[Sex Toy] Rubber Jenny

So a couple of weeks ago, I wrote about how I was growing increasingly tired of masturbation. Then last Friday I received an email from a sex worker. Is that what they’re called? Women who work for sex toy companies? Anyway, Carly works for LoveHoney.co.uk and by way of solution to my problem, she offered me free sex. In a can. Specifically, this one: As you can see, it’s quite odd. For one thing, it has a mouth. Now I know I’ve not seen that many vaginas, but I’m sure even Seymore Butts hasn’t seen one with an infranasal depression, or - it always takes me ages of fruitless head-searching then a quick Google search to remember this word - philtrum. (Hmm. I just spent ten minutes checking Wikipedia’s etymology of the word philtrum against the entry in volume two of The New Shorter Oxford. Interesting. Veeeery interesting. And they say masturbation ruins your vocabulary. Paff.) Anyhow, in the words of the popular song, any hole’s a goal. Now, before I go any further – I think I should just … one moment, please. Right. I have to say, having used the thing twice now, it is really very, very good. Which is to say, it feels excellent wrapped around your engorged Johnson and it does facilitate some splendid and relatively powerful sensations on fruition. I did find it much easier to use, however, when I removed the superskin flesh-sleeve from the can. The reasons for this are twofold. Number one. It’s a bit tight in the can. Out of the can, the superskin flesh-sleeve is able to expand to take your girth. In the can, it’s like trying to fuck a frighteningly robust moth. I think you know what I’m saying. Also, out of the can … … the superskin flesh-sleeve becomes eerily animated, almost lifelike. It flops about in your hand like a dazed rat, freshly shaven, or like the panicking infant of some alien animal species, lost and frightened and helpless.

For the rest of this remarkable and educational review, Stan recommends you go here and purchase a copy of The Little Book of Shame. Not only does it contain the article you're currently reading, it also contains around 50 others, and all for the incredible price of whatever price it happens to be at the moment. You lucky thing you.

Sick Of Self-Love (I'm Waiting For My Vulva)

I need to spice up my self-love life.

There. I’ve said it.

And when I say self-love, I don’t mean cutting myself some slack, thinking positive and giving myself a pat on the back whether or not I deserve it. I mean wanking. Unless of course, I’m being jolly clever and using one as a slightly sticky mirror for the other. Well, I’m not. I’m just talking about wanking.

I’ve fallen into a rut, you see. I just don’t put any effort into the act of making love with myself anymore. You know? I just don’t pleasure myself with the same outlandish vigour and rigour as once I did.

It’s an unpleasant truth but it’s come to pass that in this period of my life, my self-love lacks verve. I do it of course, and relentlessly, but the joy is gone. The sense of urgency is gone. The spontaneity that was at times jazz-like. That’s gone too. All that’s left is a tired, asthmatic glimmer of desire and a dulled sense of weary obligation. I go through the motions: a text-book moribund shuffle, like a dying man rooting through a pile of garbage. There’s no romance. There’s not even any real sense of pleasure. And as for foreplay? Forget about it.

A lot of this is connected to technology, of course, and the proliferation of fat-pipe porn. Erotic images were incredibly scarce when I was young. This meant you had to put a lot more work into your relationship with yourself. It also meant you had to take opportunities as and when they arose. Songs of Praise. Your friend’s mother’s bra and lipstick. Every inappropriate erection was a new, distinctly seedy adventure. These days there’s none of that, and recklessly I have allowed my imagination and impulsivity to become saturated, and desiccated, by porn. As a result, I’ve turned into a lousy self-lover.

And don’t think I haven’t noticed. If you want to know the truth, it’s tearing me apart. I’ve tried talking about it but I just won’t listen. I’ve come to resent myself. Literally. And when I remember how I used to be, back at the beginning when it was all fresh and new and I couldn’t keep my hands off myself….

So, in the absence of the ability to split up with myself, which is what I really want to do, frankly, I’ve decided to make a concerted effort to get myself back on the right track. I'm staging a kind of self-intervention, before any really irreparable damage is done.

My first move was to check out the clever articles you find in magazines and newspapers, the ones full of advice for couples who don’t really like one another anymore because of years of mind-numbing repetition. But they didn’t really work out. Spontaneous hugging met with a limp silence. Surprising myself with chocolates was a lovely touch but then watching me eat them all and calling me fat afterwards was just awful. That was an angry wank, that one. And not in a good way.

Then I thought of buying myself some knickers. It would be deceitful of me to claim that having the sexual smorgasbord of my nether regions coddled in the stretched silk of a woman’s undergarment is not something that gives me a terrific itch in the belly. For it is. Even the mere thought of it threatens to cajole some twitch of appreciation from Cupid’s torch. Having said that, the thought of actually purchasing a nice pair of knickers for posh-wank purposes – and they would have to be very nice – just feels a little sad. Sad as in pathetic. Lamentable. Borderline deplorable. That’s the problem with all of these masturbatory aids: they just seem so fucking desperate. Toe-curling in their desperation. And yet, still, in arid times, in a cold climate, when one’s very soul feels like it’s running to seed, if you’ll pardon the pine nut, it can be very, very tempting.

I mean, there are all kinds of self-sex accessories out there that, when you first hear about them, your mind just boggles and you think, no. You think, that’s just wretched. That’s pitiful. And then some time passes and maybe your circumstances change and maybe you think about it a little more and your mind stops boggling quite so much. I mean, is it really any less wretched and pitiful for a grown man to penetrate a synthetic vibrating vagina in a tin can than it is for a lady to krunk herself giddy on the shaft of a synthetic vibrating lovestick or rabbit-themed pleasuring device? Is it?

Well, it shouldn’t be.

And yet, somehow... I don’t know. Maybe it just isn’t for me.

This, for example:



This is ‘Sex in a Can’, from the same Captains of Cock that brought you the industry leader, the classic, Fleshlight.

I mean, good luck to you if you can grit your eyes and get into that, but I really don’t think I could. I should probably add, however, that I am willing to try, so if anyone’s got one they’ve finished with, do get in touch. For now though, even with the extreme nunliness of the vulva, it just doesn’t inspire me.

In fact, I can think of only two pertinent things less appealing than pushing my roaring jack into the fake plastic undermeat of a pair of canned quim nuts. One is filming the same act and putting it on YouPorn. (I just can’t bring myself to watch those things. It must be the saddest act of pornography in the whole world.) The other is splashing six thousand US dollars on a real doll.

Having said that, one day, when my boat comes in, I’d quite like to run away with this one.



There are of course men who reject outright the easy commercialisation of self-love. These men prefer to bore an unsexy orifice into a watermelon or pumpkin and root out their pleasure that way. Sometimes they layer bacon around the bore-hole.

Although I admire the spirit and inventiveness of these men, I can’t really imagine myself making love to a melon. Not at my age. I'd rather make love to a chicken, to be honest. A dead chicken, obviously – I’m not into kinky stuff. Just an everyday dead chicken from the supermarket. Maybe a bit of bacon around the bore-hole.



I can imagine that quite easily. You know, if I absolutely have to. I can imagine that the feel of the chicken skin, mottled from plucking and sliding back and forth across the cold white flesh of the legs might actually be quite erotic.

I don't intend to do it though. These are just thought experiments. I actually find it repulsive. Honest.

So instead of fucking a dead chicken, I’ve hit upon something else. Something definitely less vile. An idea. A business idea for a new product. Something to enliven the - let's face it - the chore of male masturbation.

I call it FISTMUFF.

Essentially it’s essence of fresh vagina, applied to the back of the hand. A bird in the hand, you might say. But no bush.

Simply apply FISTMUFF to one hand, take your old chap in the other and you’re away. With your eyes closed you sniff at the FISTMUFF, breathing in the erotic fragrance of the mouth that speaks no words, and you imagine that you’re anywhere but where you actually are, doing anything but what you’re actually doing.

Of course I’m joking. Where am I going to find a fresh vagina to tease and milk? Or indeed any vagina.

Unless… unless I reread Perfume with terrifying zeal, master maceration and enfleurage and then launch myself on a murderous yet delectably redolent rampage. Hmm... No. I don’t think so. Important though it is to spice up a dead date with Fisty Palmer, rampant carnage just wouldn’t seem right so close to Valentine’s Day.

Anyway, what kind of madman would deign to distil the bouquet of the bower of bliss? Surely not even a man with a smell camera would be so arrogant as to seriously attempt to simulate essence of vulva. It’d be like trying to recreate the roof of the Sistine Chapel in a bus shelter in Basildon.

It'll never happen.

Or will it?

I'm afraid all of that guff about me inventing FISTMUFF was a bit of a red herring. I was pulling the wool over your eyes, if you’ll pardon the poon. For the fact is, FISTMUFF exists. You may, of course, already be wholly cognisant of this fact; you may, in fact, be drenched in the stuff as we speak, pleasuring yourself to a dervish, spitting hot liquid on the keyboard, rolling on the floor, your tongue lolling from your mouth like a single sad mitten lost in the rain. FISTMUFF exists! Only it’s not called FISTMUFF. It’s called Vulva.

Vaginal scent. For men.

Watch the video and just marvel for a moment if you would, at the wonder of the world in which we live…



Mmmmmm, yes. Finally, a scent to keep the scourge of saddle-sniffing gusset-gannets off the streets and out of the gymnasia.

