Wednesday, 23 May 2018

Help! It's the Hair Bare Bunch!

The other day, while feeling me up, my girlfriend noticed something unusual on my crotch. Just to the right of my scrotum, and encroaching on my personal space, was a small, incongruous growth. I hadn't noticed it before, because it had been secreting itself beneath my thicket of hair.

I generally take good care of my pubic hair. It's not like I style it, but I do shampoo, condition, and even blow-dry it if I have the urge to. I occasionally trim it if it gets too wild (getting a hair caught under the foreskin isn't fun), but most of the time, it's a jungle out there! - albeit a clean one.

In any case, it was quickly ascertained that the uninvited intruder was a spot - in an very inappropriate place, perhaps, but a spot nonetheless. Although it doesn't hurt when I wank - which is a relief - it does rub against my pants, and sometimes it throbs with discomfort. I needed, I decided, to take a shower, and pay particular attention to this area. Shower gel, rinse, repeat... the whole caboodle. The problem remained, however, that my Amazonian rainforest got in the way...

So, for the first time in my life, I shaved my snatch.

Having no comparison, I don't think I did it particularly well - I used my electric beard trimmer and missed a few bits - but the main objective was well achieved. I didn't have any hair left to speak of (apart from on my balls; what is this, Brüno?), and when jumping in the shower, I found I was able to apply a thick layer of foam to the skin there - and the groin, the inside thighs, and balls as well - very satisfying!

I have been informed, by female companions (and, if memory serves correctly, 47 too - although that may just be conjecture...), that a shaven pubis itches terribly when the hair begins to grow back. Though I have yet to experience this, I have decided that I am prepared for a slight tingle if it will facilitate blasting a rogue pustule with tea tree oil or the like. Plus, y'know, new experience. What's a sex blogger to do, if not write about this sort of thing?

Oh, and the aforementioned girlfriend thinks it's hilarious.

Sunday, 20 May 2018

The Fear

It's two o'clock in the morning, and I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor of my gran's lounge watching softcore porn on her cable TV.

I'm not meant to be staying up this late watching soft porn. I'm not meant to be watching soft porn at all, of course - I tell my parents I spend a lot of time watching The Box, which realistically I do as well. Viva Forever always makes me cry, and as far as I'm aware, "releases" me from my thrall and send me to bed in tears. I'd much rather stick with the softcore stuff, and only really flick over to The Box when I get bored.

It's 2 am, and I'm considering going to bed. I'm bored with Janeycam by this point, which is the only thing that's on. The problem becomes, now, exactly how to get back upstairs before my parents, and/or my gran, realise that I'm not where I'm meant to be; it's been my usual practice to sneak upstairs and into bed, but that's usually happened at about 10:30 or 11pm, and is probably passable when one considers I could have gone downstairs for a drink of water. The small hours - even if it is a school night - may not be a time which doesn't arouse any suspicion.

I hear my mum cough from upstairs and immediately freeze. I've been spending the past year or so in  state of constant paranoia relating to my parents - watching soft porn makes me hard, but it also makes me anxious, and I'm convinced that the most sensitive part of me is my ears - to listen for footsteps.

I snap off the TV, jump to my feet and hit the light. The room is bathed in darkness, a soft warm glow emanating through the windows from the street lamp outside. It's then that it occurs to me that this may not be enough; if she were to open the door, she'd find me in the dark, which may be even more confusing. Time to enact my contingency plan.

For I had a contingency plan. My gran had a preference for large squashy armchairs, but because she had to slide across to them from her wheelchair, they always had to be slightly raised on little legs, to facilitate height. There was one in the far corner of the room - furthest from the door - which was my emergency escape. Should I ever be at risk of discovery, I would scamper across the room to the chair, crawl under and secrete myself in the foetal position. I wouldn't be easily seen in the dark, and in any case, the chair wouldn't be in line of sight when the door was opened.

I didn't have a back-up plan ("escape out of the window and somehow get back into the house" was probably beyond my capabilities), but I needed to have something. This, I decided, was the time.

I skip along to the corner and squeeze myself under the chair. It's a tighter fit than I thought it would be. The air is musty. It's a little too warm. I try not to breathe too loudly, but my heart is beating with such strength that I'm sure it can be heard. I hold my position, my ears pricked, paralysed with fear, the giveaway erection now painfully buried in the folds of my belly. I try to think of something to say should I be discovered. I settle with "it's cooler down here", which isn't true. I have no idea what they'll do to me once they find me.

Five minutes later and I realise that there are no footsteps. My mother may have coughed due to her thyroid problem. It probably isn't in their regular practice to check on my bedroom every ten minutes and go hunting for me with a shotgun in case of my absence. At 14, I don't really know.

