After finishing yesterday’s blog and collapsed into my warm waterbed, I realised that I’d ranted a lot about the colour pink, but without any kind of pictorial evidence (other than the little self portraits at the bottom of each page, but I doubt more than the most dedicated readers are pressing refresh/F5 until you’ve seen all of the images). Thus, I compiled this little ‘Homage to Pink’: [SinglePic not found]
And if you’re curious (I mean curious about the photos, not some other definition…) –
Top left: My get-up for an 80s-themed party, where I figured a ‘horseshoe moustache‘ would fit right in (my moustache made it to the first page of search results!) Turns out I was a little more over-dressed for the party than the other party-goers… But hey, I have a DIMPLE in my chin!
Top right: Um… I think I’m just posing in a pink pashmina here.
Bottom left: Halloween. Gay cowboy (it wasn’t my idea, I swear).
Bottom right: Turkey, camera-whoring it up in a hotel in Antalya. Yes, I know it looks like I have huge boobs and a triangular torso. It’s just a trick of the light!
I think I like this one. It’s not an AMAZING photo, but it’s interesting. I’m not quite sure why the depth of field is quite so shallow… might be because there was a lot of reflected light into the camera.
Anyway, if you know your foliage, you’ll be able to identify this is a honeysuckle plant! It’s a long way off budding though, as they don’t usually flower for another few months. The leaves are usually a rather dull red, but you can see here that when you let a low sun shine through their leaves you get some startling oranges and pinks and yellows!
Oh, and the spider web was an added bonus — note the sun glinting off it in the far bottom left!
I really hope the sun continues into the weekend. It actually feels like Spring is finally here!
The winner of my inaugural competition, beating off all the competition with a big, spiked club is… (and I know this will seem like a fix)… Pink Jellybaby!
Pink. I like pink. Pink slippers. Pink cakes. Pink cats. Even better if it’s sparkly too. Pink laptop. Pink phone. Pink dressing gown. If there’s a choice of colour, I always pick pink. It’s just better that way. Passionate about pink, that’s me. I’d like a pink house but I don’t think The Boy would like that. Boy’s are anti pink. I don’t dress in pink though. That’s important. Not everything is good in pink. You have to know where the boundaries are.
I have to admit, I also love pink. I don’t know when I first started loving pink, but I think it probably had something to do with my mother’s pink scarves and pashminas that were always left hanging around the house. I would put them on, and make faces in the mirror… and put sunglasses on…
(Which is where the top right frame of my ‘homage to pink‘ comes from!)
As the winner, I will now read the majority of Pink’s blog and try to really get INSIDE HER HEAD. I will perform the the equivalent of an autopsy, but with her pink pulse still racing. When I think I’ve finally worked out what makes her tick I’ll embark on an epic photo shoot (and some digital manipulation) to bring her the finest avatar possible; an avatar that embodies her spirit and personality so perfectly that she’ll wonder if I’m wholly human… and not some kind of angel.
Anyway, I must rush off now, as it’s Mother’s Day here in England (and for a few other countries I think), and I must spoil my mother with a nice lunch. My dad’s excited because he going to get a free lunch… damn him. I hope it’s as beautiful there as it is here (but really, there’s nothing as beautiful as England bathed in golden, spring sunshine).
I should begin by saying that the tagline has nothing to do with the competition winner: Pink Jellybaby. I just had these two blank spaces simply begging to be filled with some funny text. No doubt, if the Jellybaby actually decides to use it somewhere on her blog, it will have altogether more flattering text… or none at all! The whole thing might also change significantly, because I didn’t send it to her before I posted this entry — this will be the first time she sees it! Hopefully she likes it…
Anyway, the look of those two orange jellybabies on the left: one staring; one with only half a face. They really do look like they rode on the short bus all the way to the beach to stare at the pretty little Pinko. They might even have licked the windows and drooled all over the floor in anticipation. If you kind of squint, the green ones look like they’re eating their hands, or sticking their fingers into their eyes. Self-inflicted gouging. Lovely.
