You okay, honey?

I have been a bit miserable recently, and I apologise. I do tend to work best in interpersonal relationships if I'm getting good feedback from other people. I've got lots of comments on my empathy and sensitivity, and nearly every job I've tried to do has involved pastoral care of some kind. But occasionally, even if I am working well with people, I can't help being miserable. It just happens. This month I've ranged from helping my sister to have a dalliance with a married man, to planning a zombie RPG with Nimue, to going on a late-night emergency mission to aid a cousin's friend, to sitting on my bed listening to Beautiful at full volume while in floods of tears because I was emotionally confused about which pair of shoes to wear. But that was this morning. And that's how I roll.

You can probably understand, then, that with the amount of stuff I've done this month - that list barely scratches the surface; read back through this month's NaBloPoMo to see what else has gone on in my weird life - the emotions are scattered all over the place. To name the sexy Catharine, the lovely Anna and the faithful Lady P as but a few, online people have been my salvation, of a sort. Every one of you who has talked to me, Tweeted me, MSN'd me or even read a single word of what I've written this month has been helping in some way. And I know this blog is read. I often get over 100 views a day, some of which are not me. So thank you for that.

I know I've made some decisions which have been a bit unusual this month and some people have felt a bit hurt by that. Most of them won't be reading this. But for what it's worth, I'm sorry. But I don't do anything malevolently. I haven't got it in me to do so. Everything I do seems like the right idea at the time, and if done with the best of intentions, that's all you can hope for. Blessed as I am with the ability to love unconditionally and magic hugs like the kid from The Santa Clause 3, I still don't have the ability to see into the future and therefore predict the effects of anything I do or say, so you can't blame me for taking a course of action that I thought was the right thing to do. Thankfully, the repercussions of anything aren't too far-reaching.

I'm not as further along this month as I'd have hoped. But then again, I never am. I constantly take steps forward in one direction, only to be knocked back in another direction. But to be honest, that's how I roll too. And, although I am very emotionally sensitive, I'm tougher than you think. I'll get through everything. I'll be okay. After all, I got through this month intact, and I'm sure that you can too. Because, after all, I may not have much, but just sometimes, you gotta have faith.

Labatt Ice

I could do with a cuddle. I know that's not particularly unique. I think everyone needs a little warmth and affection in their lives (with the possible exception of George Osborne, whose eyes have a really dead look in them - I saw him sitting there on Prime Minister's Questions today and it was scary)... but at the moment cuddles are utmost on my mind. Well, cuddles and the closing riff to I'm Proud of the BBC. It's just there. I don't know why.

Insofar as my mood goes, it's up and down like John Yossarian's penis. The pattern tends to be that if my dad wakes me up by opening my door, shouting at me to get up and then slamming the door, it's going to be a bad day. On the other hand, yesterday I got up early to give my mother a birthday present, stayed up and gradually woke myself by the grace of coffee and muesli, and that was a good day.

47 came over yesterday to rehearse, because I'm in his band. I didn't know this until a couple of days ago. Then again, he's in my band and I'm keen on repaying the favour. I'm less keen on the stuff I've been asked to play, mostly because I can't play it. So, en route to Germany (which is pretty hardcore), he stopped at my house and we set up the studio to play through his new album. By which I mean I got really frustrated at my inability to play any chords more complicated than Fmaj7. I did OK with the bass guitar though. Anyway, that's not really the point.

The point is that I have blistered fingers, aching arms, stiff limbs and I did something to my right little finger during rehearsal - I'm not even sure what it is, but it made me swear loudly and it still hurts. Ouch.

I eventually got to bed at about midnight, which is my usual bedtime. That didn't mean I was asleep, of course - I tried, but it didn't work. My last memory of last night is pretending that Oxford was someone sexy and that I was spooning them, superimposed by my dad coming into my room, not even managing the five letters in the phrase "get up", and then leaving. I think I might sleep in the studio tonight, that'll give him a shock tomorrow morning.

Anyway, so today I feel heavy and sluggish. I'm aching a bit, worried a lot, and frustrated, which is my default setting anyway. I probably wouldn't even want to have sex at the moment (although give me half an hour and I'm sure I'd manage it), even though I'm thinking about it (and oh, the things I am thinking). I just want to be cuddled, and to cuddle in return. I mean, it's summer now. What's the point of summer if there aren't any cuddles? I mean, really.

I guess I'll just save up my cuddles for now. I won't be getting any for a while, sadly, and if I start investing now, the next person I cuddle may just have some form of divine experience. Hey, it's worth a try.

Resourceful

I posted a while ago about the launch of SWAAY.org, and in it I lamented quietly about how it's largely US-centric, and that (even though I'm not a sex worker myself) I would appreciate a similar resource for the UK.

Here it is.

I've been following @underedlight on Twitter recently, and although this is small at the moment, I hold out a lot of hope for this one. Because I can, right?

Self-Service

I staggered down the stairs yesterday evening and clattered around in the kitchen for a while. Extricating milk from the fridge and looking for the mint hot chocolate that I've been ritualistically nicking from my sister every evening, I heard the unmistakable tapping at a laptop keyboard from the room next door.

I turned towards the kitchen door, my dressing gown flapping open due to lack of cord and that fact I'd released my hand's grip on it. I wasn't, of course, wearing anything apart from the dressing gown, so I steeled myself as I pulled it close and walked through to the back room attempting to look as if I hadn't just had a massive orgasm.

Of course, I had. All the signs were there, even if you weren't looking for the signs. If my mother had been consulting a checklist as I walked in, it would have looked something like this:

Messed-up hair (from dragging hand through it) ☑
Slightly dizzy demeanour ☑
Small grin (for no apparent reason) ☑
Flushed cheeks ☑
Unsteady gait ☑
Regularly punctuates speech with 'phew' ☑
Heavy breathing ☑
Halo ☑

"Would you like a drink?" I asked her, as evenly as possible. Fortunately, my mother was concentrated on whatever horrors her laptop was throwing at her under the pretence of "working at home"; I could have walked into the back room without holding my dressing gown closed and "I JUST HAD AN ORGASM" tattooed across my chest and she probably wouldn't have noticed.

She muttered something about wanting a Horlicks and I floated back to the kitchen, letting my dressing gown flap open again and feeling the cool breeze from the fridge caress my thighs (and all between them). I paused for a while, fighting back an aftershock; realising perhaps a little too late that immediately following orgasm was probably not the best time to engage in conversation and drink-making, I pressed on with the Horlicks. Taking it back to my mother and being told that it was too watery and I needed to make it again, I barely seethed once. I wasn't going to let anything get me down.

The intensity of the orgasm was so much so that by the time I'd sorted out her drink, mine, and my toast, I still wasn't too steady on my feet. But I was well aware that I should be back at my computer by that point, so composing myself, pulling my dressing gown closed for the umpteenth time, and holding my hot chocolate and toast as steadily as I could in one hand, I walked as gracefully as I could back upstairs, leaving my mother behind, hopefully oblivious to the whole thing.

Music Video Sunday: Shakira & Wyclef Jean

No fightin'. No fightin'. Shakira! Shakira!

I first saw this video after watching Shakira perform at Live Earth 2007 with my dad. No, before you ask, we weren't actually at Live Earth, but they announced Shakira's name and I looked up at the TV. I'd never seen Shakira perform live before. I'd always liked her music, though. Good to dance to. Infectious. And then I saw the performance.

Okay, so it's not one of the best performances. And it's marred somewhat by the fact that the sound balance was a bit off. But it certainly stirred something in me. Something that made me run upstairs and then wrestle YouTube for the official music video. And I do have to say, embarrassing as this may be, the first time I saw it, it made me more aroused than any form of soft porn I've ever seen. Its effect is less so now, but it still manages to impress.

And yes, I masturbated to it. I continued to do so for a while. Sorry, Shakira. If I ever meet her, I'm apologising for that.