I pull myself out of the corner with a rustle of fabric which probably creates more noise than that which I'm trying to avoid. Breathlessly, I slink across the room, open the door, and tiptoe all the way down the hall and up the stairs. I make it to my bedroom, close the door, lock it, and breathe a deep sigh of something between relief and shame.

I hear footsteps about ten seconds after this. But here I'm behind a locked door. I don't need an escape plan. I'm where I'm allowed to be.

I'm still scared, though.

Thursday, 17 May 2018

Fullscreen +2

While compiling a list last year, I worked on discovering a way to watch streaming softcore directly from the browser window without having the rest of the host site around it. With the sort of glossy smut I usually watch, I have my DVDs and 20 Disks of Wonder™ stuffed full of individual scenes I wasted my time downloading throughout the years - but now there are sites that host this stuff (á la Pornhub, but less corporately hegemonic); if there is one particular scene I want to see, trawling through my Disks might not be the easiest solution.

It's what the internet is for.

So the other week - at a very inopportune time, too; halfway through work - I was suddenly struck with an urge to watch two specific scenes. Same actress, same film (even the same background music, in fact, that's the sort of thing I notice) - and while they are both on my Disks, exactly where they are remains a perpetual mystery. Nothing to do at work, I skipped out a little early, bussed my way home, and took to my computer...

There remained the problem of finding the scenes - I wasn't going to go down the illegal route of torrenting the entire film (and besides, I was horny, I didn't want to wait!) - but, fortunately, Google delivered the goods. Both scenes available on various video-sharing sites. One of them had even made it onto YouTube - maybe they're more relaxed about boobs now?

So I did my thing. Delved into the page source and pulled out a couple of direct links to the player, scenes up full-screen in browser tabs without ads, popups, or disturbing cartoon porn in the sidebar to distract me.

Softcore, as it were, as nature intended.

The wank, in case you are wondering, was glorious, and satisfying: a slow, protracted session, shaft in hand, foreskin gliding effortlessly back and forth as I mainlined these two scened. Comfortable familiarity. Movement. Camera. Music, Skin. My cock, stiff against my palm, beating out a rhythm in time with the sex on screen. This was something I knew.

Eventually, of course, I came. All over my hand, my stomach, and the floor too. I grabbed a towel to clean up the mess, and then collapsed onto the bed, just for good measure. I didn't even put my trousers back on.

I've had lots of wonderful wanks in my life - this being probably one of the best I can remember - but this one, due to the amount of effort I put into getting the scenes up on screen (sans distractions, adverts, slowdown or lag), will always be noteworthy.

The "technical achievement unlocked" wank, perhaps.

WHAT an achievement.

Saturday, 12 May 2018


Last Friday, I went for a job interview. This isn't a new thing for me, really; it became apparent recently that my current job - soon to be one I'm leaving - isn't doing me any favours. I spent weeks wrangling to get any payment, eventually getting February's salary in mid-April, and although I enjoy the basics of the job, the amount of administrative paperwork that I'm now expected to do - unpaid, of course - could barely be termed tolerable, especially when it's quite clear that at least half of that is completely unnecessary.

Anyway, last Friday I went for an interview. This was a long one - a few hours with a number of applicants. There was a skills test, which I passed - followed by another skills test, which I passed. There was a mid-point cull, which I survived. I ended up on a sofa in the staff room, debating the various merits of multicoloured pens with the remaining applicants - 5 of us, for 4 available positions. In my case, the one I'd applied for had one other surviving competitor, who I had a lot of respect for... but the one who impressed me the most, the youngest, ended up being one of the reasons I wanted the job so much. I think we could be friends.

I left the interview feeling refreshed and relatively buoyant. I didn't even take my business suit off for the rest of the day, and arrived at work that evening still wearing it.

I had a nailbiting weekend, followed by a relatively sedentary Bank Holiday. I was incredibly nervous throughout work on Tuesday, keeping a close eye on my 'phone and becoming increasingly jumpy every time I heard a noise which may have been a call. I'd been promised a response and being made to wait isn't always a good sign. Maybe they're just chasing references, I thought to myself. I went home, set up and went hungry for hours, unable to leave the house because my 'phone was on charge. Sod's law states that the instant I left, they would call. I waited for three hours before taking my 'phone off charge; I had a (very) late lunch; went back home and sat and waited.

They called at five. I got the usual, all-too-familiar response of "x person is slightly better qualified than you". I pushed for feedback; they gave me a bit. Nothing particularly useful, but the one thing they did pick up on is something I'd actually highlighted in the interview. They hung up; I sat there and mourned. I called my parents on my way out to get some more food, and the one thing I did hang onto was that this possibly couldn't get worse.

Halfway through the Eurovision semi-final, the letting agency turned up for a meeting. I was expecting a fairly easy encounter, as all their previous meetings have been relatively relaxed.

Instead I was served an eviction notice. The landlord is unwilling to keep the share house and is going to renovate it into a family home; everyone has two months to pack up their things and get out.

