I attempted to take some pictures of my penis this evening.
Oh, don't be so shocked. Of course I did. It's not the first time over. No, I'm not a narcissistic, arrogant egomaniac. I don't even think my cock is that pretty. It's just something I did to see if I could do so. And this time, I took some pictures for a purpose. Just after orgasm. Okay, well, not just after orgasm. It was a big orgasm. Just after post-orgasm recovery period. I also used my left hand because my right hand didn't want to leave my cock.
It's been a difficult day. One of those days.
So I took the snaps with my faithful, recovered BlackBerry - I have a new camera now, but it has yet to make it out of the box - and appraised them, because I'm that sort of crazy person.
I was thankful that my penis doesn't look odd, even in pixellated form. There's no huge, purple, bulbous head. There's no obvious blue veiny streakiness. There's nothing there that looks as if it shouldn't be there. And it doesn't even look like the Gherkin. But I was dismayed.
My brain spiralled into memories of seeing cock pics online. Pictures of cocks associated themselves to brash, overconfident men. Guys who use pictures of the giant tips of their cocks as user icons. Men who think that if they post pictures of their cocks on Yahoo! groups, girls will automatically want to do them. And worst of all, men who will take pictures of their penes from Batman angles, above or below, in order to make them look far too big, and who will send them randomly around IRC networks. I've seen 'em all. And none of them have been pretty.
With this in mind, upon wang picture appraisal, they were really not the most appetising of pictures. I'd been aiming to catch certain things in the pictures, and I had. But I got my stomach fat in there too. Something just above the accepted amount of body hair. And a terrible angle which made my cock look exactly like one of those web-based arseholes' pictures of their own. I didn't even recognise it as my own after a few seconds, and don't you think I would have gotten used to the sight of it by now?
And so I got up from my bed convinced that my penis was an ugly beast. As I went to get a drink of water, my computer still whining and groaning from its as-yet-unfixed problem of mystery, I felt vaguely uncomfortable and a little disconcerted about the whole affair.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
See her run! Run, ILB, run!
"This train is ready to depart," whispered the voice in my ear, "so any persons on board who are not passengers please return to the platform. Thank you."
I ignored the warning and carried on with the kiss.
After giving her my assurances that I would miss her and affirming that she did, indeed, think it was a good idea if we saw each other again, I leaned back, although not stepping back onto the platform yet.
"I told you you'd make it," I said, a little more confidently than I felt. I hadn't been at all confident we'd make it, but at least I know enough about King's Cross to be certain that, if you have a train to catch from the mainline station, make it to the Underground concourse with five minutes to spare - three if you're quick - and you'll get there. We got there. Problem solved. Both my feet and hers ached, and I was fighting myself not to clutch the stitch in my side and expose myself as a fraudulent athlete. She was still breathing heavily and looked slightly flustered, but she was on the train, and that's what mattered.
It's not my fault. Okay, well, it is my fault. Everything had gone particularly well - the sun had been out this time; we'd had the picnic we promised ourselves followed by a nice walk through the park. Yes, it had been hot, but nevertheless, it was pretty nice. Yes, of course, there was kissing, and there was groping, and I did get a manly holler of, "go on, my son!" when she lay on top of me, ostensibly to demonstrate how long her hair was... but mostly to carry on kissing me as I reclined. And possibly to feel my erection too, although that was probably just a pleasant side-effect. At least, I thought it was pleasant. Presumably the hollering man thought it must have been too. We got a bit lost, doubled back and found a Tube station that took us to the Natural History Museum. We looked at some dinosaurs, but decided that £10 was far too pricey for more dinosaurs, and headed for the shop, where she bought a Diplodocus. We then headed for another shop, in which she bought a Baryonyx. And she, I and the two dinosaurs headed outside, where we lay on the grass.
This is when my brain switched from "gorgeous girl in my arms, thinks I'm sexy, loves to kiss, hooray I hit the jackpot!" mode to "gorgeous girl in my arms, thinks I'm sexy, stroking my hair, this is so relaxing, aaaaaaah unwinding" mode, and I almost slipped away. Almost. I certainly relaxed. I didn't even realise I was that wrought. I guess problems with one's PC, running a barbecue that wasn't even your idea, not having a job and having to tidy an entire house by yourself in about an hour and a half do take their combined toll. It only took a couple of dinosaurs, a Kinder Bueno and a simple hair stroke to sort out. Life is simple sometimes.
Unfortunately, during this haze of relaxation (and all that came with it; refer back to paragraph 2 for an idea of what it involved - now add more kisses), about an hour dropped out of the universe and went missing somewhere, and the resultant warp in the space-time continuum contributed to what ended up as a mad dash from Kensington to Camden, with about as much madcap slapstick as a trip on the Piccadilly Line could conjure up.
But we made it in the end.
And, as I'm sure you'll have guessed, it was worth it, no question.
I ignored the warning and carried on with the kiss.
After giving her my assurances that I would miss her and affirming that she did, indeed, think it was a good idea if we saw each other again, I leaned back, although not stepping back onto the platform yet.
"I told you you'd make it," I said, a little more confidently than I felt. I hadn't been at all confident we'd make it, but at least I know enough about King's Cross to be certain that, if you have a train to catch from the mainline station, make it to the Underground concourse with five minutes to spare - three if you're quick - and you'll get there. We got there. Problem solved. Both my feet and hers ached, and I was fighting myself not to clutch the stitch in my side and expose myself as a fraudulent athlete. She was still breathing heavily and looked slightly flustered, but she was on the train, and that's what mattered.
It's not my fault. Okay, well, it is my fault. Everything had gone particularly well - the sun had been out this time; we'd had the picnic we promised ourselves followed by a nice walk through the park. Yes, it had been hot, but nevertheless, it was pretty nice. Yes, of course, there was kissing, and there was groping, and I did get a manly holler of, "go on, my son!" when she lay on top of me, ostensibly to demonstrate how long her hair was... but mostly to carry on kissing me as I reclined. And possibly to feel my erection too, although that was probably just a pleasant side-effect. At least, I thought it was pleasant. Presumably the hollering man thought it must have been too. We got a bit lost, doubled back and found a Tube station that took us to the Natural History Museum. We looked at some dinosaurs, but decided that £10 was far too pricey for more dinosaurs, and headed for the shop, where she bought a Diplodocus. We then headed for another shop, in which she bought a Baryonyx. And she, I and the two dinosaurs headed outside, where we lay on the grass.
This is when my brain switched from "gorgeous girl in my arms, thinks I'm sexy, loves to kiss, hooray I hit the jackpot!" mode to "gorgeous girl in my arms, thinks I'm sexy, stroking my hair, this is so relaxing, aaaaaaah unwinding" mode, and I almost slipped away. Almost. I certainly relaxed. I didn't even realise I was that wrought. I guess problems with one's PC, running a barbecue that wasn't even your idea, not having a job and having to tidy an entire house by yourself in about an hour and a half do take their combined toll. It only took a couple of dinosaurs, a Kinder Bueno and a simple hair stroke to sort out. Life is simple sometimes.
Unfortunately, during this haze of relaxation (and all that came with it; refer back to paragraph 2 for an idea of what it involved - now add more kisses), about an hour dropped out of the universe and went missing somewhere, and the resultant warp in the space-time continuum contributed to what ended up as a mad dash from Kensington to Camden, with about as much madcap slapstick as a trip on the Piccadilly Line could conjure up.
But we made it in the end.
And, as I'm sure you'll have guessed, it was worth it, no question.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
The Past
From 1998 to 2001 I kept a paper diary. Intentionally. Diligently I filled it in every day, chronicling my life for all to see. And literally, too; I always write with the intention of if being read by, or at least read to, somebody at some point. I do write mostly to entertain and I'd like to think people see the purpose of that, even if I am writing a paper journal. When I finally made the switch to LJ (the two briefly overlapped at points, with me printing out and sticking in LJ entries towards the end of 2001), it seemed a natural progression. I knew everyone in the sixth form was reading my LJ, but I didn't care; I was going to write what I like when I liked. And yes, maybe I angered a lot of people, but then again there were a lot of emo whinings there, and I was being picked on constantly by so many people, I did have a reason.
I've been re-reading my paper diaries, and of course there's rarely any mention of sex in any of them. I know, at the age of 14 to 16, you'd imagine any diary to be full of mentions of sex. But there's barely a whiff. There's quite a lot of innuendo, but that's there for the sake of me telling anyone reading my diary to get their mind out of the gutter. There are even a few allusions to girls I fancied, but not even so many of those - in the first of the three books full of writing, there are several cryptic references to the Zebra Project, without any particular explanation of what it was or what its significance may (or may not) have been. Only in the final journal - 2001, the one in which I was at my lowest point - did I explicitly mention any names, specifically one, being the first and only girl I ever specifically asked out, and my first ever rejection. That was it. I didn't want to talk about stuff I didn't want to go into.
I had sexual urges, of course I did. I started having them at about 11. But I never mentioned them, not even when I realised nobody was going to read my diary anyway. And I had crushes, but they were always heart-wrenchingly bitter and doomed, it seems, to failure, so I didn't want to depress myself any more, when I was doing such a good job of it anyway myself. I didn't even masturbate until the age of 17, so I didn't even have that to write about.
And it turns out that the only girl I wrote about in any amount of detail - mostly my proclamations that I'd never want to live without her - I wrote about because she was the only thing on my mind. It took me a long time into my LJ years to get over her, and that's mostly due to the efforts of Louise, and later Soldier Girl, to guide me back in the right direction.
I ended my December 31, 2001 entry with this:
Hmmm... I managed to survive another year, not exactly by my choosing, but I did. I was forced to survive another year, that would be the closest thing to telling the truth. So here it goes with 2002.
It's not fun, no. But I was determined to give things a go, and thus I made the jump to LJ. I even tried to keep an audio diary for a while, like Tony Benn. But I gave that up by the time Easter rolled around. And I pushed forwards. I still wasn't writing my best. I didn't even think of writing about sex for a very long time. Even after I started having sex I barely even mentioned it. Rebecca was writing about it, and I was even slightly ashamed by what she wrote. I didn't want to add to that, really.
Looking through my old journals (because my sister mentioned them, natch) has put ILB more into perspective for me. The stuff I write here is all the stuff I should've, would've, could've said back in those days, where my journal entries were stacked full of self-pity, self-harm and Green Day. Maybe if I still were writing a paper diary, I still wouldn't be mentioning sex much. But I think this, after all, is a much better way of doing said things... and besides, it's opened me up to a whole host of new experiences and new people, and if that's not the life progression I was hoping for ten years ago, I genuinely don't know what is.
I've been re-reading my paper diaries, and of course there's rarely any mention of sex in any of them. I know, at the age of 14 to 16, you'd imagine any diary to be full of mentions of sex. But there's barely a whiff. There's quite a lot of innuendo, but that's there for the sake of me telling anyone reading my diary to get their mind out of the gutter. There are even a few allusions to girls I fancied, but not even so many of those - in the first of the three books full of writing, there are several cryptic references to the Zebra Project, without any particular explanation of what it was or what its significance may (or may not) have been. Only in the final journal - 2001, the one in which I was at my lowest point - did I explicitly mention any names, specifically one, being the first and only girl I ever specifically asked out, and my first ever rejection. That was it. I didn't want to talk about stuff I didn't want to go into.
I had sexual urges, of course I did. I started having them at about 11. But I never mentioned them, not even when I realised nobody was going to read my diary anyway. And I had crushes, but they were always heart-wrenchingly bitter and doomed, it seems, to failure, so I didn't want to depress myself any more, when I was doing such a good job of it anyway myself. I didn't even masturbate until the age of 17, so I didn't even have that to write about.