So, yes. It's a very hot music video. Shakira, apart from having a great voice, is famed for her provocative style of dancing, mostly involving the use of her hips. Hence the name of the song... possibly. Though the dance she does is different in every performance, the video places her in a costume which... well... doesn't leave too much to the imagination. There are even a few shots of her naked sequined back, which oddly enough I don't find as sexy as the bits where you can see her face. But then again, I'm weird like that.

What's funniest about this video is that Wyclef Jean famously sings the backing vocals, and even has a verse or two on his own. I'm not sure if it's him that does the famous "Shakira! Shakira!" hollering, although it doesn't appear to be, unless they've multitracked him. But while Shakira, in this video, not only does her twisting, jerking, writhing dance with the "come hither" expressions, but also appears to be having the time of her life doing so, Wyclef just continues to look a bit lost throughout. I'm sure he doesn't feel it, but he does look a bit confused at various points, as if he's not entirely sure what he's supposed to do. But then again, it's Shakira's video, not his - so a lot of the focus is on her, even though it will cut to Wyclef doing something random at bits, just to remind you he exists.

But the real star of the show is the lady herself - and why not? The second half of the video is a big Latin parade, with lots of... random... stuff happening, but the first half has perhaps the best belly dance I've ever seen. And you'd be surprised, but I've seen a lot of belly dances. Not sure how. I just have.

And it fits with the song too. After all, isn't the song about dancing in order to sexually provoke somebody? Well, she's certainly doing so, especially in conjunction with lyrics which amount to "you know you want it". Musical tease, perhaps?

So here's my challenge. Watch it. Especially if you haven't seen it before. You probably will have heard the song, but you may not have seen the video, and if you can get past the first half of the video without at least shifting uncomfortably once in your seat, I think there may be something slightly amiss.

Oh, and the tune's good, too.

Plus one

I really like my cousin's fiancé. I can't help it, I like him.

There's no reason I shouldn't like him - apart from the fact he's a bit of a Gary Stu. He's cool and clever, he works in IT using skills that he taught himself, he's got a flat which he shares with my cousin (who he's marrying next year), he earns enough money to consider moving (both of them) into a house, and everyone seems to like him. He even looks better now that he's stopped wearing that coat that was knocked off directly from Cheryl Cole's wardrobe. And recently, my mother had a problem with her laptop - the problem being, it didn't work.

I identified it as probably a problem with the registry, so we took it around to where my cousin, who is a student of fashion design, lives when she's not required to be in London and do arty things around the LCF. Also known as "her parents' house". She was sitting doing the one-handed, one-knee laptop thing people do when trying to look alternative, and he was mashing keys of three computers at once. Four, once you count my mother's laptop. He sorted the problem in about two minutes and then left it running a malware scan.

Therefore, he is the greatest being in the universe.

Me being me, I should feel a little jealous. But I don't. You can't feel jealous of this guy. It was a bit annoying when they got engaged, but it's been worth enduring the squeals of the family for the look on Nanna's face when they confirmed the theme of their wedding as being fairytales. (I'm tossing up between Robin Hood and a fairytale princess for myself. I have both costumes, after all.) It's also a little annoying when we have those huge family gatherings that I'm dragged... uh, taken to. It's rumoured, but not known, that there's some sort of surgical attachment going on at those. Maybe they're exchanging protein strings. It's not my place to say.

But, dash it all, I like him. He speaks a language I understand. I ran into him once randomly in the middle of London and felt no shame in giving him an impromptu hug. And, despite the fact that I'd quite like to be in his position (not with my cousin! - just to have a steady job, a flat, and someone to hold at family gatherings) at some point, and also despite the fact that my sister and I play a game which involves throwing 'fridge magnets at the wedding notification on our 'fridge, scoring ten points if you hit it off, five if you hit it at all, I'm resigned - and even quite looking forward - to the fact that they are, in fact, getting married in about a year's time.

And I could think of worse people for her.

It's Snickers... for breakfast!

I asked my dad if he would get me a Snickers the other day. He kindly did, whereupon I hid it in a drawer and resisted eating it until breakfast the following day (also known as "yesterday"). Yesterday evening, I went out specifically to use some of the (very) limited cash I have left to buy another Snickers. I repeated the breakfast today... coffee and a Snickers.

Okay, so this isn't exactly my idea. @notCatharine suggested I try it. And to be fair, I tried it twice, in order to repeat the test and see if it worked. I'm happy to report that it works. It's a complete breakfast, and one that manages to give you caffeine, sugars, fat and starch... everything you need for a balanced start to the day!

Having sweet things at the start of the day isn't a new idea. It's something that's often done in continental Europe. Two things stick out in my mind in relation to this: going to a café for a full English (or, in my case, a vegetarian variant thereof) and 47's German girlfriend ordering apple pie, and having breakfast at a week-long camp in Denmark, which often consisted of sliced white bread (with or without spreads), thin strips of cheese and little slabs of chocolate. And in France, of course, pain au chocolat is a staple of choice for breakfast options.

So I made myself a nice coffee... milk, sucralose-based sweetener (because I'm losing weight, apparently, says the boy who just ate a large bar of chocolate for breakfast), caffeine... took a sip. Tasted good. Smoothed out the Guardian in front of me, cracked open the Snickers, and sank my teeth into the bar.

Everything momentarily stopped.

I hadn't eaten Snickers in so long. We rarely ever get chocolate bars in this house - Dad doesn't like chocolate, so he doesn't buy them. He buys things like Club, and Geobars. Both nice, but not real chocolate bars. Not like Snickers. And, dear sweet lord, the taste was heavenly. In that first bite, the nougat, peanuts, caramel and chocolate all blended together with the lingering taste of coffee still in my mouth. Pure, unadulterated bliss. The minute I swallowed, I took another sip of coffee, and then took another bite.

I just couldn't stop. I kept going back. Coffee. Snickers. Nibbling, chewing thoroughly, letting every part of my mouth experiencing the flavour. Again. Again. I wanted more - I needed more - so I gave myself more. And I just kept going, every bit of Snickers revving up my need for more chocolate, more coffee, just indulging in this gorgeous bar of marvellousness, enrobed in chocolate.

I let out a contented sigh when all that was left was an empty wrapper and a cup with just the dregs of coffee remaining. I drank a cup of orange juice to finish off the breakfast... and trotted off to the face the day.

That was nice, I thought to myself, I might do it again tomorrow.

And guess what? I did!

And that's how I learned to love breakfast.

HNT: Trouser Trouble

Yes, that is a rip in my trousers. No, it's not terribly exciting.

I have this problem with trousers - I don't know what it is. They just keep ripping. Usually in the crotch. I don't know whether this is just dumb bad luck or the result of having an UNUSUALLY LARGE PENIS. It just happens.

The most extreme example of this happened at camp in 2004. I was having fun on the necessary bouncy castle, and I squatted and heard an enormous ripping, tearing sound from my crotch. As my genitalia isn't really disposed to make that sound, that could mean only one thing, and sure enough, when I looked down, my trousers were ruined. There was more than a small tear - it was a huge rip, with bits of trouser flapping in the breeze, and my underpants on display for all to see. The only option, other than to spend the rest of the week looking like Plastic Man, was to use my spare trousers. These were the same design, except they had rips and tears all over, because that was artistic, apparently. Still, it was better than gaining a reputation as "ripped crotch boy".

This tradition carried on for a while. I'd be doing something totally normal, and then my trousers would rip. It happened again just as I was about to go on stage to play at a rock festival, although fortunately, my friend and keyboardist had a spare pair. It happened in my first year at uni to a pair of blue tracksuits just as I was boarding a bus heading straight into town, necessitating a stop-off at Wilkinson to buy the cheapest sewing kit I could find (and stitching up the tear in the exact same colour while in the dressing room, which I did quite well, go me!). By the time third year had rolled around, practically all my trousers had suffered the same fate, and - as a cheaper alternative to buying new ones - I had resorted to patching them. One of my favourites was a pair of dark green trousers with a huge black patch over the crotch, complete with pink stitching - my explanation? I was an arts student, I was allowed.