I’m figuring Vulva could be just the fillip I need to get me through this miserable mizzling month to the sappy spring that awaits. And more importantly, it can help bring me closer again. To myself. I'm convinced of it: essence of vagina will get me through this unpleasant patch.

So, my third consignment of Vulva is in the post. The first two, I should explain, went missing in transit. I swear.

I'm just hoping it gets here in time for Valentine’s Day. I don’t want to be alone again this year.

In the meantime, I'd appreciate a little feedback. I can't be the only one for whom wanking has become a depressing, devitalising experience. Can I? Singletons! Speak to me. What do you do to keep your self-sex life alive?

Shame Week #2 :: What’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told?

This is tough. Not because I’m some paragon of honesty or anything like that. Although I am. I think it’s probably more my lack of real relationship experience which exempts me from most of the easiest of life’s big lies. For example, I’ve never been unfaithful to anyone. I’ve never said ‘I love you’ and not meant it. I’ve never said, ‘No, your bum looks absolutely fine in that’ when in reality it looks like a pair of colliding planets, not just in that but in anything.

Of course there are the dreary, petty lies that I used to tell at school when I realised that being late was nothing to be scared of; the stuff that was taken from real life but chronologically displaced. Like I had to wait in for the builders. Like I didn’t get to sleep till dawn because my parents were up all night fighting. Like my dad ate my alarm clock. But nothing remarkable. Nothing audacious. Not even a dead grandmother.

Oh, hold on.

I have it.

I was in year ten or eleven, so 14 or 15, I don’t remember which but I think the former. I was still being bullied fairly regularly, but my school life had settled down quite a bit and I had a few friends. Most of the friends I had however, and most of the friends I didn’t, were all growing up much faster than me. They had girlfriends for a start, and they had house parties. And every weekend they went to one another’s house parties and they drank vodka and they smoked dope and they danced to 2 Unlimited and felt each other up. Meanwhile I stayed at home listening to Leonard Cohen and writing poems about not having the courage to even contemplate suicide. At least not seriously. I did a lot of weeping.

It was also around that time that I started to fantasise about having a girlfriend. I really wanted one, you see. I mean, I really, really wanted one. So much so that I used to pretend that I had one. In fact, I used to pretend that it was children’s telly presenter Philippa Forrester. I used to imagine her lying on my bed as I lifted the dumbbells I’d made out of a broken broom handle and some old motor oil canisters filled with soil. I’d talk to her as she gazed up at me in awe. I’d laugh at her jokes and when she told me to put down my dumbbells and come and make love to her, I’d come over all shy. Then I’d gently lower myself onto the sad pillow of her body and I’d kiss it until I fell asleep covered in semen.

I was a sad case for sure, but I’m sure I wasn’t alone. Was I? Of course not.

Then, one day – God only knows what possessed me – I decided to take Philippa out into the real world. She’d have to change her name however. My school friends might not have been the brightest bulbs in the firmament, but even they might have had their suspicions if I’d claimed to have been going out with Philippa Forrester. So Philippa became Emma. My real life girlfriend. Only I didn’t want to have to tell people about Emma; I wanted them to discover her for themselves.

So what I did – and you’re only the second person I’ve ever told this to – what I did was to take hold of something like a square inch of my neck flesh with my thumb and forefinger of my right hand, and squeeze and twist it for all I was worth. It hurt. But no pain, no gain. That’s what they say. So I did it again. And again. And I carried on doing it until there was a mark on my neck, which in the right light, and to a gullible eye, could very easily appear as a passable, genuine love bite.

The next day at school I wore my Spurs scarf (I used to be into that sort of thing I’m afraid) and I affected a slightly self-conscious air, occasionally craning my neck to follow an imaginary crane fly in the hope that someone would notice my mark and jump to the desired conclusion.

‘Oi, Elbows!’ It was Neville Waterworth, low-key tormentor. ‘What the fuck are you wearing a scarf for? It’s the middle of summer.’ I shrugged, blushed, ignored. ‘Fucking ponce,’ he said, more or less good-naturedly. And that was that.

It wasn’t until the beginning of Physics just before lunch, when my neck crept out of my scarf sufficiently for Judith Taylor to notice and remark, ‘Elbows? Have you got a dirty neck?’

The story I concocted was that I’d met Emma one day on the bus to Sidcup. And why not? Well, I’ll tell you why not – because apparently it was utterly ridiculous. I had one particularly vocal unbeliever: Gus Hindmarsh. He gave me the third degree at lunchtime, cornered me in the corridor and wouldn’t let me go, him and a bunch of others from our registration class. Gus led the interrogation:

Gus: So what was the first thing she said to you?

Me: She just said hello. And she asked me if she could sit down next to me…

Gus: What’s her second name?

Me: Pissington-Bladderfuck. [I can’t really remember what I said, but whatever it was, it was repeated back to me by half a dozen incredulous voices as if it were every bit as unlikely as Pissington-Bladderfuck. I was really wishing I had left the girlfriend fantasy in the bedroom.]

Gus: What colour hair has she got?

Me: Just, brown.

Gus: Have you fingered her yet?

Kevin Body: How big are her tits?

‘Oh, leave him alone,’ said Judith Taylor, just as I was saying, ‘Look, I don’t have to tell you anything. I’m not answering questions like that.’

‘Have you watered the plants?’ asked Body, as per some asinine euphemism that was doing the rounds at the time.

‘Have you stained her rug?’ someone else chipped in.

‘Let me have a look at that neck,’ said Gus Hindmarsh, pulling my scarf away. ‘That looks like you’ve been at it with the Hoover.’

‘Oh, don’t be a cock,’ I said, which got a laugh and alleviated the tension for a second.

At which point Judith Taylor declared, ‘Good for you, Stan! Ignore these idiots. They’re probably just jealous.’ Whoops of derision from Gus et al. ‘I think it’s really sweet,’ she said. ‘It just goes to show, there’s someone for everyone,’ she added.

Then off she went to lunch, followed by Gus Hindmarsh, who now that I think about it was quite clearly in love with her. I loved her a bit myself after that day.

And that was that.

The love bite faded, and Emma faded along with it. I wasn’t important enough to face much more mockery about my imaginary girlfriend, so the lie died within a few days. In fact all that remained of Emma was a flash of shame every time I saw a bus to Sidcup. I still saw Philippa for a while afterwards however, and I took some solace form the fact that she really did care for me.

Oh, and whenever the subject of virginity came up for the next ten years, I lied about that too.

Sorry.

…

And you? What’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told? Leave your whoppers in the comments…

Thanks.

Morag & I :: More Than Friendship, Less Than Love

Obviously, Morag is not her real name. In fact, I find it difficult to imagine that Morag is anyone’s real name. But apparently it is.

Scottish people can be so cruel.

This was Morag’s opener:

‘I’ve read your blog from start to finish and I think you should probably come to Brighton and bugger me.’

Wow.

That was my initial thought.

Wow.

Blogging is by far the best thing that ever happened to me.

She went on:

‘I think we have a lot on common. You’re bright and funny and can write well; I’m bright and funny (and modest) and can write well. You’ve got a very large penis, or so you claim; I’ve got a very large vagina, or so my ex who shall remain nameless claims. You have a weight problem and physical appearance issues; I – according to my ex who shall remain nameless – would also benefit from dropping a few pounds and having a couple of moles removed. You’re looking for someone to love, or at least have bumsex with; I’m looking for someone to love, or at least have bumsex with. You see? It’s almost like it’s in the stars.’

I had to agree. It was eerie. It was like Derren Brown was sharing our virtual space, squatting on our fat pipe with both of our names written on a playing card in his back pocket. But I had my reservations. It wasn’t just the fact that a complete stranger was approaching me and asking me to do her up the bum. It was also the fact that she kept mentioning her ex. Nameless or not, it sounded ominous. Like there were still feelings.

But of course I emailed back. And before long we were chatting on IM.

This was about three weeks ago now.

At the beginning of last week, we had this exchange.

Morag: So what about Wednesday? Is there a tiny window in your busy programme of self-abuse?
Scat: …
Morag: What’s that? Dot dot dot. What are you trying to say with that?
Scat: …
Morag: ……
Scat: Touché. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I’m scared.
Morag: Oh come on. Ya big Jessie. Where’s your sense of adventure?
Scat: It’s in my head, Morag. It’s in a tiny little box in the back of my head.
Morag: Then it’s time you opened the box, Scatmuncher. Because life is short.

She was right of course. We had been talking late into the night every night for over a week. We got on really well. It was time to meet up. The fact that we still hadn’t seen each other’s face was, as Morag put it, ‘all part of the adventure’. Even when I offered to swap photos, she refused. She said that if either of us was repulsed, then we could just have a drink or two and call it a night. Or we could become friends. You can never have too many friends, she said.

By the time we got round to meeting, I already knew quite a lot about Morag. I knew some basic biographical stuff, like this:

- She is Scottish, born in Glasgow.
- She is 26.
- She loves film and works for a cinema. Bad Lieutenant is her favourite movie of all time.
- Her parents are separated. Her father lives in Edinburgh with a new wife and three new sons. She gets on with them OK, but doesn’t really have much in common with them.
- She doesn’t get on with her mother however. Her mother is a writer. She lives in London and writes historical novels, apparently with a fair degree of success.
- She is allergic to cats. (Morag, that is. Not her mother.)
- She loves Gabriel Garcia Marquez and has a thing about Magic Realism. I barely know what Magic Realism is. That’s not really about Morag however. That is about me.