And it turns out that the only girl I wrote about in any amount of detail - mostly my proclamations that I'd never want to live without her - I wrote about because she was the only thing on my mind. It took me a long time into my LJ years to get over her, and that's mostly due to the efforts of Louise, and later Soldier Girl, to guide me back in the right direction.
I ended my December 31, 2001 entry with this:
Hmmm... I managed to survive another year, not exactly by my choosing, but I did. I was forced to survive another year, that would be the closest thing to telling the truth. So here it goes with 2002.
It's not fun, no. But I was determined to give things a go, and thus I made the jump to LJ. I even tried to keep an audio diary for a while, like Tony Benn. But I gave that up by the time Easter rolled around. And I pushed forwards. I still wasn't writing my best. I didn't even think of writing about sex for a very long time. Even after I started having sex I barely even mentioned it. Rebecca was writing about it, and I was even slightly ashamed by what she wrote. I didn't want to add to that, really.
Looking through my old journals (because my sister mentioned them, natch) has put ILB more into perspective for me. The stuff I write here is all the stuff I should've, would've, could've said back in those days, where my journal entries were stacked full of self-pity, self-harm and Green Day. Maybe if I still were writing a paper diary, I still wouldn't be mentioning sex much. But I think this, after all, is a much better way of doing said things... and besides, it's opened me up to a whole host of new experiences and new people, and if that's not the life progression I was hoping for ten years ago, I genuinely don't know what is.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
BlackBerry pie
I've always found it amusing that I appear to have hitherto-undiscovered powers, such as making ATMs smile, calming people down with a single hug, knowing exactly which cat macro to use in any given situation, and knowing instinctively what to do when my flustered grandfather tries to describe something to me without knowing what he's describing, mostly because it makes me feel some form of special. And who doesn't like that feeling, really? But today I think my healing hands were really put to the test.
My computer's been acting up recently, and this is extremely worrying. I may have to swallow my pride and get at my cousin's fiancé, even though I'm meant to be sufficiently competent with IT. But I digress. My BlackBerry came back today. I got the text from Vodafone yesterday - "your handset has been returned from the repair centre; come to the Vodafone store and get it!!1!!!11!!!11!!!one" - and so this morning (after getting up obscenely late, considering two alarms went off an hour beforehand - but I was up until 4am running a malware scan on my netbook, so it's all within reason) I jollied into town, the sole purpose of my endeavour being to pick up my repaired BlackBerry.
It wasn't repaired.
The main man behind the counter said that, as the damage had been done by excess water (which is true; it got rained on, but I'd hardly call it "excess") and the insides had corroded (he actually handed me a colour photo of the insides, which did indeed look corroded, as if to prove that I'm a doofus), Research In Motion wouldn't repair it and so I could have it back as a testament to how careless I am with my technology, never mind how often I wipe it with a glass-cleaning cloth and meticulously pick out any bits of grit with a sewing needle. He then sent me on my less merry way.
I was cradling the empty shell of the BlackBerry in my hands, as if I were at the deathbed of a very sick, very small person, and decided to steal them... when it suddenly came to life. Right there and then. In my hands. Before I'd left the store. It just turned on.
Nothing was missing. Contacts, messages and pictures (and - to my relief - Twitter) were all still there, exactly where I'd left them. Did ot work? Yes. Did it still work when I got it home? Yes. With my SIM card and a new SD card in it? Yes. Is it still working? Fuck yes.
I am so relieved. OK, so I'm not totally convinced that it's going to live much longer. But it seems to be working perfectly at the moment. And, with the new iPod that someone sexy kindly got for me with a stack of vouchers, I am technologically equipped to take on the world, it seems...
...as soon as I get my computer fixed, that is.
My computer's been acting up recently, and this is extremely worrying. I may have to swallow my pride and get at my cousin's fiancé, even though I'm meant to be sufficiently competent with IT. But I digress. My BlackBerry came back today. I got the text from Vodafone yesterday - "your handset has been returned from the repair centre; come to the Vodafone store and get it!!1!!!11!!!11!!!one" - and so this morning (after getting up obscenely late, considering two alarms went off an hour beforehand - but I was up until 4am running a malware scan on my netbook, so it's all within reason) I jollied into town, the sole purpose of my endeavour being to pick up my repaired BlackBerry.
It wasn't repaired.
The main man behind the counter said that, as the damage had been done by excess water (which is true; it got rained on, but I'd hardly call it "excess") and the insides had corroded (he actually handed me a colour photo of the insides, which did indeed look corroded, as if to prove that I'm a doofus), Research In Motion wouldn't repair it and so I could have it back as a testament to how careless I am with my technology, never mind how often I wipe it with a glass-cleaning cloth and meticulously pick out any bits of grit with a sewing needle. He then sent me on my less merry way.
I was cradling the empty shell of the BlackBerry in my hands, as if I were at the deathbed of a very sick, very small person, and decided to steal them... when it suddenly came to life. Right there and then. In my hands. Before I'd left the store. It just turned on.
Nothing was missing. Contacts, messages and pictures (and - to my relief - Twitter) were all still there, exactly where I'd left them. Did ot work? Yes. Did it still work when I got it home? Yes. With my SIM card and a new SD card in it? Yes. Is it still working? Fuck yes.
I am so relieved. OK, so I'm not totally convinced that it's going to live much longer. But it seems to be working perfectly at the moment. And, with the new iPod that someone sexy kindly got for me with a stack of vouchers, I am technologically equipped to take on the world, it seems...
...as soon as I get my computer fixed, that is.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Freedom
My sister and her best friend left the house this morning and are now in Paris. Apart from the occasional reminder by the cat that she exists, I haven't seen her much either. And Oxford, good company that he may be, is not much of a conversationalist. So yes, I am in fact pretty much alone at the moment. I have the whole house to myself, and yes, I am actually enjoying it. Yes, a large part of the day has been spent clearing up the mess my sister left in the kitchen... and another, larger part of the day has been spent reading various bits of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, usually accompanied by some form of food, such as the classic Snoffee combination for breakfast, egg mayo sandwiches for lunch and pasta for dinner... I'm making my own food, you understand.
However, I decided that this afternoon, with the house being otherwise vacant and all, I'd try watching some soft porn on my DVD player, something I haven't done before, on account of the fact that I am terribly afeared that somebody may hear the odd music and halted dialogue of the sort of soft porn I enjoy issuing from my TV easier than they would from my computer, over which I wield a certain degree of control. I still don't have a replacement DVD drive for my netbook, and deviant though people may see me, I'm still not going to go and masturbate in the downstairs lounge or back room. So my room and my DVD player it was, then.
Let me remind you at this point that my DVD player doesn't do fast forward, rewind, back skip, front skip or arrow selection. it does go, stop, and open. So anything you put in plays from the start and there's no way of halting, reversing or speeding up the process.
This was a relatively new experience for me. I have, of course, watched softcore films all the way through before. But not sitting/lying on my bed. I have masturbated before to scenes in softcore films. But not intermittently, starting when a scene starts and stopping immediately when it stops - no matter how close I am to the edge. And I certainly hadn't been continuously doing so for so long that one film actually ended and I had to start another one. But I certainly did all of these today. My new-found freedom expressing itself in a not totally unexpected way also resulted in me feeling a little blissed out by the time I was two-thirds of the way through the second film. I was still turned on, but in an odd, dreamlike way, becoming more disengaged from what was happening on the TV and feeling more disconnected from the world.
Something else I hadn't clocked was the fact that I'd spent an hour and a half bringing myself to the edge of orgasm and then stopping. This wasn't a deliberate act... it just happened that way. And when the orgasm came (or I did), lying flat on my back with my eyes closed (the sounds of soft porn music being the stimulus, with visualisations in my head), it was the closest thing to a multiple orgasm I've ever experienced, with very intense bursts of pleasure rocking my body, making me arch my back, drawing in heavy, audible breaths as I felt cum hit my stomach, chest, hands and neck.
It took me a while to clean myself up as I lay there in a haze for a while. I eventually managed to drag myself up, stop the DVD, mop myself clean and use the toilet, before I stumbled back to my bed. Naked. Feeling like I'd be celebrating ENMA after all (@10yearsin, what have you done?), I flopped down onto the bed, all resistance gone, letting the post-orgasmic urge to rest take me, lying on top of my duvet feeling utterly blissful.
As I drifted away, I felt truly free.
However, I decided that this afternoon, with the house being otherwise vacant and all, I'd try watching some soft porn on my DVD player, something I haven't done before, on account of the fact that I am terribly afeared that somebody may hear the odd music and halted dialogue of the sort of soft porn I enjoy issuing from my TV easier than they would from my computer, over which I wield a certain degree of control. I still don't have a replacement DVD drive for my netbook, and deviant though people may see me, I'm still not going to go and masturbate in the downstairs lounge or back room. So my room and my DVD player it was, then.
Let me remind you at this point that my DVD player doesn't do fast forward, rewind, back skip, front skip or arrow selection. it does go, stop, and open. So anything you put in plays from the start and there's no way of halting, reversing or speeding up the process.
This was a relatively new experience for me. I have, of course, watched softcore films all the way through before. But not sitting/lying on my bed. I have masturbated before to scenes in softcore films. But not intermittently, starting when a scene starts and stopping immediately when it stops - no matter how close I am to the edge. And I certainly hadn't been continuously doing so for so long that one film actually ended and I had to start another one. But I certainly did all of these today. My new-found freedom expressing itself in a not totally unexpected way also resulted in me feeling a little blissed out by the time I was two-thirds of the way through the second film. I was still turned on, but in an odd, dreamlike way, becoming more disengaged from what was happening on the TV and feeling more disconnected from the world.
Something else I hadn't clocked was the fact that I'd spent an hour and a half bringing myself to the edge of orgasm and then stopping. This wasn't a deliberate act... it just happened that way. And when the orgasm came (or I did), lying flat on my back with my eyes closed (the sounds of soft porn music being the stimulus, with visualisations in my head), it was the closest thing to a multiple orgasm I've ever experienced, with very intense bursts of pleasure rocking my body, making me arch my back, drawing in heavy, audible breaths as I felt cum hit my stomach, chest, hands and neck.
It took me a while to clean myself up as I lay there in a haze for a while. I eventually managed to drag myself up, stop the DVD, mop myself clean and use the toilet, before I stumbled back to my bed. Naked. Feeling like I'd be celebrating ENMA after all (@10yearsin, what have you done?), I flopped down onto the bed, all resistance gone, letting the post-orgasmic urge to rest take me, lying on top of my duvet feeling utterly blissful.
As I drifted away, I felt truly free.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Soft Porn Sunday: Chanra & Paul Michael Robinson
Do-do-do-do, doo, doo. Do-do-do-do, doo, doo. Do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do, do-do-do-do, do-do-do, doo.
Purely from memory, and even before thinking about opening this scene, or even opening VLC Media Player, I know how the music goes.
I love soft porn music. It can be very cheesy, but all in all it's better by far than hard porn music (what's sexy about "bow-chika-wow-wow" anyway?), and when it's used well, it really adds to the scene. In this scene, for example, the music isn't what I'd call a prime example of the genre - hell, it's not exactly a prime example of any genre - but it still works well with the scene, which is one of my favourites. It is:
Appearance: Emmanuelle 4: Concealed Fantasy, aka There's More to Love than Sex (1994)
Characters: Pamela & Haffron
So I will freely admit to liking the Emmanuelle in Space series, despite the ridiculous title, premise and script. Once you've got over the whole "hooray aliens!" thing, it's an enjoyable few romps and it's not hurt by the fact that the actors are, well, acting, even outside of the bedroom. Paul Michael Robinson's role, as the alien captain Haffron, is to look pretty, appear clueless about human society and sleep with a variety of exotic women, including - but not limited to - Emmanuelle (played at this point by Krista Allen). Robinson does a pretty decent shot as the acting bits, though: adopting a slightly halting American accent, using simple English rather than quick colloquialisms and slowly integrating more and more into human society. It can't be too easy a role to play, and yet he does it well. So good on him for that.