I stitched up one of my favourite pair of trousers recently - it had a rip in the crotch that I wasn't aware of until I sat cross-legged to read a book and noticed a huge hole where there shouldn't have been one - so I grabbed the remnants of the sewing kit (the same one) and stitched the hole together. Unfortunately I also managed to stitch my underpants to the trousers at the same time - cue a "LOL why do I DO this to myself????!!!!!!11one" moment. I cut the rogue strands (with scissors), fixed the sewing... and then proceeded to rip them again, lower down! What a crazy world this is.

The rip on the trousers that I'm wearing at the moment (see above) is relatively minor, in comparison - a couple of centimetres in length - and from a quick look through my wardrobe I can see only one more pair that's not a part of a suit, three-quarter-length shorts, or ripped. I may need to buy some more. Problem is, I don't have any money.

I wonder if the 99p store in town has trousers... if I'm going to continue my trend, that's probably all they're going to be worth!

Out of kilter

While I am aware that I have been single for about six months now, and I am also aware that at the moment I have a focus around a person who I am pretty keen on as well, it's difficult to decide exactly where my emotions lie when I get a call from TD. She calls when she needs to be calmed, or when she wants somebody to be nice to her. And to be fair, if you want somebody to be nice to you, then I'm sure your half-angel ex-boyfriend isn't the worst of choices. It's just that I never got a full explanation from her for some of the stuff that went on, and it's difficult to know what to say or do.

She called me today and we ended up talking about random stuff. I mentioned my sister's recent debacle with a manfriend, and she mentioned that she'd met a guy, who she almost got intense with, and then he broke it off. My immediate thought was, "wow, that was quick." I mean, a few months ago she was telling me she still loved me - now she tells me she was de facto with another boy for a couple of months. My feeling has always been that she broke up with me because she wasn't coping well with having a boyfriend, and that she wanted to be single for a while to rearrange her head. It's not pleasant, but that was the reason, as far as I could see it. This doesn't seem like the reason any more.

Not that I'm going to get much of an explanation about that either.

So this has thrown me out of kilter. Yes, I can safely say that I'm no longer in love with TD, but it took a very long time. And I don't think I'm "over" the break-up. I'm not even "over" the break-up with Rebecca, because that fucked me around so much that it left me very wary of girls' loyalties (whenever TD got angry with me, I was convinced she was about to dump me every time, because that's the impression I got with Rebecca - and yet when I tried to be assertive, that made her more angry - again, explain?). But then again, I never will be. It's not in my nature to forget bad times. I don't choose to remember them - they remember themselves and stick to me. All I can do is to try and move on.

But it's difficult to think of her being with anyone else. I was good for her and I know it. I fail to see how anyone different would be able to be in a relationship with her for such a long time - and, of course, I don't want to think about her having sex with anyone else. Hearing about her past dalliances was hard enough - Glod knows about the future.

This makes me confused and upset, and I don't like that! Yes, it's easy to upset me, and it's easy to confuse me if you don't explain things - but I've been doing so much better over the past month or so. I've been moving along - or trying my hardest to. I've been talking to new people as well as old friends and I've even been interested in girls (or, girl singular at the moment) without feeling so guilty (whereas for the first two months, even thinking a girl was hot made me feel disgusted with myself). But news like this throws me massively out of step, because it's just not something I need to know...

...and it makes me review myself, as well, and ask myself that eternal question...

just what the fuck did I do wrong?

List of unintentionally sexual things that were said to me yesterday

Because I know you like lists.

• "You won't do much good in bed."
• "Do you ever get up?"
• "It's good to get your finger into as many pies as possible."
• "I didn't know you liked eating cherries."
• "They bent over backwards and gave us exactly what we wanted."

Think about it!

Life Assurance

Ring ring.
Ring ring.
Ring ring.

I stumbled from my bed, out of my room and lurched towards the 'phone in the upstairs hallway.
It's too early for this, I thought, as I lifted the receiver, discounting the fact that I must have sounded ridiculous claiming half past ten as being "too early".

I cleared my throat.
"Hello?" I squeaked into the mouthpiece.

"Is your sister there?" said Nanna.

I almost hit my head repeatedly against the desk in front of me.

"No, she's at work," I managed to explain, leaving out the rest of the explanation, she's been at work every weekday since September last year, and it's not likely to be changing at any point soon. I also managed to leave out the point about her dating a 40-year-old married policeman, but then again, Nanna didn't need to know that.
"Well, could you ask her to 'phone me when she gets back from work?" she asked.
"Sure, OK," I said, considering a double-positive to be as affirming as I could be. There was a long pause, during which I swear I could almost hear the gears in Nanna's brain clanking into "continue talking" mode. I braced myself.
"You're OK, are you?" she ejaculated.
I wasn't sure how to answer this. What, holistically? Or just referring to one thing? What's "OK" meant to mean? I'd no idea. So I had to give an answer that seemed appropriate...

I thought for a while...

"Yes," I said.

"Good, good," said Nanna, apparently satisfied that I'd given an answer worthy of a news bulletin. "You'll be OK, something will happen."
Well, yes, plenty of things will happen. But this was clearly about jobs. That's all she wants to talk to me about these days. I've stopped telling her about the interviews I have. Every interview that's not for the position of Supreme Ruler of the Universe seems to upset her, and besides, she'd find out somehow anyway. And being unemployed gives me more time to write my blog, and take pictures of my cock, which I appear to have developed a sudden and frighteningly unexplained affection for.
I cast around my brain for a response that didn't involve the extensive interview planning that I was going to do, but hadn't done yet because I was still in bed. Nanna continued her sentence anyway, so I was saved having to come out with one.

"Someone out there loves you," she finished.

"Oh! Uhm... yes, I'm sure of... uhm..." I stuttered, totally wrong-footed by this change of tack. What, was she talking romance to me now? Nanna doesn't even seem to like me having girlfriends. It's some sort of reminder than I'm not five any more.

"Well, see you soon," she said, and put down the 'phone with a click.

I stood there in the hallway for a few seconds, temporarily stunned, the 'phone hanging loosely from my left hand. I could practically feel the audience all waiting for me to say something. I turned my head to wherever the fourth wall seemed to be at the time.

"Fuck," I decided upon.

Then I replaced the receiver, and walked off to the only place where things seemed to make sense any more... straight back to bed.

Nothing can hold him, not even a ring...

My sister brought her MacBook through into my bedroom yesterday and sat on my bed. "I'm typing this," she typed, "because I don't want the parents to hear. I know they're downstairs, and they could be listening." I nodded sagely, as I know the feeling.

She disclosed a secret to me... that she is 'seeing' someone.

This is hardly a revelation. All the signs were there - she has been fending off advances by people with unusual gusto, whereas what she usually does is just give in, hence her sleeping with the young raver, or letting boys buy her things. Suddenly turning unavailable is her signal for "I'm attached," and everyone's noticed this, most of all my parents, hence their recent confusion about her. She's been a bit of a bitch to me, as well, which was sort of explained in her text-based communications yesterday.

The man she is seeing is married.

So, yeah, apparently, this man's wife is a bitch. She claims (my sister, not his wife) that their marriage is ending. Ending, rather than ended. It's been ending for a while - eight months, it seems. Now, I have mixed feelings about this.

While I appreciate that extramarital affairs happen a lot more than anyone is comfortable admitting (and this is what she referred to it as, an affair), I don't like it. I know some marriages don't work, either, and that some come to an end, sad as this is. And I'll accept that that's the best thing to happen. Nevertheless, what I can't abide is somebody dumping somebody for somebody else. That I can't accept.

I get it, follow your heart, or whatever. But, having had it happen to me in the past, I know how deeply that cuts. What happened to me was worse, because I was being used as a fallback, in case Rebecca's new relationship didn't work out. I was old news for two weeks, and the utterly moronic thing is that I knew something was happening all along, and didn't want to say anything. But it devastated me when it all happened, and when the same thing happened to a friend-with-a-massive-penis a couple of years later, I was straight in there with a sympathetic ear, one that had been there before. (With him it was the same timescale... two weeks).