The sad bit is, I shunted the ‘good looking’ jellybabies to the front, leaving the truly malformed misfits to languish behind, trying ever so eagerly to get to the pretty pink one. Now, a question to the oldies: Did jellybabies look better back in the day? Have manufacturing standards really slipped so far downhill that it’s almost impossible to tell jelly head from jelly foot? What are head-first jellybaby eaters like me to do? What if I bite the feet off by mistake and I have to deal with a kicking, screaming baby? Well, not kicking, but…
Anyway, because jellybabies are like… really old (almost 100 years!), I’m not going to write something funny about jellybabies that has no doubt already been written. Instead, I’ll just give you some fun and/or atrocious jellybaby-related links:
A truly worrying site that rates each jellybaby on their flavour, and tells you what instrument they play… (they skateboard too apparently?!) Certainly not for the weak of heart, or those trying to ward off the first signs of early-onset dementia.
The wiki page, for those amongst you that like it straight, without the cruel and racist media bias. For the informed reader. Apparently it’s ‘jelly baby’, and not ‘jellybaby’. Oops.
It seems there’s an illiterate baby clothing site called ‘jellybabys‘. I want to say ‘They’re obviously American’, but it’s an English shop… … I bet their trading name is actually Jelly Baby’s, but you can’t put apostrophes in website addresses. Damn.
If you’re a Doctor Who fan, jellybabies were the favourite snack of the 4th doctor, Tom Baker!
Finally, have you ever questioned the ethics of eating a jellybaby? Someone has.
I was going to link you a poll that showed what bodypart people liked to eat first, but… what would be the point? Obviously ‘bite the head clean off to prevent the damn thing from crying” was #1 by some margin.
(Did you catch my reflection in the glasses of the pink jellybaby?)
Upon regaining consciousness, a few specific thoughts always rush hastily along my neurons and across synapses:
‘Did I forget to use protection?’
‘She told me she was on the pill!”
and old faithful: ‘The guide said two bricks was enough…’
… and then, with clarity returning, and the nagging feeling that I’m not, and never have been a father, I realise it’s just a Jelly Baby. It’s just a Jelly baby trying, in vain, to be heard as it leaves my stomach on its final journey towards the indeterminate fate of my small intestine.
Yesterday, after my Pink Jellybaby photo, I was inspired and encouraged by some wonderful artists on Etsy to do some more Jelly Baby photos — photos that might work on postcards, or greeting cards, or … I don’t know — perhaps there are Jelly Baby fetishists out there! Fetishists that, until now, haven’t been able to find a suitable ‘fix’. Don’t mock me, don’t hate me; I’m just filling a gaping chasm in the Soft Candy Macro Photography market!!
Without further ado, a couple of romantic Jelly Baby photos!
And then, as a proof of concept, I tried adding a caption to the third image, just so you get the idea of the (possible) comic value:
I am interested in your opinions — do you like them? Are they obnoxious, cute, romantic? Would you buy one to give to a loved one, or as some kind of … humourous greeting card?
On the off-chance that you are suddenly struck with the urge to buy 1000 (or more) for distribution purposes, please contact me, and I’m sure we can come to an arrangement — an arrangement that’s good for me, you, and the Jelly Babies I am holding hostage downstairs, under a bright studio light, melting. Excruciatingly slowly, but surely, melting.
Ever since I started writing here on this blog, I’ve been trying to work out the best way to tell you.
I alluded to it with numerous posts about musical theatre, and incredibly insightful articles on the innerworkings of girls; something that a straight guy could never do, at least not with such alarming accuracy.
I even tried to tell you through my constant use, and love, of pink. My pink t-shirts, my pink scarves, my pink fluffy love-cuffs — I tried it all! Somehow… somehow you kept holding on, praying that it was all a ruse, a lie. He must be straight, surely…
I even thought it might’ve been the beard, so I shaved that off too.
I’ve told you tales of me waxing off my leg hair, and you’ve seen the photo of me with the handlebar moustache and hot-pink shoulder-padded jacket — that’s what I wear most weekends!