Also, I knew this, specialist information, reprinted with permission:

Scat: So. Did you have any pets as a child?
Morag: Yes. I had four guinea pigs and a dog.
Scat: What were their names, please?
Morag: The guinea pigs were called Edmund, Baldrick, Percy and Lord Melchett. The dog was called The Dark Lord Tiberius.
Scat: Nice names.
Morag: Thanks.
Scat: When you were shouting for the dog to stop chasing squirrels or stop humping the vicar’s leg or whatever, did you say. ‘The Dark Lord Tiberius! Stop that at once!’
Morag: He didn’t chase squirrels. Squirrels were beneath him. He did hump the vicar’s leg though. But we never tried to stop him. To answer your question however, no. We called him ‘Tibs’.
Scat: Awww… Do you have any recurring dreams?
Morag: Um… apart from the usual stuff about going to school with my muff out…
Scat: Your capacious muff.
Morag: Hush now. I dream a lot about my ex-boyfriend, who shall remain nameless. He fucked me over in lots and lots of ways and sadly, horribly, he has burrowed his way into my subconscious, where he will probably forever bubble to the surface in all of my worst nightmares.
Scat: I’m sorry to hear that. What’s your favourite flavour ice cream?
Morag: Rum and raisin.
Scat: What do you think of bats?
Morag: You’ve asked me that already. Don’t you listen? They’re alright. Nothing to write home about. I like vampires though. Vampires are sexy.
Scat: What’s the most valuable thing you’ve ever stolen?
Morag: Um… honestly, probably a car. I went through a troublesome phase in my teens. I didn’t keep it though. I just drove it around for a bit then left it in a park. Actually, I stole a bus too. That’s probably more expensive than a car.
Scat: You stole a bus?
Morag: Just a single decker.
Scat: Ah, OK. What’s the most unusual object you’ve ever had inside of you?
Morag: That is a freaky, borderline scary question.
Scat: I’ve got to press you for an answer.
Morag: Um… let me think. It depends on your definition of unusual really.
Scat: I’m happy to go with your definition.
Morag: OK. Probably a bible.
Scat: What?
Morag: No, just kidding. I did once and for the briefest of periods have an action man doll pretty much all the way inside of me, so that just his boots were peeping out.
Scat: Wow.
Morag: Impressive huh?
Scat: Capacious.
Morag: Fuck off.
Scat: So. Do you believe in God?
Morag: Yes.
Scat: Oh.
Morag: God is Harvey Keitel.
Scat: Oh, OK. Thank God for that.
Morag: Thank Harvey.
Scat: Thanks, Harvey. Have you ever had a threesome?
Morag: Hmm.
Scat: Hmm is not an answer.
Morag: Alright then, no.
Scat: You see, that wasn’t so hard, was it?
Morag: But I have had a couple of foursomes.
Scat: Oh my.
Morag: Exactly.
Scat: Oh me oh my.
Morag: I know, I know.
Scat: I’m simultaneously aroused and frightened.
Morag: That seems like a reasonable response. Ya big Jessie.
Scat: Thank you. We will talk about this in more detail at a future date. In the meantime, and finally, what’s the most important thing in the world?
Morag: The most important thing in the world is Love.
Scat: Aaaaaaah. Thank you, Morag.
Morag: No, thank you. And I hope I’ve passed the audition.

Then, last Wednesday, we met.

And for a short while, it was everything.

The worst thing about… well, about life I guess, is disappointment. Actually, no. Cancer is worse. But disappointment is up there. I hate disappointment. It’s tough, and it’s hard to bear.

So when I met Morag in Brighton, at the train station, and she curtseyed and shook my hand and kissed my cheek, I was happy. I was not disappointed.

And when a couple of drinks into our evening, I asked her if I could kiss her and she said yes, and then we kissed, I was happy. I was not disappointed.

And then when we proceeded to get a little bit drunk and to fumble our way into Morag’s bed together, and then when we made love as best we could with our lack of knowledge about each other’s bodies and the things which give us pleasure, I was happy. I was not disappointed.

But then, some time around 1 am, when Morag told me that she really liked me but didn’t think that what we had on our hands was a long term relationship, I was disappointed. So disappointed in fact, that I had a little cry.

Boo hoo.

The next morning we went for a walk on the beach and we talked about things. We kept it light. I came back to London that afternoon feeling elated and deflated in equal measure. I was still disappointed, but I regretted nothing.

The next night we spoke on IM and Morag said to me, ‘What do you think of fuck buddies, as a concept?’

I had to say that as a concept, I thought it was potentially a predominantly good one. I said so.

‘Good,’ said Morag. ‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’

So now I guess that the difference between ‘being in a long term relationship’ and ‘being fuck buddies’ is the level of emotional investment, or at least the level of spoken emotional investment.

I have to say, there is something in me – something slightly old-fashioned perhaps – that balks at the idea and feels that it's a kind of failure, a kind of settling for second best. And I don't like that. I don't think it shows either of us in a particularly complimentary light. But there is something else in me – something slightly desperate perhaps - that craves consensual physical contact under any circumstances, and that part of me shrugs, says ‘Fuck it’, and dives in. Like an action man. Till just my boots are peeping out.

So there we have it.

I was looking for a love buddy. I found a fuck buddy. It’s not ideal, but my God, it’ll fucking do.

I Am Living With A Madman

Should I be afraid?

Yes.

Yes, I should.

Two Gorgeous Black Birds Fucking in the Park, Totally Naked

Is it crows or blackbirds which have black beaks? I can never remember. I only know it isn’t tits. And cocks - like the Fonz - have combs, but that’s probably irrelevant. The beak issue may not be important to some of you, but I’m quite anal about my birds, so I must check. Excuse me…

Aha, they were crows. I saw them this morning when I was out for my run. At first I thought it was just one crow, maybe eating something that had died, so I ran over in its direction to observe the violence of nature in the raw. Then as I neared, one crow swiftly became two, rising silently into the sky, their crow coitus temporarily interruptus. I felt bad.

I didn’t know crows did sex on the ground. Isn’t it swifts or swallows that do it in the air? If I was a bird, I’d like to do it in the air. Imagine.

Whoosh.

Anyway, that’s what I saw. And as I jogged off after it happened, I did a little spit, watched the male bird pursue the female and I thought, is there a blog post in this? Is this ‘an event’? Is this yet another incident in my apparently incident-filled life? ‘Black birds fucking,’ I thought. That’d bring in some new readers. I like it when new readers come. And if they happen to be perverts, well, perverts are people too.

We’ll see.






Oh, and also, before I forget…

Lesbians.

Feedback Friday :: No Hard Feelings

bulk :: 17st 2
alcohol units imbibed :: 20
cigarettes smoked :: 0
runs run :: 2
swims swum :: 2
friendships ruined :: 0
readers disappointed :: quite a few, it seems
regrets :: a few, but then again, too few to mention

So. Now then. A lot of people have voiced their disappointment in me for what recently passed between Patricia and I. A few of you made your feelings clear in comments and a couple of you even took time out to write me an email. This one, for example, which I received from Mark D, who was so furious he could barely think straight:

‘i use to really think you cool man till this. i cant believe it- your best mates got like a fatal disease or something and your sleeping with his girlfiend a wek or two after they splitup??? you really ate a beastman.’

Whoa! Whoa there! I did not eat a beastman! I think we need a little distance here. This is all getting a tiny bit out of hand. Now chill the heck out and let me tell you a story, a story about a boy called Eric…

Eric and the Irresistible Force

Eric had never had much luck with women. He was not what you’d call a good looker. In fact, he was what you’d call a bad looker. He was, in other words, ugly. Very ugly. Because of this fact, he’d only ever slept with two women: one physically disabled, one mentally bereft. Generally, when they caught sight of him, women tended to look away as if their retinas had been scorched, as if Eric were human pepper spray. Even men didn’t particularly enjoy his company, almost as if they thought they themselves might be infected by Eric’s gruesome appearance. But children, once they’d asked their usual guileless questions – ‘What’s wrong with your face?’, ‘Why is your head so big and bumpy?’, ‘Are you Hellboy?’ – loved him.

Something in Eric had never really grown up. It was almost as if the childhood he’d been denied by vicious, loveless parents had been packed away until the time was right. At 17, when he moved into a place of his own with Kevin, his childhood friend, the time was right and Eric’s childhood was finally unleashed. For most of the next five years, he spent almost all of almost every day playing games, giggling till he wet himself and running around the house in his damp, unlovely pants. Furthermore, once it had been unleashed, this infantile vivacity never really left Eric, and children, when they met him, latched onto it and were quickly entranced, invariably wrapped around Eric’s neck within half an hour, like giggling, meaty scarves.

For most of his 20s, Eric didn’t meet any children. Neither did he meet many adults. The constant taunting and cruelty which his ugliness had prompted throughout his childhood had taken its toll. He was fed up with it. He was fed up with being singled out and frowned upon simply because of his appearance, and the only way he knew how to deal with this was to go into hiding. So this is what he did.

However, by the time he was 30, the solitude had quite worn him down. He had become sad and withdrawn. He’d become heavier, both physically and spiritually, and without the light of human companionship, his flesh had become quite pale.