Although 90% of the sex scenes involving Haffron are with Emmanuelle (and rightly so; it's her series of films after all), a few of them have him with someone else - eight, if I'm counting correctly in my head. Most of them happen in the first film in the sequence, Queen of the Galaxy, and so this one in film four is a bit of an oddity. But it's a good'un.
Haffron meets Pamela (played by Chanra, who has NO LAST NAME) playing squash (yes, really) in Hong Kong
(again, really), and they have a game while Emmanuelle showers (which basically gives Krista Allen an excuse to writhe around nude for a bit). Attracted to him, Pamela asks Haffron if he has twenty minutes, and we cut to the scene in a random bedroom.
The music is the main thing which attracts me to this scene, but there are other things too. The entire act of sex consists of Haffron on top and behind - this is either doggy style or anal sex, it doesn't really matter but I think it's meant to be doggy - with Pamela lying on her front. Haffron's thrusts are quick, deep and repetitive, and - in what's toeing the line between brilliance and insanity - it gets so intense that they end up sliding forwards off the bed, taking the cushions and duvet with them. Pamels places her hands on a plant pot to provide some leverage, and they finish off in the same position, Haffron letting out a breathy moan indicating his orgasm, and they stay lying there for a bit, him still on top of (and presumably inside) her.
It doesn't last very long, to tell the truth. But here's the thing - it's cut pretty well. The sex isn't seen in the right order. It cuts from foreplay to sex to penetration to sex, various angles jumping at you and taking you by surprise. While this could be distracting, it actually works incredibly well, and I'm really not sure the scene would be quite as good if there were no unusual camera work or jump-cuts. And while the whole thing's going on, we get audible breaths from Robinson and Chanra - indicating their characters' lust. We even get some kissing, before and after sex. The movement of bodies, arms and legs is well-conceived, and all in all it's a good scene, outdoing even some of the best ones with Emmanuelle in (although not this one, which is unbeatable).
But the thing that sticks out in my head by a mile is the iconic music. Unlike some softcore music, I haven't seen it used anywhere else (some music makes frequent reappearances, even in different shows). This is one-of-a-kind music which, although not great, fits the mood and setting really well, is very nicely timed with the scene and is incredibly memorable. I can't forget it, and it's an integral part of the scene. Which is actually really nice to see.
So, yeah... a bit incongruous when you consider the continuity of the series, in which he's meant to be gravitating more and more towards a relationship with Emmanuelle, but a hot scene, a good one, and one of the parts of the series that genuinely stands out.
Purely from memory, and even before thinking about opening this scene, or even opening VLC Media Player, I know how the music goes.
I love soft porn music. It can be very cheesy, but all in all it's better by far than hard porn music (what's sexy about "bow-chika-wow-wow" anyway?), and when it's used well, it really adds to the scene. In this scene, for example, the music isn't what I'd call a prime example of the genre - hell, it's not exactly a prime example of any genre - but it still works well with the scene, which is one of my favourites. It is:
Appearance: Emmanuelle 4: Concealed Fantasy, aka There's More to Love than Sex (1994)
Characters: Pamela & Haffron
So I will freely admit to liking the Emmanuelle in Space series, despite the ridiculous title, premise and script. Once you've got over the whole "hooray aliens!" thing, it's an enjoyable few romps and it's not hurt by the fact that the actors are, well, acting, even outside of the bedroom. Paul Michael Robinson's role, as the alien captain Haffron, is to look pretty, appear clueless about human society and sleep with a variety of exotic women, including - but not limited to - Emmanuelle (played at this point by Krista Allen). Robinson does a pretty decent shot as the acting bits, though: adopting a slightly halting American accent, using simple English rather than quick colloquialisms and slowly integrating more and more into human society. It can't be too easy a role to play, and yet he does it well. So good on him for that.
Although 90% of the sex scenes involving Haffron are with Emmanuelle (and rightly so; it's her series of films after all), a few of them have him with someone else - eight, if I'm counting correctly in my head. Most of them happen in the first film in the sequence, Queen of the Galaxy, and so this one in film four is a bit of an oddity. But it's a good'un.
Haffron meets Pamela (played by Chanra, who has NO LAST NAME) playing squash (yes, really) in Hong Kong
(again, really), and they have a game while Emmanuelle showers (which basically gives Krista Allen an excuse to writhe around nude for a bit). Attracted to him, Pamela asks Haffron if he has twenty minutes, and we cut to the scene in a random bedroom.The music is the main thing which attracts me to this scene, but there are other things too. The entire act of sex consists of Haffron on top and behind - this is either doggy style or anal sex, it doesn't really matter but I think it's meant to be doggy - with Pamela lying on her front. Haffron's thrusts are quick, deep and repetitive, and - in what's toeing the line between brilliance and insanity - it gets so intense that they end up sliding forwards off the bed, taking the cushions and duvet with them. Pamels places her hands on a plant pot to provide some leverage, and they finish off in the same position, Haffron letting out a breathy moan indicating his orgasm, and they stay lying there for a bit, him still on top of (and presumably inside) her.
It doesn't last very long, to tell the truth. But here's the thing - it's cut pretty well. The sex isn't seen in the right order. It cuts from foreplay to sex to penetration to sex, various angles jumping at you and taking you by surprise. While this could be distracting, it actually works incredibly well, and I'm really not sure the scene would be quite as good if there were no unusual camera work or jump-cuts. And while the whole thing's going on, we get audible breaths from Robinson and Chanra - indicating their characters' lust. We even get some kissing, before and after sex. The movement of bodies, arms and legs is well-conceived, and all in all it's a good scene, outdoing even some of the best ones with Emmanuelle in (although not this one, which is unbeatable).
But the thing that sticks out in my head by a mile is the iconic music. Unlike some softcore music, I haven't seen it used anywhere else (some music makes frequent reappearances, even in different shows). This is one-of-a-kind music which, although not great, fits the mood and setting really well, is very nicely timed with the scene and is incredibly memorable. I can't forget it, and it's an integral part of the scene. Which is actually really nice to see.
So, yeah... a bit incongruous when you consider the continuity of the series, in which he's meant to be gravitating more and more towards a relationship with Emmanuelle, but a hot scene, a good one, and one of the parts of the series that genuinely stands out.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Conversations with my sister
Her: "Why did our parents hide this?"
Me: "Why did they hide what?"
Her: "This. This mug."
Me: "No idea. It's got the word fuck on it, maybe that's why."
Her: "But it's the truth! Go green... fuck a vegetarian! It's intrinsic truth!"
Me: "You and I both know vegetarians are better in bed, right?"
Her: "Right!"
Me: "Although now I come to think of it, I don't know if I've ever slept with a vegetarian, despite being one myself."
Her: "I don't know. I'll count."
Me: "Let me know when you're done counting."
*five minutes later*
Her: "I've thought through nine, none yet. Ten more to go though."
Me: "..."
Her: "Hang on, I'll go and get my list."
I'm pleased to report she's no longer with a married man, however.
Me: "Why did they hide what?"
Her: "This. This mug."
Me: "No idea. It's got the word fuck on it, maybe that's why."
Her: "But it's the truth! Go green... fuck a vegetarian! It's intrinsic truth!"
Me: "You and I both know vegetarians are better in bed, right?"
Her: "Right!"
Me: "Although now I come to think of it, I don't know if I've ever slept with a vegetarian, despite being one myself."
Her: "I don't know. I'll count."
Me: "Let me know when you're done counting."
*five minutes later*
Her: "I've thought through nine, none yet. Ten more to go though."
Me: "..."
Her: "Hang on, I'll go and get my list."
I'm pleased to report she's no longer with a married man, however.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Here comes the sun!
I fall for this season every time
When it's hot, and everybody smiles
I can't help myself! I'm in love with the summertime!
It's the start of the summer holidays today and all my friends who are teachers are dead excited about that. Hey, that involves half my family too, and while I'd usually be dismayed at the prospect of my mother being around due to this, both parents are jetting off to a Cotswolds holiday at early o'clock tomorrow morning! Better still, my sister will be going to Paris herself at some point next week, so I will have THE HOUSE ALL TO MYSELF (if you don't count the cat, and she prefers the garden in this weather). This is an incredibly liberating feeling, and I intend to use it for large amounts of nudity and the ability to stay in bed until about noon.
The summer holidays aren't meant to affect me. Not really. As some of you will know, I did used to work in schools as a teaching assistant. I got the holidays then. And, of course, I've been a student twice. I've never actually had a job where I haven't had the summer holidays as a break period. And thus, working in academic years as I continue to do, I still feel the holiday spirit.
I'm going away as well. Sadly, I probably won't be able to go to camp - so no more tempting stories of streaking ravers and trees up against which to fuck, but my reasoning behind this is that if I don't go to camp, I will have TIME AND MONEY, and with time and money, I can do wild and crazy things like going on wild and crazy dates at which I get told off in museums, and taking wild and crazy walks through bits of London! I can even meet wild and crazy people with which to be wild and crazy! But yes, I am going away, whether I camp or not. Two holidays and they're both free! A road trip with 47 and friends, which I don't need to pay for because I bought him some James tickets, and a family holiday, which I don't need to pay for because it's the family!
(Of course, the family holiday is likely to be a bit stressful, so I plan to wait until we get there and then strike out on my own. I'll, uhm, think about this in more detail when we actually get closer to the event.)
Now, I know I'm not meant to be on holiday. I'm meant to be jobseeking and since jobseeking actually involves being at home ALL THE TIME, that's not particularly different from what I'd do during the summer holidays - or even what I used to do when they actually were holidays. But to be honest, I don't care. I'm still going to consider myself as being on holiday... and if I don't let anything stop me from doing so, I am going to be amazing, when my world is a big ball of burning sunshine, complete with picnics, holidays and love!
When it's hot, and everybody smiles
I can't help myself! I'm in love with the summertime!
It's the start of the summer holidays today and all my friends who are teachers are dead excited about that. Hey, that involves half my family too, and while I'd usually be dismayed at the prospect of my mother being around due to this, both parents are jetting off to a Cotswolds holiday at early o'clock tomorrow morning! Better still, my sister will be going to Paris herself at some point next week, so I will have THE HOUSE ALL TO MYSELF (if you don't count the cat, and she prefers the garden in this weather). This is an incredibly liberating feeling, and I intend to use it for large amounts of nudity and the ability to stay in bed until about noon.
The summer holidays aren't meant to affect me. Not really. As some of you will know, I did used to work in schools as a teaching assistant. I got the holidays then. And, of course, I've been a student twice. I've never actually had a job where I haven't had the summer holidays as a break period. And thus, working in academic years as I continue to do, I still feel the holiday spirit.
I'm going away as well. Sadly, I probably won't be able to go to camp - so no more tempting stories of streaking ravers and trees up against which to fuck, but my reasoning behind this is that if I don't go to camp, I will have TIME AND MONEY, and with time and money, I can do wild and crazy things like going on wild and crazy dates at which I get told off in museums, and taking wild and crazy walks through bits of London! I can even meet wild and crazy people with which to be wild and crazy! But yes, I am going away, whether I camp or not. Two holidays and they're both free! A road trip with 47 and friends, which I don't need to pay for because I bought him some James tickets, and a family holiday, which I don't need to pay for because it's the family!
(Of course, the family holiday is likely to be a bit stressful, so I plan to wait until we get there and then strike out on my own. I'll, uhm, think about this in more detail when we actually get closer to the event.)