And then, of course, there were all those stories — the one about me turning a girl gay, or the next girl running off to become a priest. You didn’t actually think they were real? They were mere fabrications; figments of an imaginary world that I have lived in for the last decade. A world that I conjured into existence in an attempt to convince my family, my friends and myself that I’m straight.
Well, I’m not straight.
I’m gay.
Gay, like Boy George rolling up at Mardi Gras in a baby-pink Mini. Gay.
Time and time again I have sat down to dinner with my mother and father, unable to look them in the eye. ‘Got a girlfriend yet, Seb?’ followed by the words I’ve had to repeat each and every time, year after year: ‘No, not yet, Dad…’
Being a wimp — though, finally coming out must surely be the first step to getting some balls? — I thought I would post this entry, instead of telling my parents in person. They both read this blog.
So that’s that, then.
We have a family dinner tonight. I just know my father won’t be able to keep a straight face when dessert is served and I ask him to pass me the hot fudge sauce.
This follows on from last week’s entry where I told the sad story of my first adult crush. This story picks up from about 2 months before my first long-term girlfriend, and is a lot more fun than the story of my crush. You probably don’t know what I looked like back then, so I’ll start with a photo taken in the summer of 2004, a couple of months after this particular story. Don’t be hating the sunglasses; they weren’t mine. Other people’s sunglasses tend to gravitate towards me because I look quite cool — I don’t own a single pair!
It was February. It was cold and rainy. But this was university! And we were young! Weather is so unimportant when you’re young, dumb and full of cu– Anyway, I digress. The point is, at university, no matter the time of year, girls wear almost nothing. As one of the biggest fans of girly-girls — I love dresses, skirts, frills and strappy tops and PINK — university became 3 years of pleasure. 3 years of sitting in one of the main squares and skirt-watching. My best friend and I actually used to go and park up outside a local sixth-form college (16-18 year olds, for the non-Brits) and girl watch.
(Is that lecherous or fairly healthy behaviour for men? Don’t answer that one, I’d rather not know.)
I love skirts. They don’t even have to be short, though it obviously helps my crippled male imagination if they are. For me, it’s all about the flowery flowy flounciness that comes with cute and light clothing. A long, prettily-patterned summer dress can be as attractive as a mini-skirt. If you boil it right down, men love skirts because of the ease of access. I’ve actually lifted the skirts of a girlfriend’s dress over her head so that she couldn’t see and then… done things to her that I shan’t repeat here. That was hot.
So, that’s lesson number one: if you want to get into my pants, try wearing a skirt. Those militant jeans-wearers aren’t completely out of the running, they just better be damn awesome jeans — or a mighty fine figure better be eye-poppingly obvious through examination of your denim exoskeleton.
Lesson number two is: if a drunk girl in a short skirt asks you to carry her home, unequivocally and without allowing your brain a moment’s thought, say yes. Read my journal entry from 2004, and I’ll carry on where it left off.
Chivalry, huh, my arse… — February 2004
Well, that’s the last time I carry a girl from the Underground [the university's main night club] to her house… about 500 meters.
All because she was hideously drunk, all over me, offering sexual favours of all sorts and wearing a rather pretty, short, hot-pink skirt.
Ho hum.
Thank God for honour and chivalry, eh?
And to top it all off, she had 4 friends staying over for the weekend. 4 very drunk friends…
Anyway, starting from the beginning… Marc and I decided to go out and have fun. We’re fast becoming going-out buddies. We thought we’d just go out, look cool… see what happens, that kind of thing. We get to the bar. Order our drinks. Strike a pose. Watch the women go by… Becki, Marc’s crush from last week is there… She doesn’t even make eye-contact with him. She’s obviously playing hard to get…
So, insert a brief foray into Mondo [a smaller nightclub], and then an extended stay in the Underground and you pretty much have my night, wrapped up in a nutshell.
But you’d have to gloss over the stagger back to the South Courts [her house], and the party that ensued, with Marc, the five girls (Becki and her friends) and I. Mad, I tell you.