Then there was change. Eric eventually saw what he had become, and he was not best pleased. ‘I have grown into my ugliness,’ he thought. ‘I have allowed my unpleasant exterior to creep inside.’ And so he resolved to do something. He resolved to change, to force himself out into the world, to force himself into the company of other people.

And all went well. Better in fact, than he could ever have expected. Eric found that not only was he accepted, but that his own unique brand of self-deprecation and childlike innocence went over a storm. People really seemed to genuinely like him, split infinitives and all, until one day, when it all went horribly, sickeningly wrong.

…

Kevin had done well for himself since he and Eric were kids. Not only had he found himself a piss-easy, well-paying job in something called ‘the new media’, but he’d also met a wonderful woman called Pamela. Pamela was taller than Kevin, with long black hair which she usually wore in a loose pony tail over her right shoulder, and dark, deep, profoundly seductive eyes. She was bright like a thousand suns and had a great talent for making divine, heart-melting music. Kevin was not alone in thinking that he really wasn’t good enough for her. But Pamela loved him. She loved him because he was charming, funny and, much like Spontaniouse from the 8th cycle of America’s Next Top Model, he was spontaneous. One day he’d send her an enormous bouquet of bluebells, the next there’d be tickets for Billy Elliot hidden inside her All Bran box. One time he even surprised her with a weekend in Paris! Sadly, they couldn’t go on that because it was Pamela’s son’s birthday. Pamela was really sorry. ‘It’s OK,’ said Kevin. ‘I got the tickets free from work anyway. Bloody kids though, eh?’ Pamela smiled. Then looked away.

Pamela’s kids were called Alice and Will and to say they meant the world to Pamela would be to understate the case somewhat. Their father, the love of Pamela’s life, died of cancer when Alice was just three years old and Will was one. Pamela had wanted to die too, and perhaps it was only her love for her kids that pulled her through. But perhaps she would have pulled through anyway.

…

When Eric came back out into the world, he saw quite a lot of Kev and Pam. He was invited over for meals and fashionable soirees. He even spent Christmas with them and when Kev and Pam finally found time to take that weekend in Paris, Eric was happy to look after the kids while they were away. Alice and Will doted on Eric.

Then disaster struck. Kevin got sick. Pamela, afraid that he might go the way of her first husband, drew him closer to her. Kevin meanwhile - splendid in so very many ways, moronic in others - strayed into the arms of another woman. He attempted to justify his betrayal by telling himself that it was fear of death and decay that had prompted him to betrayal. Like in Moonstruck. ‘I must live,’ he thought. ‘How long before even the possibility of a stolen kiss eludes me? I must act now while I can, even if the act is a foul one.’ He confessed his betrayal to Pamela as soon as it had happened in the hope of limiting the damage, in the vain hope that she might understand his fears and forgive him.

When Pamela and Kevin parted, Eric was devastated. He had grown extremely fond of Pamela over the year that she had been with Kevin, and he had grown to love her kids. Consequently, he was furious with Kevin and rashly, he lashed out. Kevin was hurt and confused. He expected support from his childhood friend, not condemnation, but here was Eric drying Pamela’s tears whilst Kevin was left to smoke his lungs sore with dirty drugs and beat himself senseless with a paperweight in the shape of a pyramid.

Meanwhile, Pamela was determined that her kids should not suffer from the break-up, or at least no more than was inevitable. They would miss Kevin, and their mum’s sadness would rub off on them for sure, but there was no need for them to miss their favourite babysitter. So not so very long after the split-up, Pam asked Eric if he’d mind looking after Alice and Will when she went out with friends to eat dinner and drink wine and talk bad about menfolk. Eric jumped at the chance. It felt like months since he’d seen the kids. Although it wasn’t.

And so he passed a thoroughly pleasant evening, playing games, speaking in silly voices and jumping about like a overweight tigger. He put the kids to bed at around 11 and read John Bellairs to them till they slept.

At fifteen minutes past one, Pamela came home. She had the glazed expression and slightly stained teeth of one who had drunk too much red wine, then followed up on the wine with cocktails and dancing.

She ran to the loo when she got in, then tiptoed in to gaze upon her sleeping children for a moment. Returning downstairs, still wearing her short satin dress with no arms and no back, she asked Eric if he’d like a White Russian. Eric liked White Russians and he was in no hurry to leave, so he said yes. He also knew that if he drank a White Russian, then he’d probably be over the limit and wouldn’t be able to drive home. He said yes anyway.

‘I have had a fantastic evening,’ declared Pamela emphatically, slurring only very slightly.

‘Good,’ said Eric. ‘Fantastic. What did you do?’

As she noisily prepared the drinks, Pamela talked him through the three-course dinner at the Italian restaurant and the White Russians and dancing afterwards at some bar in Soho. Then she brought Eric his drink, plonked herself down in an adjacent armchair and said, ‘It’s weird, but all these guys were trying to get into my pants tonight.’

‘You’ve got great pants though, Pam,’ said Eric. ‘I mean, that’s probably not weird at all, really, all things considered. They’re only human.’ He squirmed uncomfortably. He was uncomfortable because this was not an area of conversation he particularly wanted to enter into. Pamela’s pants were not his business.

‘How do you know what my pants are like?’ said Pamela, leering slightly.

Eric couldn’t help himself. ‘Well, you don’t honestly think that when the kids are asleep I just sit here watching television, do you?’

Pamela looked confused for a second, then she understood. ‘Ewwww.’ She laughed. ‘Have you been kippering through my underwear, Eric?’

Eric laughed too. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m joking. Honest. My kippering days are long gone.’ This was true.

Then Pamela changed tack and Eric relaxed. ‘What did you guys get up to tonight then?’

‘What didn’t we get up to more like. We played Jack Sparrow, or Jack Ptarmigan as I was rather cruelly dubbed by Will. Also Jack Frigate and Jack Blue-Footed Boobie. We did a bit of Wii bowling, which Alice won with her left hand and one eye closed. We watched a bit of South Park and we made some cakes.’

Eric then jumped up and fetched a lopsided cake from the kitchen, on top of which Alice had written in green icing sugar ‘We love you, Mummy!’

Pamela was moved. Her eyes became a little moist and her voice cracked as she said how much she adored her cake. She really loved her kids to bits, and alcohol didn’t help matters. Eric put the cake away.

‘How’s Kevin?’

Pamela winced. ‘Let’s erm… we don’t need to talk about Kevin.’ She smiled.

‘OK, sorry.’

‘Alice has got a huge crush on you, you know.’

‘Oh hush, she’s 11 years old.’

Pamela shook her head. ‘What’s your point? She’s been interested in boys since she was seven.’

‘Well, I don’t want to worry you,’ said Eric, ‘but I’ve got a bit of a crush on her too. I do intend to wait until she’s 16 though, before I….’ He faltered, realising that the conversation was perhaps veering toward the unpleasant. ‘I’m joking,’ he said. And of course he was. ‘But if I was 20 years younger, I’d be all over your daughter like plague of toads. She’s a genius. She drew a picture of Will tonight which is eerily good.’

Pamela nodded. ‘She gets that from her dad.’

‘Yeah,’ said Eric. ‘Well, he would be incredibly proud. As proud as you are.’

‘You know what she said this morning? She asked me if we would be seeing more of you now that Kevin’s not coming round anymore.’

‘Eek,’ said Eric. ‘Well, that’s sweet of her.’

‘The way she talks about you, I know she thinks of you….’ She trailed off. ‘She really misses her dad. That’s never going to go away.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Eric, wondering how on earth he could turn the conversation round to something more cheerful. But then Pamela did that for him.

‘Do you know that my breasts swell up something rotten if I don’t have regular sex.’

Eric opened his mouth to speak but for a moment nothing came out. He shook his head slightly. ‘I didn’t know that,’ he said. ‘Is that a medical condition or, or…?’

‘One more drink I think,’ said Pamela, standing up, ‘then bed. Come on, knock it back.’ Eric finished his drink and handed over his glass.

While Pam was in the kitchen, Eric stood up, adjusted his erection and paced the living room nervously. He glanced in the large mirror over the fireplace and was reminded of Vincent Vega in Pulp Fiction. He patted his jeans pockets for his heroin, then remembered that he didn’t take heroin. ‘Just one more drink,’ he told himself. ‘Then I’ll go.’

He was still by the mirror chatting to himself when Pamela returned with more White Russians. She handed one to Eric and held up her own glass for clinking. ‘Here’s to being free,’ she said. They clinked, and drank. Eric noticed that Pamela had given him the wrong glass, with traces of her lipstick around the rim. He didn’t say anything.

‘I think I’m going to like being single,’ said Pamela. ‘I’d forgotten about the upsides.’

‘There are upsides?’ said Eric.

‘Loads of upsides,’ said Pamela. ‘You can do what you want when you want; you can go out dancing and flirting and you can let men buy you drinks and stroke your hair if you want them to...’

‘Oh yes,’ said Eric. ‘There’s always that.’

‘You can see your friends whenever you like and you can kiss people who are completely inappropriate.’

At that moment Eric was feeling completely inappropriate and physically very awkward.

‘Come and sit down with me,’ said Pamela.

‘Oh, OK,’ said Eric. ‘Sitting down is good. I can do that.’

Eric sat on the sofa. Pamela sat next to him. Eric took a gulp of his drink. Pamela took his glass off him and placed it on the coffee table in front of them. Eric looked straight ahead of him like a terrified child. Pamela said, ‘I know you find me attractive.’