My sister said, briefly, that he wasn't leaving his wife for her. With nothing else to go on, I guess I believe that. But why didn't he get out of his marriage at any point beforehand? If he wanted a divorce, why didn't he get one a year ago, thereby ending it all months before he even knew who my sister was? Well, the thing is.

He has kids. Three or four of them.

And evidently that throws a spanner in the works. Because you can't just end a marriage and walk off if you have children. Well, you can, but anyone with at least half a heart won't. He will, according to my sister, have THE TALK with his wife, and then with his children - but to be honest, I don't see then taking any of this well. Their parents breaking up, and then their father being with a new girl half his age. That doesn't sound like something that belongs outside of a psychiatrist's office, really.

The age difference doesn't really bother me as much as it might. She's 21 and he's 40. Yes, it's a massive age gap, but it's two consenting adults, and I slept with an older woman when I was 21, so I'm not really one to judge.

Oh, and apparently, they're in love.

I'm not sure I believe that, either. But she's certainly keen on him - by the way she talks and acts. After a party we went to yesterday (and that was pretty painful, but interesting in odd ways, if you've been following me on Twitter you'll know what I mean), I was tasked with helping her sneak him into our house at 4am - I was, of course, trying to get to sleep at 4am, but my job was to give the all-clear (is es, making sure our parents were asleep while they sneaked up to the attic), and this required a quick BBM, which I did - grouchily. Then turned my 'phone off, to give it - and me - some needed rest.

I don't even know this guy's name. Nor his face. All I know is he's a policeman.

So... this is an interesting development. I'm not sure how I feel about it, never mind how I'm meant to feel about it. Part of me says that there's nothing seriously wrong going on here, but he's still married. And if it were just sex, well, it'd be wrong too, but this is love, allegedly. Which makes it complicated. And there are children involved, which also makes it very difficult. I know she likes his children, but that's not really the point here.

Nor is it any of my business. I just wonder how deep she's going to ask me to go before I feel the need to voice any concerns.

I need a holiday.

YAAWS

A couple of days ago, Furry Girl (of Feminisnt) launched her new website, swaay.org, which stands for "Sex Work Activists, Alllies, and You". It's bit of a mouthful, but I like the acronym. I'd buy a T-shirt if I had the money. Anyway. it is essentially an American project, but I think a lot of the information transfers to any Western culture and perhaps could be applied to the UK. I support it - of course I do. I've known a few sex workers in my time and they've all been very nice people, and I've also known people who apply the stigma - my sister, for example, who is against sex work in all shapes and forms.

Or so she says.

SWAAY's tagline is "advocating for understanding, respect, and change by connecting the public with the people and facts behind sex work". Again, a bit of a mouthful, but admirable. And I'll advocate that too. I'd like to consider myself a bit of an ally to the sex industry - I even filled in the opinion form Furry Girl put out including my views (including a Christian standpoint; something I don't think a lot of people would have). It's a good cause, and all.

But I don't think it's going to work. Of course, it's worth trying. And damn well trying hard. SWAAY is not a new thing, but it's a good example of an attempt to bring the industry into the public eye a little more, and sort out the woefully ignorant idea that all sex workers are prostitutes, all prostitutes are trafficked, and therefore all sex workers are trafficked. That sort of ignorance. And yes, I'll support it. But sex work is a sticky issue. It really is. It shouldn't be, but it is and it always will be.

That's one of the things about sex work. It's often called the "oldest profession", and yet it's still seen as disreputable. Or at least it is now. The Ancients kept records of it and even had it in their mythology. Jesus befriended Mary Magdalene, believed to be a prostitute. But now it suffers from the degredation of public opinion... which is a shame. When you consider that people who strip, operate phonesex lines, or write, direct or act in porn are sex workers of a sort, it's even more of a shame. It's one of the messages that the SlutWalk carried - sex work is real work.

But I don't think it will ever reach the level of acceptance that SWAAY advocates. It's unrealistic. By all means, shoot for it. And any step is a step towards it, of course. Anyone converted - or anyone that stops to think for a second (unlike my sister) - is a positive thing.

One of the things about sex work that I hate to admit that I like, however, is the fact that it's seen as something of ill repute. I can't help it. I just can't. Yes, I wish sex work were more well-respected and I wish more people had a greater undertanding of it. But I still quite like it. I'm neither inside or outside of the industry, and if you count soft porn, then I partake of it occasionally. What I like about the fact that it's effectively under an imposed veil is that that makes it, for want of a better word, naughty. It's like eating ice-cream between meals or sex on a Sunday afternoon. You can do it all you like, but polite society expects you not to. Which makes it more fun.

I don't mean to devalue sex work or sex workers here. Obviously there are some aspects of any job that aren't fun. There are a lot of aspects of not having a job that aren't fun, as I demonstrate very clearly here. But the aim of sex work is to provide pleasure, right? And pleasure is fun. I mean, it's customer service. That's what it is.

However, imagining it being quite as enjoyable to watch Emmanuelle: Queen of the Galaxy if my dad gave me a copy for Christmas is difficult. Never having visited an escort, I can't really imagine that, but just telling my mum that I was popping out to pay for sex is unimaginable. Hell, I don't even tell my friends I write a sex blog, and that's not even close! Yes, as much as I don't like to admit it... I like the secrecy. I do. It's thrilling, and exciting. The fear of getting caught - even caught in contact with an industry that is, to all intents and purposes, honourable and reputable - provides the main adrenalin rush (well, until the orgasm comes along, anyway). And yes, I'm sort of okay with that.

Sort of. I mean, SWAAY is doing what I consider to be the right thing here. But I don't think Joe Public's view is likely to change much. Maybe a little as time goes by and acceptance grows, but not massively. It's something to hope for, but I can't see it happening in any measurable short-term time-scale. But if the adult industry is to retain its seedy reputation (even if that is not at all deserved), I just hope the more enlightened of us stay enlightened.

Just my twopennyworth. Or, for the US citizens reading, that's about 3.3 cents. Whatever works for you... right?

HNT: Suits you, sir!

OK, so not really HNT as no part of me is naked, unless I go by that "we're all naked under our clothes" bit, and that line it's ever appropriate. Anywhere. Ever. But I tried to take a picture of myself with a suit on. It didn't come out as well as I hoped.

If you want to imagine I'm naked from the waist down, you can. If that helps. I don't mind. Anyway.

This sort of thing's more suited to James. Still. I thought it looked okay. In an odd way. An odd, really quite confused way.

Can I have the next customer, please?

I attended a job interview today and, during the "sitting waiting for something, anything, to happen" stage that accompanies these things, my thoughts flashed back to my last job interview. Insofar as that was concerned, it happened last week and I haven't heard yet, but I'd much rather get the one I went for today than get that one. It would be nice to be offered both. I probably won't be offered either. That's the way it goes.

At last week's interview I wrote explicitly on the application form that I was flirtatious. I probably shouldn't have put that. Still, I didn't want to claim I was rapacious, voracious or Cretaceous, so I couldn't claim it was just a simple slip of the hand. They didn't bring it up.

I didn't want them to, but being flirtatious would be good for nearly any job. I mean, I'm too nice to just make advances on any (never mind every) girl who happens to clock me at work - besides, when my sights are trained on one person, it makes me feel guilty for doing so. But being flirty isn't just about flirting - outrageously or not. Combine it with an outgoing, friendly manner and you've got a killer combination for customer service.

Problem is, I don't have an outgoing, friendly manner. I'm friendly, sure. I'm pleasant and I'm nice, plus I have a mercurial sense of humour, and good enough eyes. But it takes me a while in someone's company before I start to emerge from my shell. Afterwards, I do, fine, but not before. So I have to rely upon my inherited acting ability, and put on a face. But I suppose customer service is all about that too.

"If I may use a theatre analogy," I said today, "I see this as being like a cast - the customers are the stars, and we're the supporting cast - we need to know when to come on, what to say and when to leave." I didn't add, "and when to say they have lovely hair." But I'm not sure I'd say that.