Now, I know I'm not meant to be on holiday. I'm meant to be jobseeking and since jobseeking actually involves being at home ALL THE TIME, that's not particularly different from what I'd do during the summer holidays - or even what I used to do when they actually were holidays. But to be honest, I don't care. I'm still going to consider myself as being on holiday... and if I don't let anything stop me from doing so, I am going to be amazing, when my world is a big ball of burning sunshine, complete with picnics, holidays and love!
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
It hurt itself in its confusion!
I've learned a lot from sexy people recently, and an unforeseen nugget of knowledge that I've gained happens to be that, after a particularly large orgasm (or several), you can look quite confused.
The opportunity to investigate this claim arose this evening after I did have a particularly large orgasm (but only one). It came to me suddenly, as I was blinking to dispel the haze, that I had the chance to check if this worked for me, too - did I look confused? After all, my webcam was on; I may have been taking pictures earlier. I may have been holding a certain statuette. I may have even been sharing famed pictures of me as a princess. But only maybe. Anyway, my webcam was on.
I took a picture. I have, of course, looked at myself following orgasm before, but not with my head tilted at that angle, or with my eyes in that place, or with my hair doing... well... that.
I looked thoroughly confused. And, what's more, somewhat content.
The opportunity to investigate this claim arose this evening after I did have a particularly large orgasm (but only one). It came to me suddenly, as I was blinking to dispel the haze, that I had the chance to check if this worked for me, too - did I look confused? After all, my webcam was on; I may have been taking pictures earlier. I may have been holding a certain statuette. I may have even been sharing famed pictures of me as a princess. But only maybe. Anyway, my webcam was on.
I took a picture. I have, of course, looked at myself following orgasm before, but not with my head tilted at that angle, or with my eyes in that place, or with my hair doing... well... that.
I looked thoroughly confused. And, what's more, somewhat content.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Courage, mon brave!
"Do you want a cup of tea?"
My dad looked at me.
"You're not wearing any trousers," he said.
"That didn't answer my question. Do you want a cup of tea?"
"Why aren't you wearing your trousers?"
"You told me to take them off. Do you want a cup of tea?"
"Why didn't you put anything else on?"
"Far too much effort. Do you want a cup of tea?"
I was a high-powered ILB this morning. Insofar as I could be considered high-powered, anyway. I got up at early o'clock to go into town (although I did cheat; I caught a train on the way there - although walked back) to sign for JSA. Got home, via the crippling pain of IBS, and indulged once more in the necessary breakfast of coffee and Snickers before going out for a driving lesson. Even the early bit of my afternoon was pretty productive, sending e-mails, replying to letters and making up excuses.
The final item on my List Of Stuff To Do™ was politically motivated. Or at least it sounds good if I say it was. It was more motivated by me not having a life, but nevertheless... we have a by-election coming up in my small part of London, and this is exciting. Or, at least, I think it is. But practically nobody else is that interested - the exception being Nanna.
I'm a Green Party activist in my spare time, although a lazy one. I did, however, volunteer to deliver some leaflets for our candidate. I quite like him, and I don't do much with my life - why not leaflet? I did a road or two yesterday, which included Nanna's house, whereupon she asked me if I'd deliver some leaflets for a different candidate. I think she's missing the point somewhat. I identified (and actually used a map to mark up) the roads I'd do today, decided I'd do them before dinner, and then settled down to have a read and a rest.
I woke up three hours later.
Threw together an omelette and declared to my dad that I was going out to deliver some leaflets. He persuaded me to wear a coat, and off I went on my mission.
Two-thirds of the way and, although suffering from lack of iPod, I was doing rather well. I hadn't been attacked, or even spoken to, yet - and most of the letterboxes were nice enough (although some did horrible things to my fingers - it's a high-risk activity, leafleting). I was relatively confident... that I'd finish the leafleting. There isn't a chance in Hell that anyone's actually going to vote Green.
A few spots of rain started to fall as I rounded the final corner, but that didn't bother me too much. Nor did the rumble of distant thunder as I shoved another leaflet through a letterbox. What did bother me, slightly, was the fact that about a minute later there was a thunderstorm all around me, and I was getting soaked.
"Go home," said the bad angel on my left shoulder. "You don't need to do this now."
"Keep going," said the good angel on my right. "You said you'd do these streets today, and that's what you should do."
I always agree with my good angel, so I soldiered on. The bad angel scowled, but at that point the good angel beat him up, leaving me free to continue.
I went on shoving leaflets through doors. They were slightly damp, and the puddles on the ground were horrendous, soaking through my fabric Converse. Water was dripping off my head, my jumper was soaked, my coat was taking a battering, and still I kept going.
"You know," the good angel said at one point, "people might see you persevering, and think something along the lines of, 'this guy's dedicated, let's vote for his party.' You might be doing a great service this way." At least, that's what I think he said. I couldn't quite hear him over the DRIVING RAIN.
I got home, soaked to the skin and feeling decidedly foolish, but having delivered all the leaflets I wanted to. My clothes would have served as a badge of honour, were they not dripping wet. And so, after informing my dad that I was back ("You're wet."), I peeled off my trousers and jumper, and chucked them in the laundry basket before heading off to tick the final item off the list.
And that's why I'm typing this entry without any trousers on.
Honest.
My dad looked at me.
"You're not wearing any trousers," he said.
"That didn't answer my question. Do you want a cup of tea?"
"Why aren't you wearing your trousers?"
"You told me to take them off. Do you want a cup of tea?"
"Why didn't you put anything else on?"
"Far too much effort. Do you want a cup of tea?"
I was a high-powered ILB this morning. Insofar as I could be considered high-powered, anyway. I got up at early o'clock to go into town (although I did cheat; I caught a train on the way there - although walked back) to sign for JSA. Got home, via the crippling pain of IBS, and indulged once more in the necessary breakfast of coffee and Snickers before going out for a driving lesson. Even the early bit of my afternoon was pretty productive, sending e-mails, replying to letters and making up excuses.
The final item on my List Of Stuff To Do™ was politically motivated. Or at least it sounds good if I say it was. It was more motivated by me not having a life, but nevertheless... we have a by-election coming up in my small part of London, and this is exciting. Or, at least, I think it is. But practically nobody else is that interested - the exception being Nanna.
I'm a Green Party activist in my spare time, although a lazy one. I did, however, volunteer to deliver some leaflets for our candidate. I quite like him, and I don't do much with my life - why not leaflet? I did a road or two yesterday, which included Nanna's house, whereupon she asked me if I'd deliver some leaflets for a different candidate. I think she's missing the point somewhat. I identified (and actually used a map to mark up) the roads I'd do today, decided I'd do them before dinner, and then settled down to have a read and a rest.
I woke up three hours later.
Threw together an omelette and declared to my dad that I was going out to deliver some leaflets. He persuaded me to wear a coat, and off I went on my mission.
Two-thirds of the way and, although suffering from lack of iPod, I was doing rather well. I hadn't been attacked, or even spoken to, yet - and most of the letterboxes were nice enough (although some did horrible things to my fingers - it's a high-risk activity, leafleting). I was relatively confident... that I'd finish the leafleting. There isn't a chance in Hell that anyone's actually going to vote Green.
A few spots of rain started to fall as I rounded the final corner, but that didn't bother me too much. Nor did the rumble of distant thunder as I shoved another leaflet through a letterbox. What did bother me, slightly, was the fact that about a minute later there was a thunderstorm all around me, and I was getting soaked.
"Go home," said the bad angel on my left shoulder. "You don't need to do this now."
"Keep going," said the good angel on my right. "You said you'd do these streets today, and that's what you should do."
I always agree with my good angel, so I soldiered on. The bad angel scowled, but at that point the good angel beat him up, leaving me free to continue.
I went on shoving leaflets through doors. They were slightly damp, and the puddles on the ground were horrendous, soaking through my fabric Converse. Water was dripping off my head, my jumper was soaked, my coat was taking a battering, and still I kept going.
"You know," the good angel said at one point, "people might see you persevering, and think something along the lines of, 'this guy's dedicated, let's vote for his party.' You might be doing a great service this way." At least, that's what I think he said. I couldn't quite hear him over the DRIVING RAIN.
I got home, soaked to the skin and feeling decidedly foolish, but having delivered all the leaflets I wanted to. My clothes would have served as a badge of honour, were they not dripping wet. And so, after informing my dad that I was back ("You're wet."), I peeled off my trousers and jumper, and chucked them in the laundry basket before heading off to tick the final item off the list.
And that's why I'm typing this entry without any trousers on.
Honest.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Paper
My youngest and most male cousin was hauled up on stage in front of a bemused congregation at church this morning. The visiting minister, who does go on a bit (which was a bit of a worry for me as I had band practice this afternoon, and was preparing by singing elaborate harmonies in the hymns...), evidently wanted to get the children involved in the service, and so up they came, and an explanation of what they had been doing at Sunday School was demanded of them.
They had been making hearts. Paper hearts. For what purpose? I don't know. They didn't seem to know themselves, which was slightly worrying. Still, I'm a bit relieved that my cousin's heart was at least a bit traditional. For the story of the Prodigal Son a couple of months back he drew the killing of the fatted calf, so at least it wasn't that. His heart was depicted with cracks in it, but at least it was safe.
He wandered past me after the service, swinging his paper heart from his hand. I was hovering nervously about, trying not to look too agitated or unsocial; various members of my family had offered to drive me home and yet here they were, sipping tea and eating biscuits. (I was so nervous I only ate three biscuits.) There was a slight popping noise, and I looked around to see my cousin holding his paper heart in one hand, and the string from which is was dangling in the other.
"I've broken my heart," he said to me with a big grin on his face.
"Yes, that's happened to me a few times," I said.
But I had just as big a grin on my face too. And as I glanced at his mother, my aunt, over his shoulder, I could see the look on her face registered the fact that I was, at the time, about as far from heartbreak as you could possibly get.
They had been making hearts. Paper hearts. For what purpose? I don't know. They didn't seem to know themselves, which was slightly worrying. Still, I'm a bit relieved that my cousin's heart was at least a bit traditional. For the story of the Prodigal Son a couple of months back he drew the killing of the fatted calf, so at least it wasn't that. His heart was depicted with cracks in it, but at least it was safe.
He wandered past me after the service, swinging his paper heart from his hand. I was hovering nervously about, trying not to look too agitated or unsocial; various members of my family had offered to drive me home and yet here they were, sipping tea and eating biscuits. (I was so nervous I only ate three biscuits.) There was a slight popping noise, and I looked around to see my cousin holding his paper heart in one hand, and the string from which is was dangling in the other.
"I've broken my heart," he said to me with a big grin on his face.
"Yes, that's happened to me a few times," I said.
But I had just as big a grin on my face too. And as I glanced at his mother, my aunt, over his shoulder, I could see the look on her face registered the fact that I was, at the time, about as far from heartbreak as you could possibly get.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Snapshots
Be young, be foolish, but be happy.
"Ten minutes to go! It's starting to rain."
Her smile beamed at me. We hugged; it had been a long time coming.
I leaned my head over her left shoulder, breathing steadily.
"How was that?" was all I could think of to say.
"Wonderful," was her response.
I closed my eyes in silent jubilation. At long last, I'd been her first kiss. What's more, she'd enjoyed it. The torrential rain pitter-pattered on the canvas of my golf umbrella while our bodies remained close.
"Talking of birds..." I said.
She looked around.
"We're being attacked by ducks!"
With a show of avian bravado, they were waddling towards us at a somewhat alarming rate. And the amount of rain falling on them didn't seem to affect them at all. It was like... well, like water off a duck's back, I suppose.
Why were they approaching us? Were we the only humans sitting having a picnic at that time? In fact, we were, but that's beside the point.