For those of you that are counting, this is the SIXTH time we have been told to move in about as many years. We moved here for exactly the same reason a few months ago; we haven't even finished unpacking yet. The lesson I'm taling from this is that a succession of greedy landlords have very little pity for millennials who need somewhere, if not affordable, at least stable.

I went to sleep that night feeling doomed. I didn't have the job that I so desired. I was being evicted - again. Flat prices, which my girlfriend started looking at, are ruinous, and the other job I've been offered (which might afford us some leeway in the amount of rent we can pay) are being increasingly difficult insofar as paperwork is concerned. I don't even have a start date for that.

Gateway to hell creaks wide open and there's nothing I can do to stop the fall.

Monday, 7 May 2018


For a few weeks now, I've been resisting wading into the "incels" debate, because I've felt like I have nothing to say about it. I'd leave commenting to the more woke people and try not to make an arse about of myself reflecting on something I know very little about. But then, I tweeted about this earlier today, and it's something that could be explored further using a blog post.

So here we go.

It's no secret that I was - if you want to put it this way - "involuntarily celibate" for years. I'd been sexually active for a year and a half with my first girlfriend, and as far as I was aware, she was the only person I was ever going to have sex with. This ended, predictably, at the start of my first year at university, when it turned out that I wasn't the only person she was having sex with; I worked this out weeks before she told me, and didn't do anything (other than crying) about it. She ended the relationship and I had a miserable Christmas that ended up with me in the A&E of a mental health ward.

I suddenly found myself single, cast adrift at a university where everyone knew me as having a girlfriend, and not attractive enough to even consider sleeping with. Fate and Money got me, briefly, to Africa to visit my millionaire friend who was feeling sorry for me. I did have sex with her, actually, but I'll still maintain it was Rebecca telling me to that was the catalyst (also, Louise didn't tend to wear many clothes, which helped). For the next three years, though, there was nothing - I couldn't get a girlfriend, had no idea how to initiate casual sex, and dating sites and hookup apps were still unheard of back then. There's only so much soliciting to be done with a green-LCD Nokia.

It wasn't until the late December after I'd finished my first degree - seven months out and in temporary employment that I disliked - that I had sex again (this time with Alicia, also a friend who I met online), and was relieved to find that I still knew how to do it, and according to her, to do it well. A year later, I realised that in order to have a healthier, more fulfilling sex life I would have to be more open about my sexuality, which led to me to starting up this blog. And that's why you're reading this now.

As of this moment, I'm lucky enough to be grateful for all eight people I've had sex with - nine if you count gratification without intercourse. Twelve if you count kisses, which I don't. But, while I still consider myself fortunate insofar as having had... any sex at all, really... I don't think I've ever, ever, ever thought of myself as being entitled to any sex. And most definitely not because of my gender.

And that's why I haven't been talking about incels. The whole concept confuses me.

I didn't particularly enjoy being single and I didn't really enjoy not having sex. But - specifically while away from home at university first time around - I used the time to explore myself sexually. I masturbated a lot like a dirty scamp, but I also got used to my body, developing an understanding of what I did and didn't like. I listened to what my brain was telling me and attuned myself to what stimuli I appreciated, and what I didn't. I started buying stuff off Amazon and eBay which I knew I'd like, and discovered more along the way. By the time I had sex with Alicia, I was comfortable enough with my sexual identity.

Don't know about you, but I count that as a valuable way to spend three years of involuntary celibacy.

Then there's the idea of sex being a commodity to be shared equally between the populace. This is also an idea that confuses me, as I've always seen sex as an act between one, two or more people. For some people, though, sex is also their livelihood, and that also confuses me, because if you are so desperate for sex, why not visit a sex worker? I appreciate the rates can be expensive, and it's not always obvious to know where to find one, but with the internet at your disposal, it's really not hard.

And then there's the fact that this whole thing is incredibly gender binary, and entirely heteronormative. Where do LGBTQIA+ people come into this, or do they just not exist? I understand that some people are homophobic, but complete erasure? Is that even a thing?

And then there's the idea that, if I have it right, some people have suggested - actually demanding some sort of government-supported scheme to have women (it's only women; there's no provision here for single straight girls who are also looking for sex) 'share' the sex that apparently they have the secret codes to across the incel male community. That sounds like a dystopia, or maybe one of those parody Twitter accounts. Surely... surely... it's not a real idea? Surely?