Eric snapped. ‘Alright, listen, Pam, stop, please. I don’t know what you’re thinking…’

‘You know what I’m thinking.’

‘I don’t think you know what I’m thinking – what you’re thinking I mean. You don’t know what you’re thinking. You’ve had a lot to think, to drink I mean, and you don’t really know what you’re saying. You’re drunk and you’ve probably eaten too much too, and you’re upset over Keith, Kevin I mean, and your breasts are swollen and... and your hand, Pamela, your hand is on my thigh.’ He stopped. ‘Pamela,’ he said sharply, like he was speaking to a dog who looked like it was about to urinate on his stamp collection.

‘I know,’ said Pam, staring at Eric’s face, smiling. ‘I want your cock.’

‘Whoa!’ cried Eric and he jumped up from the sofa and moved back over to the fireplace.

Pamela laughed, then she pretended to be hurt. ‘Do you find me so repulsive?’ she whimpered.

‘Oh stop,’ said Eric. ‘Don’t. Please. You know I think you’re amazing, in every sense, and would give my right arm to… you know, but this is all wrong. You’re drunk for a start, and you’re just trying to get back at Kevin. And it isn’t fair on me, frankly.’ He stopped there, but he was thinking, ‘One kiss is all it’ll take and I’ll fall madly, deeply, irreversibly in love with you.’

Pamela stopped smiling. ‘OK, OK,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right.’ She shrugged. ‘Come and sit down again.’

‘I’ll sit over here,’ said Eric.

‘Come and sit over here,’ snapped Pamela. ‘Jesus, I’ve said you’re right. I’m not going to rape you, for God’s sake.’ Pamela smiled, patted the sofa next to her. Eric returned, slightly shaken, and sat down. Pamela stood up, moved in front on Eric, facing him, lifted her right leg and climbed into his lap.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘You’re not taking advantage of me, OK?’ Her hands moved from his shoulders to his neck, to his ears. A shock ran through him, his limbs became a mess of goose bumps. ‘I’m taking advantage of you.’

Eric could feel Pamela’s naked thighs on his legs where her dress had ridden up. He could feel her hands on the sides of his face and then her lips and breath on his neck and ears and part of him wanted to grab hold of her wrists and push her away, to get up from the sofa, grab his coat and storm out of the house, drive home over the limit in an almighty huff, reporting Pamela to the police as he drove. ‘Yes, officer. There’s been an attempted rape. A beautiful woman climbed into my lap and tenderly kissed the side of my face. I want to press charges.’

But another part of him, had it been capable of thinking, would have thought, ‘Hold on a minute. Mate, this is – in many important ways – the best thing that has ever happened to you, bar none. There isn’t a court in the land that would convict you if you just allowed what is already happening to reach its natural conclusion. Even Kevin, once he’s calmed down, will understand. Pamela likes you. She thinks you’re funny and clever and great for her kids, and she just wants someone to ease the swelling in her breasts.’

As it turned out, Eric’s non-thinking part was quite right.

Pamela took Eric to her bed that night and wasn’t so drunk that she regretted what she had done in the morning. Not entirely. In fact, she did it again that same morning, and then carried on doing it again for another week or two. Then she thought it was best to stop. She decided it wasn’t fair on Eric. She could see he was developing feelings for her, despite himself.

No hard feelings. That’s what she said.

No hard feelings.

Eric repeated those words to Kevin when they met a couple of days after it had all blown over.

Kevin shrugged. ‘No hard feelings,’ he said. ‘No feelings at all really.’

They drank a toast to Pamela. ‘To Pamela,’ they said. ‘And all who sail in her,’ added Kevin.

Meanwhile, somewhere in an orchestra chamber on the other side of London, Pamela’s breasts began, imperceptibly, to swell.

I don't know whether you picked on the clues at all, but that story was actually about me and Patricia. And that's pretty much how it happened. All of which is to say, look, for Christ's sake, we all make mistakes. I don’t think that my sleeping with Patricia for the week or so we managed was my finest hour, morally, but I don’t think it was the worst thing anyone’s ever done. Keith’s forgiven me, therefore I shouldn’t really care if a few people I’ve never met before think I’m a shit, but for some reason I do.

Oh, come on. You’re no saint either. Come on, admit it, I dare you. Tell me your most shameful, immoral, regrettable secret and we’ll call it quits.

In the meantime, Keith and I are off to see his dad and stepmum in Newcastle. I’m driving. Keith is smoking grass. It’s for his MS.

Have a great weekend.

The Things You Find On the Internet When You Should Really Be Asleep #12 :: Realistic Vaginas

I’m sure this is 100% Glass Cock (if you’ll pardon me getting down with the kids for a moment, lol) but it’s new to me so maybe to you too: Realistic Vaginas.

Wow. Worth knowing about.

Although I must admit, it took me a while to figure out what was going on.

This helped:

"Stephanie, words cannot express my joy and elation at finally being able to sit and pee just like a woman. I was delighted to receive my new deluxe miracle vagina, I put it on immediately, as you suggested powdering my lower body first with your medical talc. Having marked where the tip of my penis was, I simply used a hot needle and made a tiny hole through the latex sheath - now I can go to the toilet in sheer ecstacy, and sit and pee!"

Cherie, Toronto

Actually, no. I tell a lie. That’s only complicated things still further. Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on in this crazy world?

Enough to Put You Off Sex For Life

When I wrote about my first sexual experience a couple of months ago, I mentioned in passing that the second time I had sex was far more disturbing, but that I wasn't ready to tell it yet, 'at least until something else comes along to distance me from it'. That's what I said. Well, here's the news: something else has come along. Something astonishing and wonderful. And something that I absolutely cannot talk about.

So instead, it's probably time to talk about Sue.

I had seen Sue a fair bit in one of the pubs I used to frequent when I lived in another part of London. She was often there with a bunch of mates, being loud, drunken and shrill. I'd be out with one of a couple of old friends, bemoaning the sickening ills of the world. I'd noticed Sue but I didn't think she had noticed me. Her eyes had passed over me for sure, but I didn't think she'd taken me in. That often happens. If you see someone you find physically repellent, you either stop and stare, sometimes pointing and grimacing if you're particularly insensitive. Or else you just look through them; they're invisible to you.

I'd noticed Sue partially because she was so annoying and shrill, and partially because, despite myself, I was really attracted to her. She was probably a little bit too chavvy for most people's tastes, and dressed a little loose if you know what I mean, a little Jodie Marsh. Plus, facially she was slightly reminiscent of a Riddler. But still, somehow I found her very attractive. Which was why one night, when she rolled over to me, blind drunk at the end of a Friday evening and said, 'Do you wanna come back to my house for sex?', I said, 'Um... yeah, alright'.

Then she kissed me, there in the pub, and her friends cheered and a flash went off. I should have known something was up. But I didn't. I was blinded by what I foolishly imagined was just brilliant luck, and I assumed that Sue was from the 'he's so ugly, he's kind of fascinating' school, a school I'd hitherto believed to be entirely fictional.

She stopped kissing me. Her hands were still on my face, her cold eyes perusing me. Another flash. 'Let's go,' she said. As she led me out of the pub, one of her friends joined us and introduced herself. 'I'm Cathy,' she said. I told her my name and they both giggled. 'Stan!' cried Sue. 'That's brilliant,' she said. 'Absolutely perfect.'

'Perfect,' repeated Cathy.

Out on the street I asked where we were going. 'Not far,' said Sue. Cathy was coming too it seemed. My imagination began to kick in. Surely not. Sue grabbed me and snaked an arm through mine, linking me at the elbow. Cathy did the same with the other arm and we walked down a main road in the cold night. 'This is your lucky night,' said Cathy.

Surely not.

As we walked, Sue and Cathy chatted to each other about people I didn't know, shrieking and giggling like inebriated harpies. I really didn't like them at all. Which means I really shouldn't have gone with them. So maybe I kind of deserved what happened next. Maybe. I just wanted so badly to have sex. I'd only ever had sex with one woman before, with Avril. So I'd never had sex with an able-bodied woman. And it had been over two years. I was desperate.

That is my excuse.

We turned off the main road and onto a side street, stopping at a house with a black and red door. Cathy broke away from me and opened the front door. Sue followed her inside and took off her coat. I was very excited and very nervous. I felt a little sick.

I was led through to the living room and offered a drink. I accepted and both women clattered through to the kitchen, leaving me alone. When they returned, Sue was carrying two hefty glasses of some putrid spirit. I don't know what it was, but it was undiluted and tasted of petrol. I took a sip and winced. Sue knocked back half of her glass and made an unpleasant face. I never saw Cathy again.

'Tell you what, I think I might need the bottle, yeah?' said Sue, then she skipped out of the room again. When she returned, she had a bottle under her arm. 'Come on then,' she said, and I followed her upstairs.

Sue's bedroom was very much how I imagined the bedroom of a prostitute might be. A huge bed, with rather tacky tigerskin blankets, big fluffy pillows and a wrought iron bedstead with ropes and blindfolds and handcuffs hanging from it. The rest of the room was pretty unpleasant – an overflowing chest of drawers, an overflowing dressing table, dirty wallpaper slipping down damp walls. It was also a bit smelly. Sue lit scented candles in an effort - I presumed - to disguise the smell. Opposite the bed was a PC, switched on, that horrible Pythonesque screensaver filling the window with perpetually extending pipes. And there was a webcam sitting on top of the monitor. At the time I thought nothing of it.