"Okay, maybe they want food," I decided, tearing a crust off my sandwich.
As soon as she brandished her umbrella, they turned and fled. Every time they returned, a show of the trusty brolly sent them packing. Although we had determined that it worked for ducks, we hadn't tested it on geese yet. Nevertheless, it's an important thing to note in the name of SCIENCE.
I stuffed the sopping wet picnic blanket into the plastic bag. Placing that in my backpack, I heaved the whole thing over my back. This left one hand free. I duly took hers in it, and we set off, using but the one umbrella this time.
"Do you want to go to the museum? It'll be dry in there.*
That was the general consensus. But it took us a while to move from the spot where he had started the conversation, as we suddenly became quite busy.
We were almost thrown out of the V&A. In fact, we probably would have been if we had ignored our stern, but quite amusing, warning.
To be honest, the duty manager had a point, in that there were families around, but it was still quite funny when you consider exactly what we'd managed to get away with thus far.
"You can walk around, and hold hands if you want," said the duty manager, "but... no more. Okay?"
I mumbled an apology, and the duty manager turned and walked away. As she did so, I felt a small kiss on my neck.
She couldn't stop laughing.
The picture was fine. It was a perfect shot of our backs in front of @ladypandorah. Uh, Pandora. And I'd never been keen on just leaving the camera on a plinth and then turning our backs to it. Anyone could pinch it, or worse, think it was art. So of course I'd asked a random guy.
But she still didn't stop laughing.
Nor did I, in fact.
Shiny rocks are shiny, Diplodocus is big, chimpanzees look like rabbits, and I hadn't been to the Natural History Museum for a good few years.
"I should get on the train," she said, "but we have a few minutes. I'd rather stand here and kiss you."
And she did.
A few minutes later, she said she had a present for me. This wasn't what I had been expecting. Should I have gotten her something too, I wondered?
My parents enquired as to the nature of my day when I arrived back home.
!My iPod is broken," I said. "It's full of water." My mother made a minor noise of faked concern.
"My BlackBerry is also broken," I continued. She was more upset about this (and so was I, am I genuinely expected to only use the internet when I want to go on Twitter?!).
"I am soaked, tired, and hungry," I soldiered on, all three of which were true.
I turned and walked out of the room.
"Oh, and I just had one of the best days I've had in a very long time," I added, more to myself than anyone else, my face breaking into a small smile as I tramped up the stairs, a five-pack of Snickers hanging loosely from my hand.
*
"Ten minutes to go! It's starting to rain."
*
Her smile beamed at me. We hugged; it had been a long time coming.
*
I leaned my head over her left shoulder, breathing steadily.
"How was that?" was all I could think of to say.
"Wonderful," was her response.
I closed my eyes in silent jubilation. At long last, I'd been her first kiss. What's more, she'd enjoyed it. The torrential rain pitter-pattered on the canvas of my golf umbrella while our bodies remained close.
*
"Talking of birds..." I said.
She looked around.
"We're being attacked by ducks!"
With a show of avian bravado, they were waddling towards us at a somewhat alarming rate. And the amount of rain falling on them didn't seem to affect them at all. It was like... well, like water off a duck's back, I suppose.
Why were they approaching us? Were we the only humans sitting having a picnic at that time? In fact, we were, but that's beside the point.
"Okay, maybe they want food," I decided, tearing a crust off my sandwich.
*
As soon as she brandished her umbrella, they turned and fled. Every time they returned, a show of the trusty brolly sent them packing. Although we had determined that it worked for ducks, we hadn't tested it on geese yet. Nevertheless, it's an important thing to note in the name of SCIENCE.
*
I stuffed the sopping wet picnic blanket into the plastic bag. Placing that in my backpack, I heaved the whole thing over my back. This left one hand free. I duly took hers in it, and we set off, using but the one umbrella this time.
*
"Do you want to go to the museum? It'll be dry in there.*
That was the general consensus. But it took us a while to move from the spot where he had started the conversation, as we suddenly became quite busy.
*
We were almost thrown out of the V&A. In fact, we probably would have been if we had ignored our stern, but quite amusing, warning.
To be honest, the duty manager had a point, in that there were families around, but it was still quite funny when you consider exactly what we'd managed to get away with thus far.
"You can walk around, and hold hands if you want," said the duty manager, "but... no more. Okay?"
I mumbled an apology, and the duty manager turned and walked away. As she did so, I felt a small kiss on my neck.
*
She couldn't stop laughing.
The picture was fine. It was a perfect shot of our backs in front of @ladypandorah. Uh, Pandora. And I'd never been keen on just leaving the camera on a plinth and then turning our backs to it. Anyone could pinch it, or worse, think it was art. So of course I'd asked a random guy.
But she still didn't stop laughing.
Nor did I, in fact.
*
Shiny rocks are shiny, Diplodocus is big, chimpanzees look like rabbits, and I hadn't been to the Natural History Museum for a good few years.
*
"I should get on the train," she said, "but we have a few minutes. I'd rather stand here and kiss you."
And she did.
A few minutes later, she said she had a present for me. This wasn't what I had been expecting. Should I have gotten her something too, I wondered?
*
My parents enquired as to the nature of my day when I arrived back home.
!My iPod is broken," I said. "It's full of water." My mother made a minor noise of faked concern.
"My BlackBerry is also broken," I continued. She was more upset about this (and so was I, am I genuinely expected to only use the internet when I want to go on Twitter?!).
"I am soaked, tired, and hungry," I soldiered on, all three of which were true.
I turned and walked out of the room.
"Oh, and I just had one of the best days I've had in a very long time," I added, more to myself than anyone else, my face breaking into a small smile as I tramped up the stairs, a five-pack of Snickers hanging loosely from my hand.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Play on, give me excess of it...
I love music, and who can blame me? Music is the most powerful median in the world, and one of the most precious forms of art. I sing, and I dance, and I play... sometimes at the same time. And when I'm not engaged in wordsmithery or self-indulgence, you'll find music coming from the speakers attached to my computer. I love music, and it makes up a huge part of my life.
After putting my own band on hiatus for a while, 47 inducted me into his band. So I'm now the guitarist in a band, which - I suppose - is cool. And we rehearse on Sunday. In addition, Monday saw me return to the world of open mike, which - despite what I thought was initially dodgy sound balance - actually came out pretty well. So I've had a pretty musical week, all told. And of course I love the music in soft porn, and I bemoan the lack of music in hard porn. I even once masturbated for the length of a whole Barenaked Ladies album, constructing different sex scenes in my head for each song.
But this evening went a bit too far.
For years and years my mother has been in what could loosely be termed a folk band. She calls it "music group," which is probably closer to the truth. She plays the flute - badly - and the group has grown from the days it was a few descant recorders and me on my violin. People joined in, like my dad on guitar, and people changed instruments, with squeezeboxes, various wind instruments and percussion come and go. I left the group. But occasionally they meet up here, in the back lounge, which is directly under my room.
I was trying to masturbate this evening. I had sexy pictures involving hats to bolster my horniness, which had been building throughout the day. I knew my parents were downstairs, so I didn't need to be too careful. I locked my door anyway, and started exploring.
I was accompanied almost immediately by a crescendo of folk music from downstairs.
At least it wasn't as dischordant as it used to be. Nevertheless, it was slightly off-putting. I kept going though, because to be frank, I really needed an orgasm. I've done enough damage today, and needed to get a positive note in somewhere. And so did they, only they didn't seem to notice. But I was getting there... slowly but surely, I was becoming more and more aroused. The background music was becoming... well... background music.
I was almost at the point of orgasm when...
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Can I come in?"
"The door's locked."
"Yes, I can see that."
"Can I help you?"
"We need some percussion instruments downstairs," pleaded my mother. "Your auntie just arrived and she doesn't have anything to play."
"I'll be down in a few minutes," I replied.
"There's cake down here," said my mother.
"I'll be there instantly," I said, fastening my trousers, grabbing a tambourine and heading downstairs. No orgasm was worth it, I reasoned, for the temporary respite of cake.
After putting my own band on hiatus for a while, 47 inducted me into his band. So I'm now the guitarist in a band, which - I suppose - is cool. And we rehearse on Sunday. In addition, Monday saw me return to the world of open mike, which - despite what I thought was initially dodgy sound balance - actually came out pretty well. So I've had a pretty musical week, all told. And of course I love the music in soft porn, and I bemoan the lack of music in hard porn. I even once masturbated for the length of a whole Barenaked Ladies album, constructing different sex scenes in my head for each song.
But this evening went a bit too far.
For years and years my mother has been in what could loosely be termed a folk band. She calls it "music group," which is probably closer to the truth. She plays the flute - badly - and the group has grown from the days it was a few descant recorders and me on my violin. People joined in, like my dad on guitar, and people changed instruments, with squeezeboxes, various wind instruments and percussion come and go. I left the group. But occasionally they meet up here, in the back lounge, which is directly under my room.
I was trying to masturbate this evening. I had sexy pictures involving hats to bolster my horniness, which had been building throughout the day. I knew my parents were downstairs, so I didn't need to be too careful. I locked my door anyway, and started exploring.
I was accompanied almost immediately by a crescendo of folk music from downstairs.
At least it wasn't as dischordant as it used to be. Nevertheless, it was slightly off-putting. I kept going though, because to be frank, I really needed an orgasm. I've done enough damage today, and needed to get a positive note in somewhere. And so did they, only they didn't seem to notice. But I was getting there... slowly but surely, I was becoming more and more aroused. The background music was becoming... well... background music.
I was almost at the point of orgasm when...
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Can I come in?"
"The door's locked."
"Yes, I can see that."
"Can I help you?"
"We need some percussion instruments downstairs," pleaded my mother. "Your auntie just arrived and she doesn't have anything to play."
"I'll be down in a few minutes," I replied.
"There's cake down here," said my mother.
"I'll be there instantly," I said, fastening my trousers, grabbing a tambourine and heading downstairs. No orgasm was worth it, I reasoned, for the temporary respite of cake.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Dude!
OMG guyz, guess what? Overnight I've inexplicably turned American!
I had no knowledge of this fact at all when I woke up this morning, still in my bed in London, England - nor has my accent changed from cut-glass BBC RP to a spunky Northern twang, New York directness or Southern drawl. But happily, I got an e-mail that totally confirmed that I am, in fact, American - and not only that, I attended one of those American high schools you see on imported sitcoms! Lookit!
Hey!
Guess who shows up on a dating page? Does the name T-chick ring the bell?
[URL - redacted]
Yeah.. you are right! She is the one from our class... Do you remember her saying I will be a virgin as long as I found the Big One? I guess she found many here. Actually there are a lot more other cuties waiting for us.
BTW: I can't go to the game tomorrow, coz I already have an "other" program with a Suzy...
ttyl
biggun
Dude! Biggun! I totally remember you from our class! Weren't you also a member of the AV, Glee, Chess, Black Students, Asian Students, Celibacy, Prank Call, and Sodomy Clubs? And yes, thank for you confirming I'm right, even before you heard my response! Your clairvoyance is astounding, dood!
And, man, of course I remember T-chick. It's a name that totally rings the bell. Unfortunately, her grammar doesn't seem to be much good, but I'm sure she found many The Big Ones at the site you linked me to. Incredible - I thought that was a ride at a theme park in Britain, lol! Shows how much I know.
Hey, I didn't even know there was a game tomorrow! Sweet! What game is it? Ludo? Checkers? Snakes and Ladders? I really hope it's Othello, I love those double-sided pieces. Shame you're at an "other" program. But hey, I love computer software too. Maybe you can send me the program and I'll see what's so alternative about it.
Together To Your Lake to you as well. What's that, some kind of philosophy? It sounds great.