And this is why I haven't been talking about incels. I've been in that situation myself and I still don't understand it. The way I see it is that, if you are a single person who is not having sex, you have several options:

(i) come to terms with your sexual identity, and enjoy yourself
(ii) visit a sex worker
(iii) join a dating site, adult dating site, or hookup app
(iv) leave an ad on Craigslist; I know their personals section has gone, but there are still plenty of ways to get a connection there if you want
(v) don't be a dick


(vi) just wait; something will happen eventually

And, put like that, it just seems so mind-bogglingly simple. That's what sex is itself - it doesn't need to be complicated. Sure, if you're a very angry, horny, rich white cisgender heterosexual male, then you may have been told that sex is a commodity to which you have a right. But anyone with more than a single brain cell should know otherwise, almost instinctively! Why is this so hard to grasp?

But then I suppose I have answered my own question. I've just written approximately 1,100 words about this topic and it's incredibly unlikely to change anything.

I still don't understand, and I suppose I never will.

Monday, 30 April 2018

The Numinous

It took a long time for the coach to pull into Chessington World of Adventures. Neither Einstein nor I were particularly keen on riding Rameses' Revenge, although we did end up going on SeaStorm and getting very wet in the tea-tree-infused Professor Burp's Bubbleworks, so we had a good time. Presumably. I only really remember Lightsinthesky assuring us that we had missed out by not going on Rameses', and experiencing the sensation of awe.

You see, I had been on the coach for a long time - and, what's more, it had encountered serious traffic before it even managed to get out of North London. It was mid-morning by the time we arrived, and me being me, I had made sure to get up incredibly early in order to get to school on time. I'd assumed everyone else would have, too, but I was probably the first one there. (I still didn't have much of a choice insofar as coach seating was allocated, though; nobody wanted to sit next to me and I ended up next to a boy from my class who kept shouting "FUCK OFF!" at me until a teacher forced him to relent.)

I was practically asleep when the coach pulled into the car park. The radio had been playing a gradually scratchier and mote static-infused broadcast of Heart 106.2 throughout the journey, a mix of pop I both knew and didn't having been the only company I had apart from the "fuck off" boy and the rowdy boys from my Maths class who kept making the "wanker" sign at lorry drivers. I'd been entertaining myself with increasingly intense sexual fantasies throughout the hours, and as the crackle of the radio steadied into a fairly clear Elton John song, I found myself shaken half-awake by the thunderous boom of everyone else singing along.

"And I can't explain... but it's something about the way you look tonight..." 

I lifted my head and opened my bleary eyes as my erection melted away into something more manageable.

At that very moment, the second coach pulled in. I was scanning the windows for any sign of Einstein, Lightsinthesky or any of the other miscreants I tended to spend my time with. I missed them... but my eyes alighted upon Zebra, who was sitting in pretty much the same seat as me, next to a window; she was wearing her usual grey sweater, her hair loose, and a dazzling smile. I blinked a few times, mainly to see if all the stars around her were fictional or not. I'm still not sure.

I sat there dazzled, as the music swelled and the sun burst from behind a cloud; I stared, unashamedly, at the girl I wanted. And for a second, I sat stuck dumb, feeling like I could ascend into the clouds at all these sensations of complete beauty.

I had the biggest grin on my face as I hovered out of the coach. I had touched the divine, skirted the plane of the ecliptic, and in that moment, I was untouchable. Being told to fuck off had nothing on me.

Thursday, 26 April 2018


For a short while, inspired by the pioneering student communication methods at 47's university, I ran an IRC chatroom for anyone at mine. It's fair to say, perhaps, that it wasn't a roaring success, but it did last for a while; other students came and went, but the only other regular chatter was a female computer science student who I'd never met. We got on pretty well; she would idle in the room while I was at band practice. I would while she was sleeping.

One lazy afternoon, I was sitting on my bed reading, and heard an unfamiliar ping! from my computer. Heading over to it, I failed to see anything untoward. I snapped open mIRC, just to check, and there was someone in the room: someone I didn't recognise.

Of course, this was what I wanted. This was a room by students for students; what limited promotion I had done (limited, mostly, to LiveJournal - the student newspaper said they'd feature it, but didn't) was never going to draw in a lot of students, but since the room was free, and students get bored, I was expecting at least some traffic.

I tried to think of something witty and erudite to say to this unknown person.

"Hello," I decided upon.

She responded immediately with her entire life story. She was from the north; she had a boyfriend; she was studying some sort of land-based science that involved dissecting a horse's leg at one point. I'd barely caught up before she launched into asking me absolutely everything about myself. I responded in kind, albeit with slightly less abject enthusiasm: who I was, where I was from, what I was studying. It also came up that I was single, which by that point should've been no surprise.

"I've got a friend who'll go out with you," she typed. "She's hot and she's looking for a boyfriend."
"That's very kind of you," I replied diplomatically, "but wouldn't I have to talk to her before taking such a big step?"

"How many piercings do you have?" she pressed, undeterred.
"I don't have any piercings," I typed back.
"What about tattoos?"
"None of them, either."
"But you said you liked alternative music!" she gasped.