When I said I was flirtatious at last week's interview, I didn't mean anything by it (outside that I'd try to build a good rapport). I put it down because they asked me to describe myself in five words. Don't ask me damn fool things like that. You're lucky I didn't just put damn you all to hell. That's five words.

I think I may have added "honest" to the five words. But then again, that's probably a given, knowing me.

Promises, promises...

Promises make you do odd things.

I promised once that I would always recycle stuff. I have occasionally been too lazy to fulfil this one, but on other occasions I have taken it to extremes, putting the tiniest scraps of newspaper in recycling bins, collecting all the discarded Metros on a train to put in the recycling outside my local station and saving the half of the Sunday lunch that my sister never eats, so I can eat it myself at lunch the next day. Yes, I am very odd like that.

Promises I've made to individual people include: being in bed by 11pm when I was about 15, rather than staying up all night watching soft porn (to my mother), finishing his website by his 60th birthday (to my father), never wilfully hurting myself (to a girl with pink hair), and to add a link to their blog on my blog (it's over there ----->). But there's one more promise that I felt I ought to make, since the person in the question has been so good to me.

So into the studio I went, guitar in hand, plugging in the leads as I went. I opened my mixing program, smoothed the chords to Friday out on the table, struck a chord, paused... and then let all hell break loose.

Upgrade

"Which 'phone do you think I should get, then?" said my dad, completely out of the blue. I paused, reflected, and then walked across the kitchen to him, leaving my egg to boil. I wasn't going to pretend I hadn't been listening to him - my dad does this thing every year of going through our family's expenditure to save us money. And hey, good for him. We don't have a lot of money - he's an actor, she's a teacher, she minor is a student, and I'm a slacker - and following the savings on water, gas, electricity, internet and TV, he's now tackling 'phones. It was only a matter of time.

Looking at the list of 'phone upgrades he was choosing from was amusing. My dad only uses his 'phone to make calls (which, I suppose, is what it's designed for). He doesn't text (and when he does it's very brief and without spaces or lower-case letters) and he'd have no need for any apps, since he doesn't use Facebook, doesn't know what Twitter is and has an iPod, so he doesn't even need Spotify or any mp3s on his phone. He also seems to know what every song ever is called, so he doesn't need Shazam! either. All these 'phones had those capacities. Hence his confusion.

"You don't need to use any of those," I pointed out. "One with a QWERTY keyboard would be good for your texting, as it would be easier to use - " This passed without comment. " - and, what's more, you get a trackpad to browse around with, which might also be fun."
"What do I do about e-mail?"
"What about it?"
"Don't you get e-mail with one of these?"

I hesitated.

"Well, yes, you do. But you don't need to use it."
Pause.
"I was prompted to create one, so I did, but I never use it. I mean, I already have about six other addresses, but none of them route to my BlackBerry. I wouldn't want it clogged up with spam. I send e-mails from my computer, and the e-mail service is there if I need it, but I don't e-mail from it. You could do the same."
"Okay," my dad nodded. "I wouldn't use it anyway. But what's the point of even setting up an e-mail service if you won't use it?"
"You kind of have to," I said.

I'm not sure if that's true. But I couldn't really say any more about 'phone e-mail without telling him that the last time I sent an e-mail from my 'phone (to myself), it contained some JPEGs, including (but not limited to) the young raver streaking at camp, a picture of my thighs, and one of my penis almost immediately post-orgasm.

But then again, he didn't really need to know that, either.

The weekest link

BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!

I considered various forms of words in capitals before settling on that. Screams of rage and intense crying were also in my head, but I settled on manic laughter lifted verbatim from 1980s Justice League comics instead. I don't know if it fits, but if you've read this far, it evidently caught your attention.

This week has been manic. I went into London every. single. day. Yes, I know I live there, but it's still something that takes effort - walking to the train station and then navigating the Underground, dodging the obligatory drunk passengers, obnoxious executives, grumpy London teenagers and the occasional Chimaera. It also costs £5.30 (£8 if you don't have the 16-25 Railcard. I'm 26, so of course I've got one) - £5.30 I don't actually have. But that's all largely immaterial anyway. The point is, I usually go into London maybe a couple of times a week, depending on what I'm doing. This week went something along the lines of:

dictionary definition updating you have pie job search town glee driving lesson job seekers allowance distraction club bank transfer rain amateur transplants rain job interview naked photos comedy club rain make sign phase out local pub slutwalk bee rescue service family sunday lunch rain cat on boat story sitcom writing nablopomo late night flirting chat room management rain help help help BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!

It's like that advert for London Southbank. Just... a bit better.

Nevertheless, it's all quite exciting. Especially the late night flirting, which has had the unexpected side effect of keeping me satiated enough to not even think about watching soft porn this week.

Yes, really! No, really really!

The result of this is that I didn't quite wake up this morning. I mean, I got up and moved around a bit, but I wasn't quite sure of who, where, or what I was. I just... was. And now I'm in a state of semi-catatonia. It's not unpleasant, exactly, but it's inconvenient. And, of course, there's the money issue to deal with. But this has been at the very least interesting, so I'm pushing for the same sort of week starting tomorrow. Interesting and active. Although if the money went into my account, rather than out of, that would be appreciated.

But you can't have everything.

Although something right now would be nicely timed...

¡Revolución!

Today I went to the SlutWalk in London.

Despite being a success in other places, notably Toronto, a small voice at the back of my head said, "London? That's not a good idea. Yes, it's a march which carries messages such as sexuality-poisitve feminism, freedom of sexual expression, freedom to dress, and anti-rape, but it's called SlutWalk and therefore may not work, exactly." But I followed @SlutWalkLondon. I went along with great hope. I wasn't disappointed. And here, because I am intolerably lazy, is a list of things that I did, using the corner-cutter's best friend, bullet points. [Nota bené: There were more things than just this, but these are the things that leap to mind immediately following a return home. Also, I just got to say "nota bené." That's cool.]

- Made a new friend. I was approached by a lovely girl at Green Park station who was a little bit lost. I told here where the Walk was and chatted to her a bit while waiting for H to turn up. After a while, we exited the station and she thanked me and walked off. I saw her again later on and we enthusiastically exchanged hugs and thoughts about the Walk. Good times!

- Met a couple of friends of H's that I'd neither met or heard of before, both of whom were very nice. One of them kept giving me cookies, which certainly counts as "nice". We were also accompanied by a young lady who was also taking part in the naked cycle ride later on in the day. Interesting collection of people to spend an afternoon with...

- Got to the starting point and enthusiastically took quite a lot of pictures. Maybe too many pictures. Played the obligatory "find the sign that says down with this sort of thing" game. I've been trying to get a page of php to work to display all these. It's not been working well. Or at all. Fail. I'll link to some of them on this entry anyway.

- Was interviewed by a steward and blogger, who seemed very pleased for me to give my views. My views, of course, were garbled and confusing, but I tried my best. I think she was attracted by my placard. I also gave her my new ILB business card. Hopeless narcissism, that is, right there.

- Waited around for ages for the walk to start, buoyed by the warm weather and the reams upon reams of people joining us, along with all the positive comments on Twitter, which was made for this sort of thing. Also saw the royal 'planes flying past and snapped them, joining in with the enthusiatic cheer as the crowd decided to reclaim the aerodynamic display as well as the word "slut"!

- Saw @tajasel. Said hello. That was all.

- Saw some Raëlians. Which seemed odd until I thought, "well, why shouldn't they be here?"

- Started walking. Was saluted and cheered on by people on tour buses, consumers sitting casually on outside window ledges, members of the press and public, and the entirelty of the aforementioned naked bus ride.

- Joined in with the chants. I don't usually do this on protests, even though I've been to a lot. But I caught the bug eventually and, by the end, was chorusing "yes means yes and no means no" with the best of 'em.