Backwards caps forever,
> ILD
(I'd put kisses but then you'd think I was gay, lol)
I had no knowledge of this fact at all when I woke up this morning, still in my bed in London, England - nor has my accent changed from cut-glass BBC RP to a spunky Northern twang, New York directness or Southern drawl. But happily, I got an e-mail that totally confirmed that I am, in fact, American - and not only that, I attended one of those American high schools you see on imported sitcoms! Lookit!
Hey!
Guess who shows up on a dating page? Does the name T-chick ring the bell?
[URL - redacted]
Yeah.. you are right! She is the one from our class... Do you remember her saying I will be a virgin as long as I found the Big One? I guess she found many here. Actually there are a lot more other cuties waiting for us.
BTW: I can't go to the game tomorrow, coz I already have an "other" program with a Suzy...
ttyl
biggun
Dude! Biggun! I totally remember you from our class! Weren't you also a member of the AV, Glee, Chess, Black Students, Asian Students, Celibacy, Prank Call, and Sodomy Clubs? And yes, thank for you confirming I'm right, even before you heard my response! Your clairvoyance is astounding, dood!
And, man, of course I remember T-chick. It's a name that totally rings the bell. Unfortunately, her grammar doesn't seem to be much good, but I'm sure she found many The Big Ones at the site you linked me to. Incredible - I thought that was a ride at a theme park in Britain, lol! Shows how much I know.
Hey, I didn't even know there was a game tomorrow! Sweet! What game is it? Ludo? Checkers? Snakes and Ladders? I really hope it's Othello, I love those double-sided pieces. Shame you're at an "other" program. But hey, I love computer software too. Maybe you can send me the program and I'll see what's so alternative about it.
Together To Your Lake to you as well. What's that, some kind of philosophy? It sounds great.
Backwards caps forever,
> ILD
(I'd put kisses but then you'd think I was gay, lol)
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Soft Porn Sunday: Petra Sexton & David Stone
Girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on asked me last night if I'd seen House of Wax. I answered her happily that I haven't seen it. To be honest, it's probably not my cup of tea. Nevertheless, I did tell her I'd seen a film set in a house of wax (for the Brits reading: waxwork museum), but it probably wasn't the one she was thinking of. And this is that film. Hooray!
The trailer for the film I had in mind is available here via Dailymotion. Why am I linking to it? Well, just watch it. It's hilarious, largely due to the fact they have that deep-voice-in-trailers guy doing the narration, probably on his day off.
This is one of Surrender Cinema's more bizarre offerings, in that it appears to have been lost in the circuits of time for a while. I hadn't downloaded any scenes from it before I came to think of it last night, and to be honest, it's very difficult to do so. In the end I had to pay a small amount to download one scene. A very small amount, however. I shouldn't be doing that. Nevertheless...
The film has two titles, which also makes it difficult to look for. The title on screen is The Erotic House of Wax. The title on the box is The Exotic House of Wax. Is this a deliberate attempt at confusion? No, probably not. Does it confuse? Yes. I'm pretty sure, at the very least, it's not House of Wax.
Appearance: The Exotic House of Wax, aka The Erotic House of Wax (1997)
Characters: Romeo & Juliet
Yes, that's right, Romeo and Juliet.
The plot of this film - helpfully explained in the above trailer if you want to be lazy - is that a naïve young girl has inherited her grandfather's house of wax, in which - naturally - the figures come to life and have sex at night. Because that's what happens, apparently. (There's some other stuff about a magic amulet and a high priestess who can't talk, but I'm not really sure that's particularly relevant.) To make it more "interesting," some of these wax figures are real people, like Antony and Cleopatra, and - erm - Romeo and Juliet.
Oh, and by the way, the house of wax isn't deliberately Shakespearean. It's nowhere near as cool as that. I just think they picked a few famous sets of lovers and wrote them into the script.
Right, so Romeo and Juliet - although I didn't realise it was them until the dialogue started (they could have worked a little harder on a balcony scene; I thought they were on a boat or something) - come to life and have sex on a bench...
DAMN YOU! WHY DON'T THEY HAVE SEX ON A BALCONY?! THEY'RE ROMEO AND JULIET, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! USE THE PROP YOU'VE ALREADY GOT!
...while a couple of guys watch. Which is a bit creepy. Not to mention the fact that wax can't move, but I don't think they've really thought this one through properly.
The beginning of this scene is in soft focus and features the pretty standard kissing and undressing that a lot of soft porn scenes have. It's not done particularly well, but it's not particularly bad, either. Both characters have nice enough bodies and it's quite nice that they don't just dive in... but you get cock. And that's really not meant to happen.
Seriously. Romeo's cock. Yes, it is cock that would pass the Mull of Kintyre test, but nevertheless, it's soft porn - adhere to the unwritten guidelines, guys! No explicit genitalia! Jeeze. Anyway, Juliet looks at the cock - and so do we since there's no real choice in the matter - and then proceeds to fellate it. Or not. She's actually kissing somewhere which is well above where we now know his penis is. Once again, movie... THINK!
It's kind of okay once the sex starts. Or would be. We get Juliet riding Romeo and making some odd facial
expressions, then some odd sitting missionary, and they're both done pretty well. But they're filmed quite badly, to be honest, with random cuts to bits of scenery which don't really represent the action (including the two guys who are standing about looking gormless) every now and again. The actors aren't particularly trying very hard and it's difficult to get too involved even if you are aware what's going on. The costumes are okay, but the music - synthesised rock guitar - really doesn't fit the piece either. Virgins of Sherwood Forest managed period music, but this does not. And that would have really dramatically improved this.
Plus... it's Romeo and Juliet. Has anyone involved in this film actually read the play? They're both far too old to be the characters (although it's soft porn so yeah, they have to be 18 or older, but still), their situation is never really alluded to at all, and they don't even partake in any dialogue! But it's some of the best dialogue, ever. Look:
ROMEO
O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
JULIET
What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?
ROMEO
The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
JULIET
I gave thee mine before thou didst request it:
And yet I would it were to give again.
ROMEO
Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?
JULIET
But to be frank, and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I have:
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
[NURSE calls within]
I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu!
Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again.
[Exit, above]
Check that out! Now, will somebody please explain to me why the film didn't just have some of that in it? It's hardly a copyright issue. Bloody lazy, that's what it is.
So, yes. Good idea for a scene, but carried out really poorly. And it's a real shame, because actually I remember it being quite good back when I saw this. But that must have been years and years ago, and my memory's warped it into a weird scenario which it isn't, over time. And hey, I probably wouldn't have watched it if House of Wax hadn't been mentioned last night, to begin with...
...however...
...at least I didn't watch the Antony and Cleopatra scene. Because if they mishandled that, it would have probably caused me to have had some sort of seizure.
The trailer for the film I had in mind is available here via Dailymotion. Why am I linking to it? Well, just watch it. It's hilarious, largely due to the fact they have that deep-voice-in-trailers guy doing the narration, probably on his day off.
This is one of Surrender Cinema's more bizarre offerings, in that it appears to have been lost in the circuits of time for a while. I hadn't downloaded any scenes from it before I came to think of it last night, and to be honest, it's very difficult to do so. In the end I had to pay a small amount to download one scene. A very small amount, however. I shouldn't be doing that. Nevertheless...
The film has two titles, which also makes it difficult to look for. The title on screen is The Erotic House of Wax. The title on the box is The Exotic House of Wax. Is this a deliberate attempt at confusion? No, probably not. Does it confuse? Yes. I'm pretty sure, at the very least, it's not House of Wax.
Appearance: The Exotic House of Wax, aka The Erotic House of Wax (1997)
Characters: Romeo & Juliet
Yes, that's right, Romeo and Juliet.
The plot of this film - helpfully explained in the above trailer if you want to be lazy - is that a naïve young girl has inherited her grandfather's house of wax, in which - naturally - the figures come to life and have sex at night. Because that's what happens, apparently. (There's some other stuff about a magic amulet and a high priestess who can't talk, but I'm not really sure that's particularly relevant.) To make it more "interesting," some of these wax figures are real people, like Antony and Cleopatra, and - erm - Romeo and Juliet.
Oh, and by the way, the house of wax isn't deliberately Shakespearean. It's nowhere near as cool as that. I just think they picked a few famous sets of lovers and wrote them into the script.
Right, so Romeo and Juliet - although I didn't realise it was them until the dialogue started (they could have worked a little harder on a balcony scene; I thought they were on a boat or something) - come to life and have sex on a bench...
DAMN YOU! WHY DON'T THEY HAVE SEX ON A BALCONY?! THEY'RE ROMEO AND JULIET, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! USE THE PROP YOU'VE ALREADY GOT!
...while a couple of guys watch. Which is a bit creepy. Not to mention the fact that wax can't move, but I don't think they've really thought this one through properly.
The beginning of this scene is in soft focus and features the pretty standard kissing and undressing that a lot of soft porn scenes have. It's not done particularly well, but it's not particularly bad, either. Both characters have nice enough bodies and it's quite nice that they don't just dive in... but you get cock. And that's really not meant to happen.Seriously. Romeo's cock. Yes, it is cock that would pass the Mull of Kintyre test, but nevertheless, it's soft porn - adhere to the unwritten guidelines, guys! No explicit genitalia! Jeeze. Anyway, Juliet looks at the cock - and so do we since there's no real choice in the matter - and then proceeds to fellate it. Or not. She's actually kissing somewhere which is well above where we now know his penis is. Once again, movie... THINK!
It's kind of okay once the sex starts. Or would be. We get Juliet riding Romeo and making some odd facial
expressions, then some odd sitting missionary, and they're both done pretty well. But they're filmed quite badly, to be honest, with random cuts to bits of scenery which don't really represent the action (including the two guys who are standing about looking gormless) every now and again. The actors aren't particularly trying very hard and it's difficult to get too involved even if you are aware what's going on. The costumes are okay, but the music - synthesised rock guitar - really doesn't fit the piece either. Virgins of Sherwood Forest managed period music, but this does not. And that would have really dramatically improved this.Plus... it's Romeo and Juliet. Has anyone involved in this film actually read the play? They're both far too old to be the characters (although it's soft porn so yeah, they have to be 18 or older, but still), their situation is never really alluded to at all, and they don't even partake in any dialogue! But it's some of the best dialogue, ever. Look:
ROMEO
O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
JULIET
What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?
ROMEO
The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
JULIET
I gave thee mine before thou didst request it:
And yet I would it were to give again.
ROMEO
Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?
JULIET
But to be frank, and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I have:
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
[NURSE calls within]
I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu!
Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again.
[Exit, above]
Check that out! Now, will somebody please explain to me why the film didn't just have some of that in it? It's hardly a copyright issue. Bloody lazy, that's what it is.
So, yes. Good idea for a scene, but carried out really poorly. And it's a real shame, because actually I remember it being quite good back when I saw this. But that must have been years and years ago, and my memory's warped it into a weird scenario which it isn't, over time. And hey, I probably wouldn't have watched it if House of Wax hadn't been mentioned last night, to begin with...
...however...
...at least I didn't watch the Antony and Cleopatra scene. Because if they mishandled that, it would have probably caused me to have had some sort of seizure.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Jazz
"Hey, there's a fan here," I said, turning it up to 3 with my foot. It clunked into life and suddenly I felt a cooling breeze brush my legs. It was a welcome respite.
"Thank the Lord," she said, closing the door to the tiny rehearsal room, which was no less stuffy or damp, but at least it had an electric fan on. It had taken me about half an hour to realise that.
"Okay, let me hear that one again," I said.
Smooth jazz.
"Do you prefer the other one?" asked Mini, unscrewing the ligature and handing me back the mouthpiece.
"I'm not sure," I replied, reflecting. "Try this one again?"