Sue then put some soulless soul music on the computer. I believe it was R Kelly. Yet still I didn't flee.

'Do you wanna watch some porn?' she asked.

I shook my head. Not as if to say no, but rather as if trying to understand the question. Did I want to watch porn? Erm… no? I wanted to have sex. 'I think I'm alright for porn actually,' I said.

I was standing by the side of Sue's bed feeling rather awkward. Sue stood up from her computer and moved to the bottom of the bed. 'Come here,' she said. I did so. 'Sit down here,' she said. I sat at the bottom of the bed. Sue climbed onto the bed and positioned herself behind me. She wrapped her arms around me and began to kiss my face. I gasped. I almost couldn't believe it was happening. But it was.

OK, this is where it gets a little graphic. Not massively, but enough to tell the story. I'm sorry if you find it a little grubby. If it's any consolation, I find it a little grubby too.

So Sue was licking and lapping at my face, moaning, clawing at my chest and unbuttoning my shirt, pushing her tongue in my ear, biting my hair and gasping. All the while she was saying stuff like, 'Oh God, yeah, you're so fucking ugly, I love it. You big dirty ugly bastard.' And so on.

Now I'm quite sensitive about my appearance and I'm easily hurt. Having this woman say this to me – even though she was writhing all over me at the time – upset me, and I couldn't hide it. She saw that I was upset and laughed. 'No, don't be hurt,' she said. 'That's what I like about you. I like ugly men.'

Then she stood on the bed, lifted her skirt and pushed herself into my face. With one hand she pulled aside her knickers and with the other she grabbed my head and pushed it against her. 'See how much I like it,' she said. 'Lick me,' she said. 'Put your fingers in me.' I did as I was told.

After some more of that, Sue undressed me. All the while she was gasping and moaning, licking her lips at me and going on about wanting me to have rigorous intercourse with her. She didn't use those words however.

It was a bit much, to be honest. I didn't quite believe it. It was like bad porn. But it was bad porn I was involved in and although she was a little over the top, she was real; she wasn't pixellated. Rather, she was warm and wet; she was all smells, tastes and noises, all over me.

When she pulled off my trousers and reached into my underpants, she got a little bit of a shock. 'Oh. My. God,' she said. Her mouth fell open and she looked at me. 'You never said you had a massive cock,' she said. I shrugged. It's not the sort of thing you just drop into a conversation. Not that we'd ever had a conversation.

Sue's mouth was only the second mouth that had ever conferred oral pleasure upon my penis, and as she slobbered on it, she looked up at me and moaned. She was very spitty was Sue. She spat into her hand and rubbed it all over my penis and balls. She spat onto the head and rubbed it in with her tongue. She looked into my eyes, dribbled down her chin and said, 'I really want your fucking big cock in me.' And then I came. Boof! Just like that. Quite unexpectedly. And rather a lot.

'Sorry about that,' I said, but Sue didn't seem to mind at all. If anything, she was overjoyed. Pushing me back onto the bed, she climbed on top of me, rubbing my sperm into my stomach and chest. 'Move up the bed,' she said. I moved. 'Give me your hands,' she said. I gave.

Then she attached one of the handcuffs and slipped the other round the back of the bars of the bedstead. 'Give me your other hand,' she said. I hesitated. Then I gave her my hand. She cuffed me to the bed. Then she pulled a couple of lengths of sex-rope (as I believe it's called) from behind the bed and tied my feet, one to each corner of the bottom of the bed, tight.

Then she got off me and took off the rest of her clothes. Then she opened a drawer in a bedside table and pulled out some kind of kitchen implement. A long headed spatula. I recognised it as an IKEA spatula. She used it to slap my stomach. 'Ow,' I said. She slapped me again, harder. 'OW!' I said. It stung. As the stinging sensation subsided, it was replaced by a slightly cold shiver as a wave of panic coursed through me. I suddenly realised I was in an incredibly vulnerable and potentially dangerous situation.

Sue then produced an mp3 player and pushed the headphones into my ears. She turned on the music. It was the Teaches of Peaches CD. What on earth was going on? I said, 'What are you doing?' but I couldn't hear my own voice over the music. Then Sue lifted my head and popped a blindfold over my eyes. Then she wrapped something that I later discovered to be a bandage around and around my head, holding the blindfold and the earphones in place. My arms above my head began to ache. I wanted to be released.

I was scared.

But then she began to tease me, biting me, licking me, spitting on me, sucking, and occasionally slapping me with the spatula, and I became aroused. The fact of being deaf and blind seemed to both dull and sharpen the sensations simultaneously. Sometimes Sue would get off the bed and I had no idea where she was or what was coming next. Sometimes minutes would pass and nothing happened. Slowly my penis would lose its rigidity and my scrotum would tense and shrivel in the cold calm of the moment. Not knowing what was going to happen next was both terrifying and exciting. It was charged. I felt on the verge of panic. Then suddenly there'd be ice on my testicles, hot candle wax on the shaft of my cock or some kind of greased-up butt plug being shoved violently in and out of my anus.

And scared though I was, I can't deny that it was very, very exhilarating. I'd never known anything like it.

Then she'd climb on me, lower her nether regions onto my face and her face onto my nether regions. Then she'd slide down my body and impale herself on me. Then she'd ride me roughly, violently, causing just as much pain as pleasure. I'd never been so much at someone's mercy before, and I can't deny that I liked it.

I realised just as soon as it started happening that I was having unsafe sex. I said something, but I didn't hear what I said and Sue made no attempt to answer me. As far as I know. I do know for sure however that she didn't stop to put a condom on me. If I'm completely honest, I think the threat of AIDS probably turned me on a bit too.

People are weird.

At some stage Sue was licking and sucking on my left nipple and I began to feel something wet and warm on my penis. Sue moved down my body, kissing her way down to my nethers. Then before she got there I felt my penis slipping into a mouth and being sucked and bitten. I cried out. Then another mouth took over. Then I was passed back and forth from mouth to mouth.

Was this Cathy? Someone else?

Not knowing what was going on was disconcerting as hell, but hot. So hot in fact, that with two tongues wriggling over the end of my penis, I came again.

Than I had some of my own sperm spat into my mouth.

People are really weird.

It didn't stop there however. Slowly, once again, I was teased back to life, more or less - I'd lost a lot of feeling by this stage and was finding it difficult to tell - but things continued for another half hour or so. Then, quite suddenly, the music was stopped in the middle of a song. Then my head was unbandaged and the blindfold and earphones removed. Sue stood beside the bed, looking at me, not smiling. At the foot of the bed was a tall thin man with white spiky hair and a video camera pointed at me.

I looked at him, shook my head, looked up at Sue.

'What's going on?' I asked.

'You're gonna be fucking famous, mate,' said the guy with the camera in a thick Scouse accent.

Sue leant over me and unlocked the handcuffs. I sat up, soothed my aching arms and tried to massage some feeling back into them.

'What are you talking about?'

'You've just made your first porn film,' said the guy. 'You're a fucking porn star, mate. A fat fucking ugly fucking porn star.'

Sue untied my feet.

'What?' I said. 'You… you can't do that.'

'Done it, mate,' said the guy. 'It's done and dusted and there's not a fucking thing you can do about it.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' I said. At which point the guy put down the camera and pulled a Leatherman knife out of a back pocket. He took out the blade, came round the side of the bed and stuck it under my chin. He did all this very quickly. 'What did you say?' he said. 'What did you fucking say?' He was all chains, piercings and tattoos by the way. He was - at a guess - something of a psychopath.

'OK,' I managed. 'Take it easy.'

'Just get him the fuck out of here, Tom,' said Sue, and with that she picked up some clothes and left the room.

'You wanna watch your fucking mouth, son,' said Tom. 'How much money have you got?'

When I didn't answer, he headbutted and slapped me.

Eventually I was allowed to get dressed and leave the house. Tom went through my pockets and found out where I lived. 'Mention this to anyone,' he said, 'and somebody will come round to your house, and they'll kill ya.' Then he took £20 from my pocket and pushed me out the front door.

I walked quickly until I was out of sight of the front door, then I stood still, took out my phone and called the police. I explained exactly what had happened, adding that I'd been robbed and threatened with a knife.

The police arrived within ten minutes. I was still there. I met them at the front door. Tom tried to make a run for it through the back garden, but was caught and arrested. Sue was arrested too. I spent most of the next day making statements and looking for somewhere new to live. I stayed with friends for four days, then moved to a different part of London. Three months later I had an AIDS test. I was fine.

I found out from the police that Tom and Sue's house was full of porn they'd shot. They produced ultra-low quality DVDs and flogged them in pubs and over the internet. They had a site. They were DIY pornographers. As far as I could piece together they were trying to put together a series of films featuring ugly men. Beauty and the Beast stuff. They'd made one previously. It was for sale online. It was called Ugly Fuckers. Part One. I was to be Part Two.

I felt like a donkey in a real bestiality film. Except of course I'd consented.

I still fear that some day, somehow, that film is going to turn up on the internet somewhere. Every now and then, I search 'ugly' on YouPorn expecting to see myself tied to a bed, bandaged, buggered and loving it. Whenever it's not there, I feel enormous relief. And a tiny, tiny part of me feels disappointed.

People are absolutely fucking mental.

I've only told two other people this story before. I'm not overly proud of it. In fact, I'm more proud of having a kitten lick my glans than I am of this.