I'm still not sure why she equated my love of alternative music with looking like Grimm out of Neri, but nevertheless, she would not let it go. Subsequent conversations - both in the room and via MSN, for she added me - usually ended up with her mysterious friend, who was apparently the ideal match for me, being present - only for her to vanish when I seemed to be about up for talking with her.

Yeah, I know what that sounds like, too.

Whatever the reason, I kept talking to this girl, for (presumptuous assumptions notwithstanding) she was a fascinating person. She was cheerful - possibly a little too much; her bright pink website contained the lyrics to the "they're gonna taste great" Frosties advert, complete with u/you substitution - and a fellow student, at the same university, who knew how to use a chatroom, so we at least had something in common. She was even the first person to mention Facebook to me, trendsetter that she was.

"I think I know," she said one day completely without preamble, "why you're not interested in my friend."
I blinked.
"I think... you have a crush on ME!!!"
"What? But... but..." I stammered. (NB. I actually typed out the ellipses.) "But I've never met you! I don't even know what you look like!"
"That doesn't matter! We've talked enough times!"
"But you've got a boyfriend!"
"What? No I haven't! I broke up with him months ago!" she replied, inadvertently revealing her failure to update the "Love Status: Long Term Boyfriend" thingy she had on her website. "So you can fancy me if you want."

But I didn't want to fancy her. I wasn't interested - she wasn't my type. And besides, despite having read her MySpace profile a few times, she was still a bit of an unknown quantity. All I really knew was that she had a mythical friend who may or may not have been into alternative music... and that she liked the Frosties advert.

True to form, her last conversation with me ended with a massive non-sequitur as well.
"Hi there. How are you doing?"
"I'm cutting up a dead horse tomorrow!"

And she never signed onto MSN, or entered that chatroom, again. Ever.

I never did get a date with her friend.

Saturday, 21 April 2018

Review: Pocket Pulse by Hot Octopuss

One defining characteristic of the sex toy reviews I've done in the past is the fact that I've been reviewing the toys with the specific aim of reviewing the toys - that is to say, doing so in 'test conditions'. A lot of the toys I've tested are quite bulky and the only real way to utilitise them is to lie on your back on your bed and manipulate the toy from above. This isn't how I masturbate - I tend to do so, and have always done, on my computer chair in front of the computer, with soft porn on or erotic fiction (or just using my imagination with the chair for support). 

My oversized belly and flabby thighs (and the fact that my penis is very small when flaccid) are quite restrictive to using something large, like the PULSE, while masturbating, which may be a problem. It's refreshing, then, that the Pocket Pulse is sleek and lightweight, and causes no such problems. I was quite keen to test this one, and even more so when I realised I could incorporate it into my usual masturbation routine. You know, for science.

I charged the Pocket Pulse last night. It takes a few hours - for one hour of full operation - but that's about standard, considering how powerful this thing is (and how small). No problems there (although it took me a few minutes to find where the port for the power line is, considering that everything is black!). This afternoon, I gave it a go, and I also decided - in my infinite wisdom - to follow the instructions to the letter, just to make sure I wasn't missing anything out.

The Pocket Pulse comes with a 'recommendation' - although, from what I've heard, it's more of a necessity - to slip your penis through while still flaccid. I can see why this is - it's a small toy and the hole is designed to fit smugly around your cock while erect; I don't think you could do so with this (like you can with the original PULSE). This I did. It also instructs you to use plenty of lube before doing so. I don't often use lube when I wank - I like the friction and I never really considered it - but I did this too, using a whole sachet of water-based JO before starting.

I also made sure I had my usual weapons equipped - tissues on standby, two favourite sex scenes loaded and ready to play. I even had headphones in, so I could play them on full volume and possibly drown out any sound the Pocket Pulse might have made, which may have distracted me.

I was ready.

The product. Doubles as something you hang your towels on.

The Pocket Pulse, like its bigger predecessor, is a male vibrator with the PulsePlate incorporated - providing oscillations rather than a shuddering buzz. It has a number of intensities you can set it to (the manual claims both five and nine on successive pages; judging by my test I'm going to assume five), and pleasingly for the tech geeks, this variant comes with a remote control that you can use to up or down the setting (although you have to turn it on, or off, at the source).

I started with the lowest setting, lubed up and flaccid while in the toy, porn playing and headphones on. The most difficult thing, initially, was getting hard - I usually stroke my shaft to induce erection, how am I meant to do that when most of it is inaccessible? I managed, after a couple of minutes, to engender a fairly healthy erection through careful manipulation of what there was available (and the porn helped); with a fully erect penis, there was a lot more to play with.

The remote. Sure to please fans of both Plusle and Minun.

At this point, I definitely felt like I could orgasm, but the Pocket Pulse wasn't doing much to help, so I switched things up a bit - I used the remote to cycle through the settings (deciding upon the highest), slid the toy to the tip of my penis so the PulsePlate was pressing against my frenulum, and pressed my penis down against it with my thumb, while gently sliding it back and forth like I would be using my hand (although I had to do this with my left hand, since my right hand was busy holding my cock down).