I sorted through the pile of four mouthpieces and handed one back to Mini, who plucked a reed from between her lips and fixed it to the mouthpiece, sliding that onto her soprano sax. It was clear, by this point, that it was a contest between two mouthpieces - although the question was: which one, and for which purpose?
Staccato jazz.
"I really like that one," I said after a while. "But it's very jazzy. Or it sounds so. How does it feel?"
"It feels jazzy," said Mini.
"The other one sounds more rounded, more wholesome," I continued, "but if you're only wanting to play jazz..."
"I'd play anything as long as it's not with my old mouthpiece," said Mini. We both turned and frowned at the mouthpiece she'd got for free with the sax, as if it could feel our waves of hate and indignation at the squeaks it gave out.
"Well... try the other one again, see how it feels?"
She unscrewed her ligature, fellated her reed again and switched mouthpieces. The cork squeaked audibly as it affixed itself.
Smooth jazz.
"I'm going home a happy girl," smiled Mini as I was still debating in my head the best way to tell her that she should buy a mouthpiece £30 more expensive than one I liked about a hemidemisemiquaver less than the smoother one. "I'll certainly be smiling. It's like having a new boyfriend!"
"Don't tell Stephen that," I grinned.
"I won't," she replied, with a naughty glint in her eye. "He might not take kindly to me saying I've got a new love..." She switched mouthpieces again and began to fiddle with the ligature. "...or that I've been giving them some oral action."
I blinked.
"Sorry?" she offered.
I shook my head with a small smile. My halo quavered and sparked for a while, but remained mostly still.
Evidently I'm not the only one with a dirty sense of humour among my friends, I thought, as Mini raised the sax to her lips once more.
"Thank the Lord," she said, closing the door to the tiny rehearsal room, which was no less stuffy or damp, but at least it had an electric fan on. It had taken me about half an hour to realise that.
"Okay, let me hear that one again," I said.
Smooth jazz.
"Do you prefer the other one?" asked Mini, unscrewing the ligature and handing me back the mouthpiece.
"I'm not sure," I replied, reflecting. "Try this one again?"
I sorted through the pile of four mouthpieces and handed one back to Mini, who plucked a reed from between her lips and fixed it to the mouthpiece, sliding that onto her soprano sax. It was clear, by this point, that it was a contest between two mouthpieces - although the question was: which one, and for which purpose?
Staccato jazz.
"I really like that one," I said after a while. "But it's very jazzy. Or it sounds so. How does it feel?"
"It feels jazzy," said Mini.
"The other one sounds more rounded, more wholesome," I continued, "but if you're only wanting to play jazz..."
"I'd play anything as long as it's not with my old mouthpiece," said Mini. We both turned and frowned at the mouthpiece she'd got for free with the sax, as if it could feel our waves of hate and indignation at the squeaks it gave out.
"Well... try the other one again, see how it feels?"
She unscrewed her ligature, fellated her reed again and switched mouthpieces. The cork squeaked audibly as it affixed itself.
Smooth jazz.
"I'm going home a happy girl," smiled Mini as I was still debating in my head the best way to tell her that she should buy a mouthpiece £30 more expensive than one I liked about a hemidemisemiquaver less than the smoother one. "I'll certainly be smiling. It's like having a new boyfriend!"
"Don't tell Stephen that," I grinned.
"I won't," she replied, with a naughty glint in her eye. "He might not take kindly to me saying I've got a new love..." She switched mouthpieces again and began to fiddle with the ligature. "...or that I've been giving them some oral action."
I blinked.
"Sorry?" she offered.
I shook my head with a small smile. My halo quavered and sparked for a while, but remained mostly still.
Evidently I'm not the only one with a dirty sense of humour among my friends, I thought, as Mini raised the sax to her lips once more.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
HNT: Cooling off
You want anything from the shop?
[Yeah, so... not really much nudity. Apart from my head and hands. But at least you get to see me rock turquoise.]
[Yeah, so... not really much nudity. Apart from my head and hands. But at least you get to see me rock turquoise.]
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Igor
Sometimes even angels get injured.
I'm doing this thing with my feet at the moment, in an attempt to make myself more beautiful. I know feet aren't something that one tends to see a lot, but with the increased amount of nakedness that summer tends to wield, having nice feet is probably a good thing.
I have a love/hate relationship with the soles of my feet; running down the alley that borders my house in bare feet when I was young was fine, but tripping and cutting my big toe open on an escalator in Italy when I was 14 was very painful indeed. I'd like to think I take good care of them, but I still garner a lot of dry skin on them and, despite the occasional scoop of Nivea Creme and the brushes with tea tree oil and the rough end of a bath sponge every now and again, I get painful hard pads of skin on my feet, and the occasional growth which may or may not be a wart of a verruca. I'm also incredibly ticklish.
So. My régime starts when I go to bed. I peel off the dry skin, apply the gel (which stings, but that's probably because it contains salicylic acid), wipe off any residue and wait for it to dry. The idea is that it forms a solid white barrier over the wart(s) or callus(es), which you can peel off daily and reapply, and that if you rub what's left every week with an emery board (or pumice stone, but I've no idea where to get one of them), it gets rid of them. This is the theory, anyway. I've been doing it for a few weeks and it hasn't worked too effectively yet. I'm seeing a bit of improvement, though.
I saw a flap of dry skin hanging from my big toe yesterday evening, though, after returning from a pub night during which I bought one single drink. Simple, I thought, I'll just pull that off. It might be a bit painful, though, so I closed my eyes, took a breath. One, two, three...
Okay, pulled it, and it's increased in size. I'll have another go. One, two, three...
"FUCK!" I screamed, somehow avoiding waking up my parents.
My big toe had somehow been ripped open. Okay, so it wasn't a massive wound, but this is a toe, which has a huge amount of nerve endings, on a hypersensitive boy. And to he fair, it wasn't a tiny scratch, either. It was an open wound, dripping blood (mercifully onto the dry flannel which I had under my feet at the time). My hands reached for the baby wipes and solidly wrapped a few around the bleeding toe while my brain whizzed, wondering what to do - although clouded somewhat, admittedly, by pain.
It took me a while to remember that we have sticking plasters, but they were downstairs in the kitchen. So there was nothing else for it... I hopped all the way down to the kitchen - possibly the room in my house that's the furthest possible distance from my bedroom - and fumbled through the drawers looking for something suitable. Limping back upstairs, collecting the bits of baby wipe that had fallen off on the way, I lay back on my bed, applying pressure on the toe as I did so, and peeled the plaster's wrapping off, fixing it securely on my toe across about half the open wound.
It fell off. Immediately.
Repeating the F-word over and over and over again, it clicked in my brain suddenly that I had practically a working hospital as close as my bedroom drawers. I rolled over (leaving a red stain on my lovely white bedsheets, dammit!), opened all the drawers and extracted my first-aid kit, which had a good few strong, sturdy plasters. Forgoing gauze and surgical tape, which may have been a bit too extreme, I wiped the wound with an antiseptic wipe, and tightly wrapped a couple of good-quality plasters over the wound, covering it completely - and, for good measure, one of the weak plasters too, in order to secure them in place. Once I was sure that they were secure, I let go of my foot, and lay on my back, weak and in pain.
A few minutes later I cleaned up the mess - and considering there were a considerable number of blood-stained baby wipes, sticking plaster covers, et ceteri, there was a fair amount of mess. But, all things considering, I hadn't done such a bad job of it all.
47 came over today to pick up his car (which he'd left in my road for a week, for some reason). He, it turned out, had hurt his ankle while climbing over a fence into his girlfriend's garden; we both had quite a pronounced limp. But while his was getting better, I couldn't put the bottom of my big toe onto the floor at all, otherwise it felt like it was committing seppuku. Were I a ballet dancer, I'd probably be physically dead by now. We swapped foot stories, charged his 'phone and I limped him to the front door. Taking a kind of savage pride in the fact that I was in more pain than he was, I shuffled back up the stairs to change the dressing (and so I did, fresh plasters feel good).
It occurred to me halfway up the stairs that my limping, hunched gait makes me look a bit like Igor at the moment...
...but never mind. It's a talking point.
I'm doing this thing with my feet at the moment, in an attempt to make myself more beautiful. I know feet aren't something that one tends to see a lot, but with the increased amount of nakedness that summer tends to wield, having nice feet is probably a good thing.
I have a love/hate relationship with the soles of my feet; running down the alley that borders my house in bare feet when I was young was fine, but tripping and cutting my big toe open on an escalator in Italy when I was 14 was very painful indeed. I'd like to think I take good care of them, but I still garner a lot of dry skin on them and, despite the occasional scoop of Nivea Creme and the brushes with tea tree oil and the rough end of a bath sponge every now and again, I get painful hard pads of skin on my feet, and the occasional growth which may or may not be a wart of a verruca. I'm also incredibly ticklish.
So. My régime starts when I go to bed. I peel off the dry skin, apply the gel (which stings, but that's probably because it contains salicylic acid), wipe off any residue and wait for it to dry. The idea is that it forms a solid white barrier over the wart(s) or callus(es), which you can peel off daily and reapply, and that if you rub what's left every week with an emery board (or pumice stone, but I've no idea where to get one of them), it gets rid of them. This is the theory, anyway. I've been doing it for a few weeks and it hasn't worked too effectively yet. I'm seeing a bit of improvement, though.
I saw a flap of dry skin hanging from my big toe yesterday evening, though, after returning from a pub night during which I bought one single drink. Simple, I thought, I'll just pull that off. It might be a bit painful, though, so I closed my eyes, took a breath. One, two, three...
Okay, pulled it, and it's increased in size. I'll have another go. One, two, three...
"FUCK!" I screamed, somehow avoiding waking up my parents.
My big toe had somehow been ripped open. Okay, so it wasn't a massive wound, but this is a toe, which has a huge amount of nerve endings, on a hypersensitive boy. And to he fair, it wasn't a tiny scratch, either. It was an open wound, dripping blood (mercifully onto the dry flannel which I had under my feet at the time). My hands reached for the baby wipes and solidly wrapped a few around the bleeding toe while my brain whizzed, wondering what to do - although clouded somewhat, admittedly, by pain.
It took me a while to remember that we have sticking plasters, but they were downstairs in the kitchen. So there was nothing else for it... I hopped all the way down to the kitchen - possibly the room in my house that's the furthest possible distance from my bedroom - and fumbled through the drawers looking for something suitable. Limping back upstairs, collecting the bits of baby wipe that had fallen off on the way, I lay back on my bed, applying pressure on the toe as I did so, and peeled the plaster's wrapping off, fixing it securely on my toe across about half the open wound.
It fell off. Immediately.
Repeating the F-word over and over and over again, it clicked in my brain suddenly that I had practically a working hospital as close as my bedroom drawers. I rolled over (leaving a red stain on my lovely white bedsheets, dammit!), opened all the drawers and extracted my first-aid kit, which had a good few strong, sturdy plasters. Forgoing gauze and surgical tape, which may have been a bit too extreme, I wiped the wound with an antiseptic wipe, and tightly wrapped a couple of good-quality plasters over the wound, covering it completely - and, for good measure, one of the weak plasters too, in order to secure them in place. Once I was sure that they were secure, I let go of my foot, and lay on my back, weak and in pain.
A few minutes later I cleaned up the mess - and considering there were a considerable number of blood-stained baby wipes, sticking plaster covers, et ceteri, there was a fair amount of mess. But, all things considering, I hadn't done such a bad job of it all.