Oh, one good thing to come out of it was a visit from a Victim Support lady, which I wasn't expecting and then completely forgot about. Then, about 15 months later, I received a cheque for over £800. That made it almost entirely worthwhile. Almost.

So, after that experience, I swore to myself that even if it took another two years, I wanted the next woman I got naked with to actually like me, even just a little bit.

In the end it did take another two years.

But she did like me.

So that's good.

Sebastian Horsley :: The Most Tiresome Man in London

I bought Time Out yesterday because I’ve been getting back into Martin Amis recently – just started rereading Dead Babies, which is great fun. Amis was mentioned on the cover of TO. Granted, all it said was ‘London’s raunchiest writing selected by Martin Amis [and other authors]’. I knew it wouldn’t be much then, but with the added promise of a bit of raunch, I thought it’d be worth it.

From Amis there are 41 words bigging up Henry Fielding. Which was rather disappointing, I have to say. As for the raunch…

The article is entitled ‘Cunning Linguists’ – pause for belly-laughs – and it promises ‘Time Out’s pick of London’s 30 finest-ever peddlers of smut, filth and depravity’. I’m afraid I got as far as Sebastian Horsley and skimmed the rest.

Is it just me or is there something to be said for subtlety in this world?

Here are a few examples of some of the writing considered by Time Out writer John O’Connell to be worthy of praise:

‘All the time he gorged and slurped on Hugo’s dick, he wanked his own, which swelled into a fat organ dribbling colourless fluid.’

- from A Matter of Life and Sex by Oscar Moore

‘Since my fingers were greased, I worked them into Sarah’s arse and soon she was bucking like an unbroken horse.’

- from Cunt by Stewart Home

‘…to hear a man moan above her as he came, shuddered, shouted out obscenities or religious adjectives, and experience the heat waves coursing from cunt to heart to brain.’

- from Paris Noir by Maxim Jakubowski

(This could be down to my appalling lack of experience, but what, pray, are the religious adjectives that one might shout out during sex? Not nouns or the names of deities, but adjectives. Really, I’m very keen to know.)

OK, so the quotes above are taken out of context and I’ve not read books from which they’re taken and they could be great books, of course they could, but what irks me about all this dick-slurping and arse-greasing is that, on the whole – fnaar - it’s very very very very boring. There’s no artistry to it. I’m talking about the writing here of course – there could be a breath-taking amount of artistry in the actual slurping of the dick or the actual greasing of the arse. But writing about it in such bald, prosaic terms is about as erotic as a knee-trembler in a lorry full of rotting meat. Actually, scratch that – that might just work.

You see, I reckon that this excerpt, from Keats, is actually genuinely erotic:

‘Anon his heart revives: her vespers done;
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees.’

- from The Eve of St Agnes

For me, that is arousing. I am sitting here with the glimmer of genital emboldenment and a palpable ache to read on. Whereas all that balls-out ‘ooh, look at me cunt!’ rubbish just leaves me cold. I find it really tiresome.

Now, speaking of tiresome, we come to Sebastian Horsley.

I would like at this point to officially nominate him as London’s Most Tiresome Man. I’ve encountered people like this before. They’re always going on about fucking babies or raping nuns or wanking over Hitler or smearing shit on dead bodies. And they seem to genuinely believe themselves to be shocking, and they clearly get off on it. They’re addicted to it. They’re shockaholics. But those aren’t gasps they can hear, they’re yawns. For there is nothing more inherently tedious than people whose only desire is to show the world with how incredibly outrageous they are.

Plus, to make matters worse, this Horsley character also prides himself on his pretentiousness. Everything he says reeks of pith. He has bon mots coming out of his top hat. He considers himself a dandy, an artist, a renegade.

‘Living in Soho is like an ongoing orgasm… God created the country, Satan created Soho. It is proof that hell is full and the damned walk the streets. It is a madhouse without walls… Ten years ago, on a good night here you could get your throat cut. Now there’s even a health club in Soho! Can you imagine that? It has really got worse. The air used to be clean and the sex dirty, and now it’s the other way around. The only pocket of resistance is my house... It’s better to be quotable than honest... I say that I injected cocaine into my knob but that was actually heroin... Think of how many boring, blameless lives are brightened by the blazing indiscretion of me.’

If you were with him and he came out with stuff like that, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself, would you? You’d just have to take off his top hat and be sick in it.

Oh, and he prides himself on his misogyny too. Of course he does, he’s outrageous. Here are a selection of things Sebastian Horsley has said about women:

‘I remember the first time I had sex - I still have the receipt. The girl was alive, as far as I could tell, she was warm and she was better than nothing. She cost me £20.’

‘What I hate with women generally is the intimacy, the invasion of my innermost space, the slow strangulation of my art.’

‘The problem is that the modern woman is a prostitute who doesn't deliver the goods. Teasers are never pleasers; they greedily accept presents to seal a contract and then break it. At least the whore pays the flesh that's haggled for.’

- all of the above quotes from this, his paean to prostitution. (you may find it interesting to contrast that vile, self-centred, self-fellating, barrage of contrived outrageousness with this, written by someone who doesn't appear to hate women, sex or himself.)

And then there’s this from the Time Out article:

‘Let’s just say for the sake of argument that I’m a misogynist. If I want to dislike women I should be allowed to. As it happens I love them. Women to me are privately worshipped and publicly disdained. I just like pissing people off. I like language and it excites me to write violently against the things that I love. Everyone knows it isn’t right to go and chop women’s heads off….’

Horsley is like the six-year-old boy who has just discovered he can get a reaction if he takes down his pants or says ‘fuck’ a lot. There is desperation oozing from him. And of course, he only says these things so that people will respond, and be shocked. But they're not shocked, they're merely repulsed. And bored. But of course that’s enough for Horsley. As he says on his dreary, try-hard blog, ‘The more one is hated, I find, the happier one is.’

Oh, well. Best stop then.

But I will leave the last words to him.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, Sebastian Horsley, London’s Most Tiresome Man:

‘Why shouldn’t I be allowed to say stupid, outrageous things? If you don’t like them, you can suck my Nazi cock.’

Yawn.

Sex in Cyberia :: Like a Leopard On a Dove

So yeah, as I mentioned, I lost my cybersex virginity on Sunday night. And now, because blogs are all about making public that which once would have remained strictly private, I’m going to share the experience with you. If I had had real sex with Grace – this was the name of the lady in question, if indeed she was a lady – then what I’m about to do would be the equivalent of me embedding a video of us going at it. Which would make me nothing more than a lowly peddler of smut. However, all we actually did was type words to one another, and although at times the words do get a little spicy – if you’re of a prim disposition, consider this a warning – it is just a conversation, so I feel less like a pornographer, and more like a purveyor of spice. A spice boy.

Zigazig aah.

I had been chatting on and off to Grace for a few days by the way, so we had already got to know one another a little, but the conversation had only recently taken on a zesty thrust. So here it is, with permission, my virtual cherry, laid bare and pulsing...