Pleasant sensation though this was, it wasn't really doing much to help. It felt like a slightly warm tingle (the toy heats up while in use), and although this wasn't unpleasant (and it didn't hurt), it wasn't really doing much for me. I was enjoying myself, but I'm fairly sure this was more due to the strokes of my hand than anything the Pocket Pulse was doing; if I'd removed the toy and just done the same motions with my hand on my foreskin, then it would have been very similar.

Frustratingly, as well, I wasn't getting to orgasm - I was very nearly there, and was on the edge a couple of times. It was like there was a barrier there stopping me from that final push - very annoying!

In the end, predictably, I stopped using it and finished myself off manually. By this time, my hand was numb from holding this buzzing toy for so long, and my penis was both warm and covered with a sticky residue (presumably what's left of the lube after the heat from the Pocket Pulse evaporated it). But I came fairly quickly after that.

So how do I rate this? It's most certainly not a bad product, and I most definitely preferred it over the original PULSE. It didn't make me come, but then that's not really a surprise, is it? If I weigh up the pros and cons, it may help:

The Good:
- Sleek, slender and lightweight design, so can be used while sitting
- Nice little remote for you to fiddle with
- Good box design; good-looking product; makes no pretentions
- Feels good in the hand; feels good on the penis
- Easy to manipulate

The Bad:
- Range of oscillations doesn't really do much for me
- Still quite loud, although quieter than the QUEEN/BEE
- Heats up while in use, drying lube quickly leaving a sticky residue
- Makes your hand go numb
- It's not hands-free, despite what the literature claims - you need to hold it in place

Oh, and I really, really, REALLY dislike the term "guybrator". It's an absolutely appalling pun, and terribly gendered. They appear to have trademarked it, as well... which is even worse!

I genuinely can't give this a totally negative review, though. The original PULSE had its issues (although I know a lot of people loved it) and this - maybe just because of its small size and more specific instructions - genuinely appears to have addressed those concerns. And it certainly looks gorgeous, but then, all of Hot Octopuss' products do.

So it may be worth a try, specifically if you liked any of the previous PULSE products and liked them, if your penis is sensitive enough to respond to the PulsePlate, or you want a small toy to carry in your hand luggage.

I can't get away from the fact that it didn't make me orgasm, though - and that I was so close was incredibly disappointing. For that, I'm sorry. I can't deny that, from my point of view, it didn't work.

 Pocket Pulse Remote by Hot Octopuss, kindly provided by the manufacturers. Find out more from their site, where you can also buy it for £69 (without the remote) or £75 (with it).

Many thanks to Hot Octopuss for not garrotting me with a spoon for using their graphics.

Wednesday, 18 April 2018

List of unusual places ILB has masturbated

This post is entirely Emmeline's fault, inspired solely by this post. With thanks to my dickbrain and its strange capacity for memory.

I have masturbated in some weird places. I would imagine that most of us have, and now that I think about it, a lot of the places I've masturbated have a common theme: they are available, they are private, they have been there when I have been either horny, bored, or (in all honesty) both. Skipping past the more obvious places - in my bed, in my computer chair, in the bathroom, etc. - I've ploughed through the depths of my mental Rolodex and some up with a few of the most bizarre.

01. In a tent.

Yeah, this one shouldn't really come as a surprise. What may come as a surprise is the amount of different tents I've done it in. My one-man all-weather tent (in which I've also had sex); the standard triangular orange Vango; a lightless green army tent that sleeps twelve; a bell tent; a mess tent; and a standing toilet tent, complete with removable chemical toilet. One camp, sexually confused and attracted to one particular young lady with us, I masturbated in the toilet tent about once every day for the week. It was genuinely the only place to do so.

02. In my sleeping bag.

On balance, not the best idea, especially when you consider that you may end up sharing your sleeping bag with the resulting jizz. I've done this a few times, including once on 47's bedroom floor while he was asleep, but I always stoppd short of orgasm, mostly for fear of whatever happened next.

03. In a public toilet in Bournemouth, while waiting to go and collect my girlfriend.

I think I may have written about this, but it bears repeating. I was in Bournemouth with Woodcraft. Rebecca was staying not too far away, in Ringwood, and got a train down to see me for the day. I had made place to leave the beach to go and get her, but was feeling really horny. Intentionally, I left the beach early, walked into the nearest public toilet I could find, and brought myself to orgasm in one of the cubicles while standing up.