- Rescued a drowning bee that H spotted in the Trafalgar Square fountain. I fished her out and laid her on the ground, fully expecting her to die very soon. I shielded her with my feet, though, and made sure that she got a lot of the sunlight, just in case the sun could dry her out and she stayed alive. She remained stationary for a long time and I thought she was a goner... until, clearly dried out enough and alive, she started walking unsteadily around. She eventually walked for a long way across the square, halfway up a girl's placard, and then took off back into the sky. This made me feel fantastic! I could use it as a metaphor, but I won't. Yet.

- Quickly said a hello to @girlonetrack, during which conversation I realised that the SlutWalk was probably the best protest I've ever been on, even though it wasn't strictly a protest. I said this to her, even though I'd only just thought of it.

- Went to get a sandwich and drink, came back and listened to the speeches. Very good they were too.

- Got a tube back. In the same carriage were some more SlutWalkers. I had no idea who they were... and yet I still felt very easy in their company. So there.

So, yes. Fantastic day, which surpassed expectations in terms of weather (it was sunnier than predicted), turnout (much more people came along than predicted, even though my sister didn't, 'cause she's a lazy-arse), and my placard staying together (I fully expected bits to fall off, and they didn't!). I had high hopes for the Walk, but I did somewhat cynically expect it to be a little smaller than I thought. The atmosphere was really good, the messages were clear (and loud!), the concept was delivered well, the people were really into it, the whole thing was pretty much revolutionary. And everyone seemed to be on our side as we went along, which was also great to see.

I'm sure someone else will come up with a much more in-depth analysis, but these were the things that stood out for me, and made it an overall high of an experience, with something very hopeful indeed, like... well... like a drowned bee reviving, and taking a majestic flight off into the sun!

The wood between the worlds

I feel as if I am floating. In between worlds. I am in my world, in my house, in my room, in my chair, in my blog-posting page. But really, I feel detached. I feel alone, but not lonely. I feel adrift, but safe. A world I can return to is waiting there for me to return to and all it would take is the touch of a button or a footstep in one direction. For the moment, I am content to drift. Chill-out music. Thoughts. Small actions.

I stayed in bed this morning, even though my dad told me to get up. I waited until he'd left the house, then went straight back to bed so I could restart the process of waking up, gradually. The postman delivered some mini ILB business cards I'd ordered because I thought that @dylanbeattie's were cool. I looked at them for a while, even though there's not much to look at, and then crawled around my room finding cardboard to make a placard for the SlutWalk. Scissors. Glue. Thick felt-tips. I assaulted the cardboard with duct tape, some chill that I'd forgotten I even had whispering at me from the speakers. Felt like a graphic designer as I drew the slogan out with straight lines from the point of a pencil and a ruler.

My dad came in when I was colouring in the final word.

"When's this march?"
"Tomorrow."
"It'll be wet."
"If it is, I'll cover this sign with sticky-back plastic."
"That'll make it shiny, won't it?"
"I'll take a picture of it before I do."
"Is your sister going on this march?"
"Yes, we're going together. We might split up when we get there."
"Okay."

He left. I still felt detached. I finished my sign (it took a while). It looks rushed but it isn't. I quite like the home-made activism feel.

I have been so busy this week. I have spent practically every day in central London on some business or another. I have been out every single evening. I have laughed and loved and cried and sulked. I have been all over the place, and the occasional reassuring sexiness of a cute person on MSN is what has slowed the tide. Taken me back to basics. Made me feel confident, wanted, worthwhile. So much so that I woke up this morning with the confidence that I can be alone and achieve something.

I an not working today. No jobseeking. No networking. I have no need for it right now. I am achieving by being myself. Reconnecting with ILB. That is how I achieve today. If I can wake up and think to myself, "I am ILB, and I am proud of that," I have achieved. And so it goes. I spend today in this state, being myself, contented with the knowledge that I am ready, when I make the decision by myself, to step back into reality, in whichever direction I choose... step back into reality from this, my place between worlds.

HNT: Thigh-L-B

Don't particularly like this one, but I just can't disagree with a sexy girl too much. And she liked it.

Things I don't like about this photo:
- The angle makes my thighs look fat. They're fat anyway, but this one in particular. The one on the left is a more accurate representation.
- Red spots. Yuck.
- Do I need that much hair? It's manly, apparently, but still...
- Yellow T-shirt and blue dotted Y-fronts don't go too well together.

Still, you get to see my bulge a bit. And if you scroll down, you don't have to look any more. So there's the silver lining, I guess!

Holy jumping semen, Batman!

My orgasm yesterday evening...

[DISCLAIMER: I had an orgasm yesterday evening. Not after the Distraction Club, or even during, despite the greatest attempts of Jonni Music to elicit one. But before. Just clearing that one up. I'm seeing Amateur Transplants this evening. If I orgasm during that, kindly take me straight to hospital.]

...was unusual in that my man juice appears to have acquired the ability to jump.

I know it's meant to shoot out. But in reality, it really doesn't. It doesn't just kind of flump out, exactly, but with my experience of ejaculation, I orgasm so quickly that I don't see the cum emerging - it just appears, like it's used one of those teleportation moves from Pokémon. Occasionally, if I'm paying attention to my penis, I'll see the action, but to be honest, if I'm having sex, I can't see it because it's inside someone else - and if I'm enjoying myself, I'm usually paying attention to what's going on in my head, or on the screen. In yesterday's case, I'd like to think that someone else was aware of that, too...

...anyway...

But yesterday was different. I don't know whether it was the angle of my penis or the position in which I'm sitting or even the intensity of my orgasm. They have been very intense recently - particularly over the past two weeks, in which they've been very potent and I've produced a lot of TOO MUCH INFORMATION MAKE IT STOP BRAIN AAH AAH AAH, but yesterday's was particularly intense. And it jumped.

Literally, that's what it did. It leaped into the air, turned a somersault and fell back down in a perfect arc, landing exactly back on the tip of the head of the penis from which it emerged. Were it a human shape, rather than, y'know, male ejaculate, I wouldn't have been surprised to hear it cry, "wheee!" as it did so. Only then I probably would have run off, screaming.

I probably would have also fallen down due to trying to run with my trousers around my ankles. Safety first.

It was, for want of a better adjective, interesting. But then again, knowing my luck, I'll probably never see it happen again!

Still, it's the Olympics in London next year. Let's get in training.

Defying the Conventions...

So, apparently there's a conference for sex bloggers next year. Not before bloody time. Okay, yes, I have yet to register or do any serious investigation int the matter, but it's still lodged in my brain somewhere, because I dreamed about it last night.

Well, maybe not the sex blogger conference. A sex blogger conference. Maybe not even that. Just somewhere where people who write about sex were. Well, maybe not even that. I... I was having sex, okay? That's what I dreamed about.

In all seriousness, the dream was set in some sort of sex-positive convention. I was in a room, lying in my back (on a bed, or some sort of structure), when one sex blogger - yes, a real one, and not one you'd expect; someone who hasn't blogged for a long time, yet I happen to know what she looks like - climbed on and, despite my questions (although I wasn't exactly protesting, just questioning), started riding. I also remember enjoying it. An older, taller lady - who organised the event (the event itself, not the random sex) - was standing there watching with a smile. I thought it wouldn't be polite. It was.

Why this random girl in particular I don't know. As I said, it's someone who hasn't been seen for years. I haven't talked to her for years, either. But she was identifying herself by name and I do happen to know her face, so there's no confusion as to why that is. Nevertheless, why her? Not that I complain, but why?

Sex in my dreams is always like soft porn. There's never anything really explicit. Bits are in the right place, but you never see any explicit pentration or genitalia. Not that I complain about that, either. But I wonder why, exactly? Stick with what you like, I suppose...?

Bubble

I want a jacuzzi. My skin is terrible at the moment because of the sunny, rainy, sunny, rainy weather, my back is playing up because I spent a lot of time hunched over my computer's keyboard, my brain is all stressed-out because of my mother, and the soles of my feet, which are coming to resemble bricks, could do with the warm, bubbly water of a jacuzzi. Plus, who doesn't like them? I mean, I'm irritated by tepid water and even I like them.