wicked.grace: so do you want to ‘cyber’, as I believe the kids call it?
elbows: but i'm eating my banana and peanut butter sandwich
wicked.grace: well hurry up. I’m feeling sexy.
elbows: oh my
wicked.grace: what are you wearing?
elbows: oh god, lots of clothes. It’s freezing in here at the moment. I think the heating’s busted. I keep meaning to have a word with the landlord but there just aren’t enough hours in the day. And he’s not the easiest person to get hold of at the best of times, let alone when I want something doing. You still feeling sexy?
wicked.grace: You’re not taking this seriously are you?
elbows: I’m sorry. Am I supposed to? Are you?
wicked.grace: A bit. Well, I was going to try and give it a try
elbows: OK, hold on. Right. Sandwich finished. Now I just need to establish a couple of ground rules here – I’ve never done this before you see and I really don’t know how it works. So – am I supposed to tell the truth? Or just tell you what I think you want to hear?
wicked.grace: I’m not sure. The truth I guess. Maybe with a couple of sexy lies thrown in.
elbows: Really? OK, here we go. I’m wearing a large tee shirt with an amusing slogan on it ('Warning: this t-shirt may contain tits' - hilarious), plus a big fisherman’s jumper, plus a woolly hat pulled down over my ears. On my bottom half however, I’m wearing skintight sexy rubber pants, and no underwear. Woof!
wicked.grace: Hmmm.
elbows: what are you wearing?
wicked.grace: I’m wearing leather boots and tight blue jeans. On my top half I’m wearing a green shirt and a green scarf round my neck.
elbows: Long or short sleeves?
wicked.grace: long sleeves, pulled up to the elbows.
elbows: Please don’t say ‘elbows’.
wicked.grace: Sorry. Long sleeves. I’m also wearing red lipstick and my hair is tied back in a pony tail.
elbows: gosh, I’m becoming aroused already. It really works!
wicked.grace: would you like me to take off some clothes?
elbows: I’m not sure. Is your heating working OK?
wicked.grace: tip top, yeah. I’m actually quite warm.
elbows: OK then. Maybe you could slip something off.
wicked.grace: will you join me?
elbows: OK then.
wicked.grace: I’ve loosened the scarf around my neck first. I’ve slipped it off and let it drop to the living room floor.
elbows: I’ve taken off my hat. And thrown it at the cat.
wicked.grace: I’ve undone the top button of my shirt. Then the next.
elbows: You’ll be here all night at that rate. Hold on… There. I’m naked.
wicked.grace: Hmmm.
elbows: Nnngh! Nurk!
wicked.grace: ?
elbows: I came.
wicked.grace: I don’t think you’re very good at cybersex. I’m sorry to have to say that to you. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but you should know. In fact, you’re the worst I’ve ever had.
elbows: I’m sorry.
wicked.grace: Meh.
elbows: No I really am sorry. I wish I could make it up to you.
wicked.grace: Maybe you’re better in real life.
elbows: much better, yes.
wicked.grace: I bet you’re not as repulsive as you say you are.
elbows: Honestly, I’m worse.
wicked.grace: I kind of wish you were here anyway, so I could see for myself.
elbows: I am here.
wicked.grace: I mean here.
elbows: So do I. I’m standing behind you right now. Can’t you hear me breathing?
wicked.grace: Oooh, hello.
elbows: You’re sitting at your desk in the living room. I’m standing behind you. I reach my hand out and run my fingers over your neck, over the hair at the back of your neck.
wicked.grace: that’s nice. Would you kiss it maybe?
elbows: kissing's later. First I pinch your ear lobes with my fingers, then lean forward and smell your hair
wicked.grace: you're making me slightly moist
elbows: it smells nice. Your hair I mean. Not your moistness. I can’t smell your moistness. Not yet.
wicked.grace: you're making murmuring noises into my ear
elbows: Yes, I kiss the top of your left ear, slowly, murmuring.
wicked.grace: mmmmm
elbows: you are a little tense though – I think I need to apply some pressure to your back. My hands move down and my thumbs burrow into your flesh.
wicked.grace: I groan and reach around to you
elbows: i kiss your neck
wicked.grace: i can feel how hard you are
elbows: lightly. I groan.
wicked.grace: I start to touch you
elbows: where?
wicked.grace: gently rubbing the top of you. You’re poking out of your trousers
elbows: i've moved my hands round to your breasts - i can't resist
wicked.grace: I'm loosening your belt and reaching in to hold all of you in my hand
elbows: i'm caressing your breasts with both hands. I want to kiss you
wicked.grace: i want to turn around and take you in my mouth
elbows: I really need to kiss you
wicked.grace: I'm turning around and looking up at you
elbows: I stroke your face
wicked.grace: I offer you my tongue
elbows: I bend toward you
wicked.grace: I lick your hand
elbows: I move your face to mine
wicked.grace: I look into your eyes
elbows: I kiss you lightly on the top lip
wicked.grace: My lips are throbbing with desire
elbows: i lick them, lightly
wicked.grace: mmm, you tease
elbows: with the tip of my tongue
wicked.grace: i intake breath, sharply
elbows: my hands are on you. my hands are all over you. I unbutton your shirt.
wicked.grace: please...
elbows: i unbutton you quickly and pull your shirt over your shoulders while I’m kissing your cheeks, the corners of your mouth
wicked.grace: i lick you every time you come near me
elbows: i pull away a little, teasing you
wicked.grace: i'm still offering you my tongue and i'm still holding your cock, lightly. i start to move my hand
elbows: i need to feel you
wicked.grace: it's throbbing, moving on its own
i unzip you
i turn to get close to you
i pause to lick your stomach and breathe hot air on the part i've just licked
i move down, slowly, peppering your body with kisses until i reach your man-hair!
and I feel your cock, throbbing, pulsating against my cheek.
i rub my cheek against it for a moment, and it responds, nudging me back
elbows: i need to remove, i need you to remove - pull my pants down! please!
wicked.grace: i slowly tug at your pants
and they fall down around your ankles
elbows: i feel like i'm about to lose control. it's all too much
wicked.grace: keys and change in the pockets clinking
and I take you in my mouth, your hot hardness, and I take my tongue and offer it to your cock instead
elbows: my cock accepts your tongue
wicked.grace: i'm feeling your every movement inside my mouth
elbows: i put my hand on the back of your head and push it onto me
my cock is deep inside your mouth
wicked.grace: i take you as deep as i can
my throat opens up too
elbows: nnngh
wicked.grace: and I move back and forth, tickling the underneath of you with my tongue
elbows: this is too much for me. i lift your head from my cock and kiss you passionately. Then I drag you to the bed and leap on top of you, like a leopard onto a dove. my tongue is deep in your mouth
wicked.grace: i'm trembling with lust
elbows: i am kissing you hard
and my left hand has moved down to your crotch
wicked.grace: i'm scratching your back with my nails
elbows: i am rubbing you violently
wicked.grace: and moaning
elbows: i undo your belt
your top button
scratching at your zip
i undo it
i use my other hand and start to pull at your jeans
wicked.grace: i am very wet now
i let you
elbows: i move down your body quickly and pull off your jeans - down your legs - off!
wicked.grace: i raise my ass off the bed to help you a bit
elbows: don’t say ass
then i remove your knickers in one swift movement and while your bum is raised i flip you over onto your stomach
then i move up between your legs and thwap my cock against your buttocks
wicked.grace: mmm, i love being face down
elbows: thwap thwap
i push my hand into the small of your back
my thumb finds its way into your bum
wicked.grace: mmmm, it slides in because you've licked it
elbows: my fingers are in your vagina too
of course i've licked it. it's dripping
wicked.grace: that gets wetter as you play with my ass
elbows: sigh
my hand is in you like a bowling ball
(sorry for the bowling ball analogy)
wicked.grace: dirty. i like it
elbows: Ok then. i bowl you across the room and the furniture goes flying
i follow you
wicked.grace: erm
elbows: and launch myself at your rectum. then i'm in you like a light sabre through a knob of butter. fffshoom
wicked.grace: no no no.
elbows: fffshoom. shhhhhvummm. fffshoom. fffshoom
wicked.grace: stop with the analogies. keep the butter, lose the lightsabre
elbows: what about the knob?
wicked.grace: so, you're buttering me up
and slipping in
yeah, that can stay
elbows: i slide in slowly
like, real slow
wicked.grace: in and then out and then in again, ever so slowly
i can feel myself opening up to you
bit by bit
elbows: i can feel myself throbbing inside you
wicked.grace: i can feel that too, inch by inch, you're filling me up
i'm wriggling away a bit, as it's so intense, and then coming back for more
pushing myself back onto you
enjoying the impalement
elbows: i push myself into you a little harder as you try and inch away
i'm not letting you get away
i pull you onto me
grabbing your hips
pulling
i grunt involuntarily
wicked.grace: i'm clawing at the bedsheets and the pillows
i'm grunting too
elbows: i scratch your back and slap you hard on the right buttock
slap!
wicked.grace: i'm almost there, you're almost all in
the last part is the most fulfilling
elbows: slap! slap! slap!
wicked.grace: when everything opens up like a flower, and I feel the whole of you
elbows: my right hand snakes around your hips to your frontal flower and slips and slides and rubs and gently pinches
wicked.grace: i feel your front against my back, and your hand on my petals...or should that be my stamen?
elbows: my hand is sticky with your love pollen
wicked.grace: i'm moaning with agony/ecstasy/ mostly ecstasy
elbows: i'm pumping into you quite hard now
wicked.grace: yes, i'm so wet, i'm leaving a wet patch on the bed
elbows: and squeezing you
slapping your buttocks
scratching your back
pulling your hair
it's like i have 12 hands
wicked.grace: i'm moving against you, pushing when you pull
elbows: and three cocks
wicked.grace: you feel huge. and hard.
elbows: the bed is juddering
wicked.grace: i'm biting my lip, biting the pillow, anything in reach
elbows: . i'm bellowing
someone starts banging on the ceiling from upstairs.
i carry on bellowing
wicked.grace: the rythym quickens
elbows: like a mad fuck-wizard
i pull back your head by your hair and lift your legs
wicked.grace: i'm moaning loudly
elbows: you're floating
we're both floating!
wicked.grace: i'm calling your name
elbows: a frantic floating fuck!
i'm calling yours!
i can't hold out much longer!
wicked.grace: i'm going to come with you
I'm going to judder as hard as the bed
elbows: you'd better be quick then - I.. I...
wicked.grace: i reach down and touch myself to quicken my orgasm
i'm coming with you
elbows: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh
I am screaming
weeping
coming from every orifice
wicked.grace: I'm speechless
just breathless
still shuddering, weak-kneed
elbows: i'm blind
and deaf
there are lights behind my eyes
i cannot breathe
where am I? I feel your breath
i open my eyes
wicked.grace: i feel your come pumping into me, like foam from a fireman’s hose
elbows: nice analogy. i look at you. you are the most beautiful woman i have ever seen in my life
i kiss you tenderly
wicked.grace: i'm pink-cheeked and sticky
i kiss you back
softly
elbows: i hold you
wicked.grace: i run my hands through your hair
elbows: i pinch your cheeks and punch you on the shoulder, like the Fonz. Eeeeeyyyyyyyyy.
wicked.grace: eeeeeyyyyyyyyy
elbows: Heh. You know what? That was fun.
wicked.grace: Did you come?
elbows: What, really? No, I wasn’t even touching myself. Were you? Did you come?
wicked.grace: No, not quite. I’m going to go and finish myself off now. You should send a photo.
elbows: I’ll try.
wicked.grace: Try hard. x


Yesterday morning I wrote to Grace and asked her if I could blog our exchange. She said I could. I sent her a photo.

I’ve yet to hear back.