47 came over today to pick up his car (which he'd left in my road for a week, for some reason). He, it turned out, had hurt his ankle while climbing over a fence into his girlfriend's garden; we both had quite a pronounced limp. But while his was getting better, I couldn't put the bottom of my big toe onto the floor at all, otherwise it felt like it was committing seppuku. Were I a ballet dancer, I'd probably be physically dead by now. We swapped foot stories, charged his 'phone and I limped him to the front door. Taking a kind of savage pride in the fact that I was in more pain than he was, I shuffled back up the stairs to change the dressing (and so I did, fresh plasters feel good).
It occurred to me halfway up the stairs that my limping, hunched gait makes me look a bit like Igor at the moment...
...but never mind. It's a talking point.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Bare with me
The sheets on my bed have never been white before. I changed them about two days ago and the only sheets I could find were of this floral pattern, white on white. Appreciating the opportunity to indulge in a change from my usual red or black (I had a blue once... wonder what happened to it?), I covered sheets, duvet and pillows in white.I like the effect the bright weather has on my white bed. It's right next to a window, and light spilling onto the bed makes it a pleasant place to lie. In the heat, the fact that you can open the window also makes the bed a good place to lie.
I usually sleep naked, because I'm too lazy to put my pyjamas on, and recently I've had to go through an odd ritual of putting some stuff on my feet. It's to help with the rough skin and unsightly growths, apparently. So I've started lying on top of the covers, putting cream on my feet, and then waiting for it to dry while reading a book or something, before retreating under the duvet and attempting to sleep. It's this time of limbo on top of, but not in, bed that I appreciate the most.
Being in bed is not something that I'm overly a fan of. If I have to catch a rest during the day, I'll do so on bed. And, were it not for the possibility of my dad coming in the room and seeing my naked body exposed to the world, I'd probably have slept on top of the bed for the past few nights as well.
My current desire is to be lying on top of the bed with somebody else while naked. That doesn't necessarily mean that we'd have to be having sex. Although that would be nice. In fact, I can't really remember the last time I had sex with someone on top of a bed. It must have happened, but sex with TD was, as far as I can recall, often under the covers. Which is a bit of a shame, because I think sex should be done with both bodies mostly exposed to the air... but anyway, I digress. I'll start this paragraph again.
It would be good to be lying in top of my nice white bed, windows open, sunlight on (although with white cloud so it's not too bright), cuddling someone while both naked. Again, this doesn't need to be due to sex. Although I'd like to think that would happen. But I miss the sense of touch, the feeling of skin on skin, the sensation of cuddling, and the feeling that there's nothing to do and all day to do it. And the best way to celebrate this freedom? Cuddling. Naked. On top of a bed. Just enjoying that.
Because, when it comes down to it, that's what summer really should be all about.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Renal
Caution: Possible TMI! This blog entry contains reference to urine and the urinary tract!
I've never had a UTI, or at least I don't think I have. It sounds very unpleasant. But I have suffered most of the symptoms, and back when I was 16 and putting on a hypochondriact, I would have thought I was suffering from a UTI last night. But I wasn't. I was, however, in a lot of pain.
I masturbated for a long time last night. It took me a very long time to orgasm. That isn't something particularly unusual for me - I don't mind my strange ability to be sexually aroused for an incredibly long time; I mean, who would, right? But, although that eliminates the danger of premature ejaculation (although I'm not ruling it out, it's unlikely to happen any time soon!), it causes the urinary tract to be pretty much unusable, and if you need to go to the toilet, then this can cause a blockage, creating pain after orgasm has been achieved.
Obviously, this isn't a universal rule. It's not one for me either. When I was about 11 or 12, starting to get interested in sex, I used to push urine out when I was erect, simulating the sensation of liquid coming out of a hard penis (I was too young to masturbate then, didn't really feel I needed to, didn't know how to, and besides, I didn't ever do it until I was 17, so that was a long way off). So yes, it can be done. And it often is, especially if you pee with morning wood (although it's best to do that in the shower, so it doesn't just go everywhere).
Anyway, I digress.
Last night I kept getting distracted. Cats howling outside my window, internet stopping working, wondering where people are, texts from H and so on. I must have, at some point, needed to go the the toilet. But of course I didn't realise, because I'd been wanking for about two hours and getting pretty frustrated, which I'm sure is understandable. Given my what-I-call-stamina, this wasn't entirely unforeseen, but I wanted to orgasm, and since I'd kept getting distracted, more than an hour and a half was probably pushing it a bit. Eventually, though, I managed to nix all my distractions, concentrate fully on sex, and orgasm. Which I did. And it was a long, drawn-out, intense male orgasm, which is always nice. I even mouthed a name while I did so, spontaneously, which isn't something I've done for a while.
I cleaned up and began to consider cleaning my teeth when I was suddenly attacked by instant stomach cramps and a burning sensation in my penis. This was a little worrying. It doesn't happen often, but I knew the cause. The stomach cramps weren't the usual IBS style, and my kegel muscle was throbbing, which is never that good a sign. It's probably doing morse code for "you've overdone it, mate."
I rushed to the toilet and urinated. For a very long time. It's not supposed to take this long. But there's something satisfying about that - you know you really needed it if you urinate following orgasm and there's a lot of it. Something like getting your money's worth, only more, uh, renal.
Of course, it didn't then stop hurting. Which led me to believe, of course, that I'd lost a lot of fluid. Well, I had. Lots of semen, lots of urine. Sweat, tears, the whole bunch. I had lost a lot of fluid. So I went down to the kitchen, still in quite an intense amount of pain. I fumbled for blackcurrant squash, found the most ridiculously large cup I could (a huge pink beaker thing), and started drinking...
...two litres of water.
No, it's not too much. You're meant to have eight a day. Hey, shut up, it worked, all right? I felt better. Once I'd given it twenty minutes to cool off my raging insides and work its way through my digestive system. Water is incredibly cleansing for the body, I tend to find. I've known this since I started detoxing on it a while back. And, although drinking two litres is a bit drastic, it worked. I had to use the toilet again, but the painful sting went away immediately afterwards. So I'd say that works.
I don't want to have to rely on it again, though. And thus I should have taken a different path of action. The lesson for today, therefore, reads:
If you can't orgasm for a long time... stop and do something else.
Here endeth the lesson.
Now go and get a drink.
I've never had a UTI, or at least I don't think I have. It sounds very unpleasant. But I have suffered most of the symptoms, and back when I was 16 and putting on a hypochondriact, I would have thought I was suffering from a UTI last night. But I wasn't. I was, however, in a lot of pain.
I masturbated for a long time last night. It took me a very long time to orgasm. That isn't something particularly unusual for me - I don't mind my strange ability to be sexually aroused for an incredibly long time; I mean, who would, right? But, although that eliminates the danger of premature ejaculation (although I'm not ruling it out, it's unlikely to happen any time soon!), it causes the urinary tract to be pretty much unusable, and if you need to go to the toilet, then this can cause a blockage, creating pain after orgasm has been achieved.
Obviously, this isn't a universal rule. It's not one for me either. When I was about 11 or 12, starting to get interested in sex, I used to push urine out when I was erect, simulating the sensation of liquid coming out of a hard penis (I was too young to masturbate then, didn't really feel I needed to, didn't know how to, and besides, I didn't ever do it until I was 17, so that was a long way off). So yes, it can be done. And it often is, especially if you pee with morning wood (although it's best to do that in the shower, so it doesn't just go everywhere).
Anyway, I digress.
Last night I kept getting distracted. Cats howling outside my window, internet stopping working, wondering where people are, texts from H and so on. I must have, at some point, needed to go the the toilet. But of course I didn't realise, because I'd been wanking for about two hours and getting pretty frustrated, which I'm sure is understandable. Given my what-I-call-stamina, this wasn't entirely unforeseen, but I wanted to orgasm, and since I'd kept getting distracted, more than an hour and a half was probably pushing it a bit. Eventually, though, I managed to nix all my distractions, concentrate fully on sex, and orgasm. Which I did. And it was a long, drawn-out, intense male orgasm, which is always nice. I even mouthed a name while I did so, spontaneously, which isn't something I've done for a while.
I cleaned up and began to consider cleaning my teeth when I was suddenly attacked by instant stomach cramps and a burning sensation in my penis. This was a little worrying. It doesn't happen often, but I knew the cause. The stomach cramps weren't the usual IBS style, and my kegel muscle was throbbing, which is never that good a sign. It's probably doing morse code for "you've overdone it, mate."
I rushed to the toilet and urinated. For a very long time. It's not supposed to take this long. But there's something satisfying about that - you know you really needed it if you urinate following orgasm and there's a lot of it. Something like getting your money's worth, only more, uh, renal.
Of course, it didn't then stop hurting. Which led me to believe, of course, that I'd lost a lot of fluid. Well, I had. Lots of semen, lots of urine. Sweat, tears, the whole bunch. I had lost a lot of fluid. So I went down to the kitchen, still in quite an intense amount of pain. I fumbled for blackcurrant squash, found the most ridiculously large cup I could (a huge pink beaker thing), and started drinking...
...two litres of water.
No, it's not too much. You're meant to have eight a day. Hey, shut up, it worked, all right? I felt better. Once I'd given it twenty minutes to cool off my raging insides and work its way through my digestive system. Water is incredibly cleansing for the body, I tend to find. I've known this since I started detoxing on it a while back. And, although drinking two litres is a bit drastic, it worked. I had to use the toilet again, but the painful sting went away immediately afterwards. So I'd say that works.
I don't want to have to rely on it again, though. And thus I should have taken a different path of action. The lesson for today, therefore, reads:
If you can't orgasm for a long time... stop and do something else.
Here endeth the lesson.
Now go and get a drink.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Review: London Sex Project - Experimentation
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Friday, July 1, 2011
Gold Mother
Snowdrop is pregnant!
This is an unexpected development. I've known her for longer than you'd think, and as far as I've always been able to tell, she's not really the type of girl to get pregnant. She's said at several points, including to me, that she doesn't want babies - and the only reason she'd have them (unless she's done something dumb like missed a pill or not bought any condoms or anything), I'd guess, would be that she was in a committed relationship... and she's not that type of girl either!
Or so I thought.
Truth is, I've not been actively pursuing what's going on in the world of snowdrop with any degree of interest or regularity. After our brief dalliance more than three years ago, our only communication has been through music - her sending me limited edition albums that I wouldn't get anywhere else, the occasional word spoken at James gigs and the customary pithy comment left on her Facebook wall when the opportunity's there. But in all honesty, without any indication that she was attached or pregnant, she just casually dropped it into conversation somehow.
And by her calculations, she is due to give birth in the middle of a James gig this autumn. And given her obsession with the band, that's fitting.
So, of course I've booked tickets to said gig for myself, 47, and 47's girlfriend. I can't afford it, but it's James... and if snowdrop gives birth in the gig, it's be worth it just to see that.
This is an unexpected development. I've known her for longer than you'd think, and as far as I've always been able to tell, she's not really the type of girl to get pregnant. She's said at several points, including to me, that she doesn't want babies - and the only reason she'd have them (unless she's done something dumb like missed a pill or not bought any condoms or anything), I'd guess, would be that she was in a committed relationship... and she's not that type of girl either!
Or so I thought.
Truth is, I've not been actively pursuing what's going on in the world of snowdrop with any degree of interest or regularity. After our brief dalliance more than three years ago, our only communication has been through music - her sending me limited edition albums that I wouldn't get anywhere else, the occasional word spoken at James gigs and the customary pithy comment left on her Facebook wall when the opportunity's there. But in all honesty, without any indication that she was attached or pregnant, she just casually dropped it into conversation somehow.
And by her calculations, she is due to give birth in the middle of a James gig this autumn. And given her obsession with the band, that's fitting.
So, of course I've booked tickets to said gig for myself, 47, and 47's girlfriend. I can't afford it, but it's James... and if snowdrop gives birth in the gig, it's be worth it just to see that.
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