04. In my girlfriend's bedroom.

This doesn't seem like a strange place to do so, but the situation was. I was in Oxford. The Seamstress was away for a few days at a conference, and I had nothing to do in London, so I stayed in her bedroom for two days, ostensibly working on an essay I was doing for university (with a pleasant and familiar environment, full of books to read, a desk, two pages of notes and regular cups of tea from her mum, I had a good two days, and completed the essay with relative ease). I had my cranky old laptop with me, not wanting to risk my netbook by carrying it on the Tube; I wanted to masturbate, but didn't have any porn to hand.
My imagination was shot, so I ploughed through my years-old laptop in order to find something to give me a kickstart. I found one picture, and masturbated to that. The instant I finished up, and had cleaned up, the Seamstress' mother came in to offer me another cup of tea. I had a good couple of days.

05. In a hospital.

This is quite recent, actually. Last year, I was an inpatient for a night after complaining of chest pain. Because I have a family history of heart problems (my grandad died of a heart attack), and I have a borderline ECG with slightly high ST elevation, severe chest pain almost invariably lands me in A&E. This was the first time I was admitted, just in order to keep me under observation.
I had Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows with me, so I had something to read; I also asked for a sandwich, because I was feeling hungry. Fortunately for my libido, they had also put me in a private room. I adjusted my bed, lay back with the door closed, and made myself forget all about being in pain.

06. Various toilets in non-public facilities.

Including, but not limited to: a bandroom, while the rest of the band were having their coffee break and only just managing to return to my station before we started playing again; my church after the service, while my grandparents (who usually drive me home) were serving coffee; my cousin's bedroom, while we were housesitting for them and I had my netbook precariously positioned on her bedside table; everywhere I've ever worked (with one exception: one of the places I work now); the showers at the local leisure centre; in a youth hostel; the Adelphi Building at Salford University; Pizza Hut; another Pizza Hut. Possibly also in Chiquito - I forget.

07. In my university's union bar.

I'd only really been at university for about eight hours. Lectures weren't due to start until the following week. The corridor in student hall I was staying in was yet to be full. I had no idea what freshers' week was, thinking it had something do to with sex. I was confused by the tiny size of the room I'd been given and was trying my best to prioritise the space.
In the evening there was a free club night in the union bar. I walked down there, following the steady stream of fellow first-years who were in various states of inebriation. I didn't pull, but of course I was never going to, I was never confident or attractive enough. However, I also realised halfway through the thudding, sweaty mess that I hadn't yet had a wank while being there. I'd only really started doing so about a year or so beforehand, and was looking forward to wanking without having to listen for footsteps... so I ducked into the bathroom and had my first orgasm of living independently while listening to drunk people throw up.

08. In the lounge at my parents' house, absent-mindedly, while drinking tea with my girlfriend and watching 8 out of 10 Cats does Countdown on More 4.

I didn't come.

Sunday, 15 April 2018

Soft Porn Sunday: Kim Dawson & Timothy Stempien

Okay, I'll admit it. I've only ever actually seen this episode once. It was a long time ago, as well, and I'm not even sure I remember the plot correctly.

Great start there. Well done, ILB.

Anyway, there's an episode summary somewhere online, and after a bit of digging, it turns out my memory isn't that sketchy at all. I wasn't aware, however, that this scene is from the first episode of Bedtime Stories - Series 1, Episode 1 - but I do remember once catching about 30 seconds of it while sitting in 47's parents' house. Because that's how I roll.*

(*It was completely by accident.)

Appearance: Bedtime Stories, Series 1: "Strangers" (2000)
Characters: Belle & David

Bedtime Stories, like Passion Cove, et al., has an overarching theme with a specific setting. There's a different main character every episode - usually a female one - looking for sexual satisfaction in a safe environment. Belle (played by Kim Dawson, credited throughout as "Kim Sill", confusingly) is a slightly older lady who owns a... hotel? brothel? big house? It's never quite explained, nor is it explained how she managed to rustle up some random attractive men who appear to really, really, really like cunnilingus. Every single episode has at least one scene which features a lady getting licked to orgasm.

Maybe I should apply.

This episode's female main character is Danielle (Susan Featherly), who is bored with her husband
"Butterfly out in the sun..."
James (Brad Bartram). She goes to stay at Belle's whatever; Belle then introduces her to two men: Jaques (Brad Bartram again), who isn't James in disguise honest guv, and David (Timothy Stempien). They spend an annoyingly long amount of time wearing masks, ostensibly to make it more fun, although the real plot point is to hammer home the fact that Danielle can't identify her husband by his voice and body shape, and needs to see his face in order to correctly know who he is.

Or something. I wasn't paying attention.

Anyway, so Belle has sex with David at one point, and that's what I'm focusing on.

Bedtime Stories' sex scenes are well-shot, but rather formulaic. This one starts off with both Belle and David wearing their masks, which is more of an attempt to make it "unusual", I guess; this doesn't, however, change anything in the first thirty seconds, which is mostly build-up - you know the sort: occasional kisses, disrobing (Kim Dawson's top is off within the first ten), occasional breathy moans which make it sound sexier (presumably), before we get the customary Bedtime Stories cunnilingus at 00:27.