There's a picture on my external HD of TD in a jacuzzi at Center Parcs. One of the 28 pictures we managed to fit into a tiny digital camera "borrowed" from the dustbin of a primary school. Classy, I know. Although how we managed to take pictures in a municipal swimming area and get away with it is beyond me. There's even a picture of me going at high speed down the middle of the white slide with my arms held in the YMCA position. But I digress.

It's one of those fantasies that everyone has, sex in a jacuzzi. There's even a poorly-shot scene of jacuzzi sex in Mirror Images II to capitalise on this odd fetish. And no, before you ask, I haven't had sex in a jacuzzi. I had sex by the side of a swimming pool once (no, not a public one), but that's not the closest I got...

I definitely had a cheeky grope of TD while we were in the jacuzzi... sorry, "hot whirlpool"... at Center Parcs. It was Valentine's; we were very touchy-feely anyway and I distinctly remember her sitting on me in the jacuzzi. Not having sex, just sitting on me. I also remember having my hand on her thigh. And I remember the massive erection that I had at the time, obviously. But I can't remember feeling her up, as such. I remember feeling Rebecca up, though. Not at the same time, again obviously.

The place I stayed at with Rebecca was a poor man's Center Parcs. I didn't pay for it, either. 47's family own something like a cross between a caravan and a garden shed there, and although it's comfy enough, it doesn't have the homely feel or "OMGZ it's MY OWN HOUSE" feel of a Center Parcs villa. This place, which I won't say the name of because you'll know exactly where it is (and it's a stupid name anyway), has one bar, one café and the customary swimming pool. Except in this case, the swimming pool is hardly subtropical. It's big and square and probably not a lot of fun if you can't swim. While I dived in at the deep end and struck out for a few lengths, stopping only slightly short of mutating into a fish-person like Destriianatos from the Doctor Who comics, while she floundered about at the shallow end. Fun though this was, I think we needed something more. Fortunately, they had a jacuzzi.

I need to point out, however, that this jacuzzi wasn't exactly the height of luxury. Yes, it was hot, and it bubbled, but it was - get this - pay-as-you-go. That's right. You had to put a quid into a little slot, and as a reward you got three whole minutes of bubble time. After that the water became flat and cold.

It was after I put my third pound coin in that I was beginning to realise it was a rip-off. But Rebecca, by this point, had her hand down my swimming trunks, so I wasn't complaining too much. She wasn't exactly making me particularly horny, but it was enough for me to reciprocate. I removed her hand from my trunks and slipped my free hand down between her legs. The soft lycra of her swimming costume was easy enough to feel her through. The problem with Rebecca was, however, that you could never tell exactly how turned on you were making her - bit she assured me afterwards that it was good. Which was the best you could hope for from her.

Neither of us came, but that wasn't exactly the aim - it was just brief naughtiness. I think we had sex afterwards though, but that would have been back at the caravan shed thingy. But that's about as close as I got to sex in a jacuzzi. It doesn't count, exactly, but it was a start.

Next time, I'll go for kisses. It's the next step, and every journey starts with a single step... right?

Soft Porn Sunday: Taylor St Clair & William Briganti

Oh, look, there's a soft porn actress with the word "St." in her name. How original.

Anyway.

This one's a blast from the past. I must have seen this one in about 2000, two years after it first came out. I would have been about 14 then. I think that makes sense. It took me a while to remember this one, actually, as it didn't make that big an impact on my memory. And by the time I started downloading soft porn, I'd forgotten this scene entirely. I'm glad I found it again, because it's quite good.

Appearance: Lolita 2000 (1998)
Characters: Jolene & Billy Ray

Yes, it does have the word "Lolita" in it. I wonder if the producers ever actually read Lolita. I wonder if they know what connotations the word has. What's worse, it's sometimes spelled "Lolida" as well. And that's not an effort to avoid the word itself... it's a spelling mistake. Gah! Whatever. So, in an effort to avoid any actual plot, we have a wraparound setup, with a lady named, originally, Lolita (Jacqueline Lovell), who is on the run in a futuristic dimension because she has some "stories" (blank CDs that she's holding in her hands in such a way that they'd be scratched and ruined if they actually were to be played), and people want these stories, apparently.

And, despite prosecution if caught, she then proceeds to play us some of the stories. Which are all basically small bytes of soft porn. Not exactly "stories", to speak of.

The third - and final - of these stories is an odd one without much real purpose to it. A man goes into a bar...

[snip three hours of ILB attempting to think of a joke that begins with "a man goes into a bar" that isn't cringeworthy - note: he failed in this mission]

...and he has the necessary fling with a waitress (Skylar Nicholas) in one of the bathrooms. This scene I remembered as being good, but it isn't actually as hot as my twisted memory said it was! Anyway, that's not the scene. Exactly like that bathroom out of Frequently Asked Questions About Time Travel, only a bit lamer, after exiting the room, this man finds himself catapulted back a few decades, emerging in a 1950s diner, where a couple - one of whom, in a massive leap of imagination, is a waitress - make love in one of the booths. And that's the scene. This man watches... and that's about it.

So, yes, it's a bit of a cop-out. St. Clair and Briganti both play characters with no development whatsoever. Their task is to have sex. And how do they do? Well...

The first thing to talk about is the music. It's odd. It's not bad, but it's not great, either. It's also unusual. It starts off as the typical synthy strains of soft porn music, but as it goes along, it kind of segues in a female vocalist singing a rather incongruous "ooh-aah" over and over again, like a very slow reaction to fireworks, with odd plinky piano sounds. Mind you, it's quite good piano work. It's just loud, so you can't really avoid it. Mind you, I don't like love scenes without music, so no real complaints there.

Costuming is fine too. Although the screenshot I've chosen doesn't actually, erm, show it, their costumes are okay - particularly that of St. Clair's character, Jolene. It's a '50s-style dress, which is pretty authentic, if a bit kitsch, and the headband is a nice touch. Also, as a point of extra note, I really, REALLY like the way Jolene keeps her glasses on all the way through the scene. Really really. It adds something. Billy Ray (Briganti's character) is just wearing standard stuff, but he takes it off pretty quickly.

And the sex is good. They switch positions a bit, which is quite impressive, when you consider it's only a diner booth; each position happens in a different state of undress. Jolene is half-undressed when they use doggy style; the brief shot of missionary happens while she still has her shoes and socks on (which is also hot), and the final - longest - shot is done in the sitting position (see the screenshot), with short playful bumps of movement. At the very end, Jolene grins and both lie back on the bench, Billy Ray on his back and Jolene still in the same position, lying back on top of him. It's a very nice image.

I think there are some more scenes in this story as the characters leap through time, including some involving cavemen who look a bit more like Fraggles than anything else, but that's not particularly important.

So what's good about this scene? Well, I think it's Taylor St. Clair. I've seen a lot of her stuff and I've always found her scenes a bit variable, but I like this one. I think the difference here is that she's playing a cute girl, as opposed to her usual "vixen"-style character, and I like that. It shows versatility, and for the '50s setting, that kinda works. I'm not overly convinced by Briganti, as Billy Ray (I would have preferred him starting out dressed like Eugene from Grease), but I guess he does what he's there for well enough to not cause too much of a distraction. And you see his bum, which is well-toned. Not that that's my thing, but it is a bit more obvious than some bums you get in softcore.

And the glasses. Throughout it all, she keeps 'em on. That really does count for something.

E-Male

So, yes. At the CCK social last night, several people were handing out business cards - Maxine's linked her webcomic, Lola's had her e-mail address and so on - and so I thought it would be a wheeze to make my own cards, you know, to deal with the inevitable "why haven't you read my blog yet?" questions. To be honest, I started visualising it as soon as I came up with the idea... and then paused.

My e-mail address would have to be on the cards.

