." I don't think he believed me. And besides, so what if they sometimes water a bit? It just makes them sparkle that little touch more!
Ah well. I had to post a positive HNT some time, though, right?
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Geeks get angry too.
I'm going to have a little bitch now, so kindly excuse my mood.
I am aware of the fact that am using my old laptop to write these posts. The screen wobbles and falls over if not propped up against a wall, it has no I key so I'm having to copy-and-paste all instances of that certain letter rather than conventional typing, and - despite me freeing up a few GB of space by deleting all my mp3s (after I'd transferred them to my netbook, of course) - it still plays the "do I have to?" card every time I try to open more than one program. Or more than one tab in Firefox, which leads to the problem I had yesterday. But it's this computer chose to bring with me, for the simple reason that it's less valuable than my netbook and I wasn't happy lugging my netbook to Oxford. It was taking this laptop everywhere with me that got it bashed about so much, but it runs, so clearly I've been treating it well enough.
Still, it's a bit of a joke that it took me FIFTY CUNTING HOURS to write ONE comment on ONE blog that was TWO lines in length.
Fair enough, I probably shouldn't have had mIRC open as well as WMP, Winamp, Explorer and Firefox with six active tabs. But then again, I was working at incredible speed, so the memory problem slipped my mind. Other thoughts engaged my mind - I've made that abundantly clear! Suffice to say, I had to wait until my computer stabilised itself - during which I had dinner - but it managed that on its own. And once I'd managed to exit all the unnecessary programs, attempted to write the comment (on Maxine's LJ, actually), which - surprisingly quickly, since it required opening another tab - I did. Selected OpenID, wrote the web address for ILB in a little box, clicked "post" and...
ERROR
I wasn't authorised to log into Blogger, apparently. Excuse me, internets? Which site was open on another tab within the same browser window, might ask? Besides, I was posting on LJ. And it's OpenID, that's the point of OpenID: it's open.
Backspace, backspace. Let's try posting again.
The text I'd written was gone.
After I'd finished hitting my head repeatedly against the wall, I quickly retyped the comment - it wasn't a long one - and hit "post" again, hoping it would deign to post this time.
ERROR
I needed to authorise LJ to post my comments via my Blogger account. Not that that made any sense, but okay. So then, naturally, it created a new LJ account for me to do so.
LJ FAIL.
I've already got an LJ account; I don't need another one - nor do I particularly want one. Nor did I want to post anonymously, particularly - but what's the big problem, LJ? Explain, internets, explain!
Back again, retyped, post. Again.
ERROR
I may not be over 14 years old, and OMGZ this journal MAI CONTANE ADULT CONCEPTZ, WTF. Up came the CAPTCHA, and in went the characters. Fair enough, except that it didn't actually recognise the characters I put in, so I had to do it all again. Bash, bash, bash went the keys. Click went the mouse. A few seconds of indecisive clunking on my computer's part, LJ having sex with Blogger for a while and...
Hey presto, comment posted! And all in under one measly hour! How impressive is that?
Oh, but they forgot to mention one thing. Seems they don't like non-LJ users posting HTML links on LJ, so my post wasn't formatted particularly well. Insofar as the HTML tag didn't work, so neither did the link. But by that point, I was so far beyond caring that I'd moved on and vented on Twitter for a few hours (well, only one tweet, but it felt like a few hours... given my computer's performance, it probably was).
Dude. Seriously. I've got multiple accounts for EVERYTHING. I've got, lke, 4 Google accounts, one LJ account (or s that two now? LJ don't seem to know themselves), 4 Yahoo! accounts (only one of which I actively use, since Yahoo! is shit, 4 Windows Live! accounts (ditto), WordPress, Friendster, Facebook, MySpace, and I think even Faceparty too. Everywhere there's something to see about me! That's too much knowledge!
Kindly sort this out, internets. If it says OpenID, I'm expecting it to be open. If I have to get one more account, anywhere, at all, I will turn into an account. I don't mean figuratively - I will physically transform into the abstract concept that is an internet-based account of some sort. Leave me alone, internets. Leave me alone.