Because this is totally what oral sex looks like.

By which time David has taken his mask off. Unless he's actually using the long nose to penetrate her, which I doubt. For the rest of the scene, the mask has completely vanished. It's not too important, but they completely forgot about it. Mind you, if it was me, I wouldn't put it back on, either. It'd be like having sex with Mr Punch.

The oral sex here takes place with Belle perched on the edge of the bed, legs splayed, and David kneeling on the floor, head between her thighs. This may well be the optimum position, actually; from my experience, that angle allows for greater exploration of the labia, deeper penetration from the tongue, clitoral stimulation and I'm sorry, I've just come. Oh, and your neck hurts less. In any case, Belle is clearly enjoying herself. Kim Dawson is making some noises - loud one - and tipping her head (you can see anything else due to mask-related shenanigans), and the music has done a bit of a crescendo, so clearly she's meant to be having a good time.

At aboit 00:57, she's kicking her legs about randomly, which may be signifying an orgasm, although to me it calls to mind Luigi's jump in Super Mario Bros. 2, which gives you an indication of where my priorities are.

This being Bedtime Stories, the oral sex goes on for a while, and it's only until a minute has passed
Behind The Candelabra
that we get a mix to another shot. Belle is riding David here, although it's an odd variant on the cowgirl position; she is leaning forwards, hanging her boobs over him (presumably so he can look at them and forget that he can't see her fucking face), but it's not quite close enough to be reverse missionary. It's just some weird hybrid of the two. We get this from a couple of angles, actually - there are eve some close-ups of Belle's tits and David making some weird gurning facial expressions - and Kim Dawson lets out some more yelps of pain pleasure, before we mix to yet another shot.

I should mention the music here. Bedtime Stories does a specific line in music. Some of the scenes use one specific electric-guitar-driven tune which I could swear I've heard in more than one scene, even from different producers. Some others use a weird, soft, synthy thing which I think is meant to be romantic. This scene is using... well, kind of both. I don't hear any electric guitars, but there's somebody pratting about with drums in the background and a repeated four-note melody. This comes in at random intervals and is played at different keys, but it's the same thing, essentially. It builds up a little, but doesn't really sync with the scene, although there's a nice bit that's reminiscent of Donkey Kong Country 2: Diddy's Kong Quest.

God, I notice the stupidest details.

At 01:43, they have switched to the missionary position and David is thrusting away merrily, although Kim still hasn't taken off her mask(!). There's nothing particularly special here - in fact, it's filmed from far away so we can also look at all the pretty décor - but this is probably my favourite part of the scene. It's got the most movement, it looks the most genuine, and it gives Stempien something to do except just lie there and think of money. We even see his face at one point, complete with floppy hair and odd line in his chin.

An absolute highlight, however, is the brief silhouette we see on the wall. It's not easy to screencap,
White shadow.
but we get a shadow of Belle's legs in the air (including shoes - she's still wearing her shoes), bouncing back and forth... the camera then pans across to the sex. It may not add much, but it's a nice touch, and it's a refreshing change from just body on body from different angles!

There isn't anything more to add. There's some more sex, and it's pretty hot. Kim Dawson is amazing, and Timothy Stempien is trying his best. If you're into this sort of thing, it's a good example of a basic lusty sex scene, and it's something that certainly works for me.

The best thing, though, has to be the setting. It's one of the various rooms in Belle's... château?... and the décor is marvellous. The bed itself has a gold headboard; the room is plush and lavishly decorated, with chairs, cushions and pouffes; there are the ubiquitous soft porn candles everywhere (because of course there are, it's soft porn, you have to have a candle); it all gives off a sense of comfort and luxury. It seems like a very nice place to have sex - even if too nice, maybe it's a little sanitary in a way. But this is Bedtime Stories, so yeah, there we go.

David had to go on top so it didn't ruin his hair.

Overall, this is a pretty good scene, and one I'm pleased to have rediscovered. Kim Dawson is beautiful, so it's a bit of a shame she doesn't take off her mask, but she's delivering a stellar performance. I like Timothy Stempien too - I don't recognise him from anywhere else, but he's doing what he can with a rather limited part. And his body has some curves, so there's somewhere for Dawson to put her hands.

Bedtime Stories is clearly aimed at women, which is a shame to make something so gendered, but that just means that it focuses more on female pleasure, which is by no means a bad thing. It makes a change from the phallocentric close-ups of amateur hardcore, or the sci-fi setting of your average Surrender Cinema production. This may not appeal to everyone - I know a lot of people who would prefer something more extreme. But I like this. This is my bag. And, for what it's worth, this scene has made me orgasm more than once.

Slow clap for this one. ILB is almost satisfied.