Correct me if I'm wrong (because I never am, and therefore you'll never have to), but if you saw "tim2timmers@yahoo.co.uk" on a card, you'd think I was a n00b, wouldn't you? For a start, it's not even my name. It's a lame address with a number in it, and - above all - it's a Yahoo! address. The cardinal sin. So I finally took the plunge, cut my losses and got myself one of these:

innocentlb [dot] blog [at] gmail [dot] com

It's a damn shame that "innocentlb" wasn't available, necessitating the .blog at the end - I wonder which git nicked it, stopping me aligning it with my Twitter and Formspring usernames? Still, it's pretty enough, and it's much better than my old e-mail address. And yes, it works on MSN too. And I'll close my Yahoo! account after a couple of weeks so no spam gets forwarded on.

Oh, and you can add me on MSN if you want, although if you're reading this, I've probably already added you. Try, though. I'm fun to talk to and I have a new address.

I feel so wonderful and just a little bit more geeky for this very small act of defection to Google. And hey, it could be worse...

...I could have switched to an msn.com address.

Random dirty sentence

What I want to feel more than anything else... is the muscles in your thighs tightening around my head, holding me in place, as your inside walls smoothly dilate, my tongue slowly parting them as I slide it into your soft folds.

Just wanted to see if I could turn myself on. I think it worked.

Roughing It

We had a conversation at camp about the possibility of masturbating in the toilet tents. Well, when I say "we," I actually mean that Mane's little brother owned up to having done so at one point in the past. It was one of those exhausted-every-other-topic points around the campfire on the final night.



Masturbation at camp is one of those tricky issues. Unless you're going to go tribal and wander off into the forest for a wank against a tree, there are very few places you can actually do so. If you're going to wank at all. It's your human right to do so, so I don't actually see why not... it's just doing so without anyone finding out that's the trick. That's the main joy of masturbation, right? The fact that it's a secret...? Right...?



Boys of my generation and in my clique sleep in a massive grey/green army tent. We used to sleep two or three to one orange Vango, but it's far easier to erect one mighty beast and leave the orange Vangos for the younger people. As far as I'm aware, masturbation has occurred in that tent once, although it may have been many more times.

I'm only privy to this information on account of the fact that I happened to wake up unseasonably early one day, several camps ago, and noticed one of our number masturbating in his sleeping bag. At least, that's what I think he was doing. He was making the noises and also doing the hand motions, and I can't think of any other activity which involves those things. I didn't make a sound, nor did I continue to look. I closed my eyes again and drifted back off, and I've never mentioned that to anyone - ever - apart from just now.



Part of me thinks, "well, why not?" If you want to masturbate and everyone else in the tent is sleeping, it may seem convenient, as long as you don't mind cum in your sleeping bag (and I probably would, actually). But in many other ways, one may think that it would be more civil - plus, you don't run the risk of five or so other boys waking up and catching you in the act - to go and do so somewhere else. Which brings me back to the toilet tent argument.



Despite the name - and the fact that a chemical toilet is effectively a bucket with a lid, full of Jeyes fluid - toilet tents aren't as unsanitary as they could be. I know some people would baulk at the idea, but on a large campsite with one toilet block - hell, some campsites don't even have toilet blocks - plus the fact that we've had them for years and it's always worked so far - toilet tents are an intrinsic part of our camps, and long may they reign! Simple square tents with enough space for two chemical toilets in each. Plus one with a bin, presumably for that mysterious thing girls do that I'm not allowed to know about. And why not masturbate in there? There isn't much of an odour, if you don't count the inside of a tent and the slight chemical tang of Jeyes fluid. And if you've ever masturbated in any form of toilet - your own or public - there's no reason why you shouldn't in a camp toilet tent. It performs the same basic function, after all.



I, of course, have.



I didn't over the course of the camp I just went on. I thought about it, but I was too preoccupied with Doing Camp to pull a Blackpool 2003. Plus, it's a short camp. I think I may have masturbated during a spring camp before, but usually it's the week-long summer camp that holds the temptation. Mane's brother didn't exactly stipulate when he had masturbated in a toilet tent.



Thankfully (perhaps, depending on how you look at it) none of us took offence to any of this. More thankfully, the subject wasn't pursued any further, and the conversation didn't have an interesting lull in which everybody looked at me (during which I would have said). See, I may take no shame in my actions here... but put me in that situation and I probably would be shy to say anything, after all!

Post-camp-post

Back from camp, as you can probably tell if you follow me on Twitter. Although, even if you don't, the fact that I have access to a computer - as evidenced by the fact that I am typing a blog post - should probably give you the major clue. Ad I said in my previous post, although DFs are randy buggers, my district isn't likely to take part in any of those shenanigans. Children were there for two out of the four days of heady goodness, and even when they weren't, the Kinsfolk who congregated around the fire at night (and the three DFs we had with us) indulged in our usual tendency of keeping our hands to ourselves.

We were visited on the last night by two DFs from another district who brought with them tales of their camps. Oh, and weed. Hairy Friend pounced on them immediately, as he was raring for a political discussion and the presence of another anarchist excited him (plus, they had weed), but we all got to have conversationds with these fun, new people. I was relatively unfazed by their rather blasé attitude to life, as I've been to DF Kamp, although - as one of my district said - "you have people in relationships in your group? that's weird!"

Which is true. Robinson, Hairy Friend, Mane, Mane's sister, Hairy Friend's sister, one of our female DFs, girl-I-used-to-have-a-crush-on, and one of our members who I haven't thought of a name for yet (but is a BBW, so I'll call her WoodieBBW) all have significant others who are outside of Woodcraft. The very few insular relationships that have happened within our district (most of which involving the same person) have all ended very badly indeed. So we stay shy of them.

Our district is, however, getting steadily more sexualised. It's not becoming noticeable, as such, but the young raver running, though the rain, from our boys' huge army tent to the woodshed that we built and back again, wearing nothing but a hat, is certainly a first. (When Mane's younger brother arrived, he repeated the spectacle... but removed the hat.) I don't think any actual sex is going to be happening, but that'd be a bit weird anyway. It's an open enough subject to discuss the length of various cocks, circumsicion with teeth and how good my various female sex partners have been at blowjobs, in order of skill. And naked raver streaking. And to be honest, I'm happy with that.

Lack of sex at district camp has never been a worry, but it dawned on me that this is the first time I've been to camp for a while, and that last time, I had a girlfriend. A sizeable amount of last camp was spent finding ways to communicate with TD. My 'phone was available, but it wasn't always on, and a few texts about stuff were all we had to go on. I do, however, distinctly remember buying pencils and paper, and sitting on a windy beach writing a lengthy letter to her, detailing the goings-on at camp. Not that I can remember what the letter said, but I remember writing it. I remember it being two pages long. And I most distinctly remember getting up super-early to hitch a list to civilisation with a leader, while he collected supplies from a supermarket, so I could buy a stamp and send it.

This time was different - very much so. Hello to my friends on Twitter (yes, particularly you, @notCatharine) who said hi to me when I was available via the magic of the BlackBerry. But there was nobody in particular I was totally missing. I've got lots of friends, but all my best friends were there. Last time I went to camp, TD came to visit me straight away. She was here less than an hour after I arrived home. This time, there wasn't really much to come back to - well, this blog, yes. But in terms of romance and/or sexuality, it was a very different beast.

Although I didn't masturbate at all while I was there. I did last night. It was huge.

But I guess that's a different post entirely...

Kelly Andrews

Babe Name:	Kelly Andrews
Profession:	Supermodel
Official Site:	The Official Kelly Andrews Website
Ethnicity:	Caucasian
Country of Origin:	United Kingdom
Province / State:	England
Place of Birth:	The Wirral, Liverpool
Date of Birth:	January 17, 1990 (21 years old)
Eye Color:	Hazel
Hair Color:	Brown
Height:	170 cm - 5 feet and 7 inches
Weight:	59 kg - 130 lbs
Measurements:	30GG-26-34
Fake Boobs:	No
Career Status:	Active
Career Start And End	Unknown - Present
Shoe Size:	7 (U.S. & Canada Women Size) ?
Tattoos:	None
Piercings:	None
Social Network Links:	Myspace