TL;DR? Short version: FAIL.
I am aware of the fact that am using my old laptop to write these posts. The screen wobbles and falls over if not propped up against a wall, it has no I key so I'm having to copy-and-paste all instances of that certain letter rather than conventional typing, and - despite me freeing up a few GB of space by deleting all my mp3s (after I'd transferred them to my netbook, of course) - it still plays the "do I have to?" card every time I try to open more than one program. Or more than one tab in Firefox, which leads to the problem I had yesterday. But it's this computer chose to bring with me, for the simple reason that it's less valuable than my netbook and I wasn't happy lugging my netbook to Oxford. It was taking this laptop everywhere with me that got it bashed about so much, but it runs, so clearly I've been treating it well enough.
Still, it's a bit of a joke that it took me FIFTY CUNTING HOURS to write ONE comment on ONE blog that was TWO lines in length.
Fair enough, I probably shouldn't have had mIRC open as well as WMP, Winamp, Explorer and Firefox with six active tabs. But then again, I was working at incredible speed, so the memory problem slipped my mind. Other thoughts engaged my mind - I've made that abundantly clear! Suffice to say, I had to wait until my computer stabilised itself - during which I had dinner - but it managed that on its own. And once I'd managed to exit all the unnecessary programs, attempted to write the comment (on Maxine's LJ, actually), which - surprisingly quickly, since it required opening another tab - I did. Selected OpenID, wrote the web address for ILB in a little box, clicked "post" and...
ERROR
I wasn't authorised to log into Blogger, apparently. Excuse me, internets? Which site was open on another tab within the same browser window, might ask? Besides, I was posting on LJ. And it's OpenID, that's the point of OpenID: it's open.
Backspace, backspace. Let's try posting again.
The text I'd written was gone.
After I'd finished hitting my head repeatedly against the wall, I quickly retyped the comment - it wasn't a long one - and hit "post" again, hoping it would deign to post this time.
ERROR
I needed to authorise LJ to post my comments via my Blogger account. Not that that made any sense, but okay. So then, naturally, it created a new LJ account for me to do so.
LJ FAIL.
I've already got an LJ account; I don't need another one - nor do I particularly want one. Nor did I want to post anonymously, particularly - but what's the big problem, LJ? Explain, internets, explain!
Back again, retyped, post. Again.
ERROR
I may not be over 14 years old, and OMGZ this journal MAI CONTANE ADULT CONCEPTZ, WTF. Up came the CAPTCHA, and in went the characters. Fair enough, except that it didn't actually recognise the characters I put in, so I had to do it all again. Bash, bash, bash went the keys. Click went the mouse. A few seconds of indecisive clunking on my computer's part, LJ having sex with Blogger for a while and...
Hey presto, comment posted! And all in under one measly hour! How impressive is that?
Oh, but they forgot to mention one thing. Seems they don't like non-LJ users posting HTML links on LJ, so my post wasn't formatted particularly well. Insofar as the HTML tag didn't work, so neither did the link. But by that point, I was so far beyond caring that I'd moved on and vented on Twitter for a few hours (well, only one tweet, but it felt like a few hours... given my computer's performance, it probably was).
Dude. Seriously. I've got multiple accounts for EVERYTHING. I've got, lke, 4 Google accounts, one LJ account (or s that two now? LJ don't seem to know themselves), 4 Yahoo! accounts (only one of which I actively use, since Yahoo! is shit, 4 Windows Live! accounts (ditto), WordPress, Friendster, Facebook, MySpace, and I think even Faceparty too. Everywhere there's something to see about me! That's too much knowledge!
Kindly sort this out, internets. If it says OpenID, I'm expecting it to be open. If I have to get one more account, anywhere, at all, I will turn into an account. I don't mean figuratively - I will physically transform into the abstract concept that is an internet-based account of some sort. Leave me alone, internets. Leave me alone.
TL;DR? Short version: FAIL.
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