Luckily they were drunk, really. Otherwise I might have done something I’d regret.
I mean, they all changed into their pajamas. At the same time.
…
First, I should explain the difficulties of carrying a girl in a short skirt. There’s simply no where to put your second hand. So, on her pert ass it goes. Hell, she didn’t seem to mind, and neither did I. I dragged out those 500 meters to her house by walking very, very slowly. For the record, that’s as close as I’ve ever come to abusing a drunken girl. I hope she wasn’t that drunk actually, as we did have a bit of a ‘moment’, with her there in my arms, blearily looking up into my eyes, my nervous, sweaty hand on her buttock. Anyway…
Secondly, and this is where it gets a bit messy (try to keep track!): Becki was the best friend of the girl that would soon become my first long-term girlfriend. I actually got close to Becki before I later got close to my soon-to-be girlfriend. In fact, I might have ended up with Becki, if she hadn’t crushed so hard on Marc, my housemate, and a slew of other beach bums! It was a very complicated 2 months which I don’t remember all the details of (so I shan’t repeat them here, in case I get things wrong), but let’s just say ‘Love Triangle’ doesn’t even begin to describe what was going on. I think, individually, I slept with Becki, my girlfriend-to-be and Marc and there was even some three-way action at one point. It was all a very confusing period, and I’m very happy with how it ended — and how my first proper relationship begun!
That whole mess somehow ended up with me in a happy, healthy relationship that would turn out to last for the rest of my days at university. She wasn’t a geek, but that didn’t stop me from turning her into one. I didn’t want to completely geekify her — I wanted her to continue wearing those tiny skirts and strapless tops. I did manage to get her to dress up, but not as a character from her favourite anime or sci-fi film. Actually, she didn’t like anime at all (phew!) She had a rather awful (you can imagine the grimace on my face…) habit of turning up at my house in just a long coat and lingerie. Damn her.
The rest of that story’s for another day though, next Thursday perhaps!
Please note how I refrained from taking advantage of five (5) girls in the smallest almost-there pyjamas that I’ve ever been fortunate enough to witness. The whole drunken-girls-trying-to-woo-me would be a recurring theme throughout university. If only the sober ones had tried…
Hello! This is Eleni of RPG Called Life doing a guest post for Sebastian. The story behind why I am doing this guest blog is long and complicated, but luckily it is the story this post will tell. Given the nature of the story, this post might almost fit in with Seb’s series about geeky guys–something like “How to seduce a geek over the internet”. The geek in question, of course, is our own dear Seb.
One of the TV shows that Seb has made it clear he watches is the new Joss Whedon series Dollhouse. He likes the show, though not nearly as much as he likes its star, Eliza Dushku. You may have noticed a series of “Dushku Day” posts over the past several Saturdays in which he inserts strategic screen shots of her and gushes about how sexy she looks, the words typed out by his drool as it hits the keyboard. But even we girls can see how she’s attractive: beautiful features, lovely brown hair, well-toned body, sexy outfits. And she’s all the more attractive to geeky guys because she’s the star of a sci-fi show. It’s a bit frustrating, really. How is a girl to compete with the likes of Eliza? Most of us can’t really compete with her, but we can use her to our advantage–her, and her socks.
Let’s go back to the March 27 episode of Dollhouse and Sebastian’s post about it the following day. In his post, Seb raved about the socks Echo (Eliza Dushku’s character) was wearing and, more importantly, the way these socks in combination with her cute short skirt showed off her legs.
In the post comments, Seb’s readers debated what these lacy accessories covering Dushku’s legs should be called–tights, pop socks, hosiery, fishnets, over the knee socks, knee-highs, leg-warmers, pantyhose, and stockings were all suggested. Thanks to an Entertainment Weekly column that allows readers to write in and ask where clothing or accessories in a movie or TV show come from, along with a reader named Kelsey who was just as intrigued by Echo’s socks as we were, I found out exactly what these mystery accessories were. They were “snuggly pointelle” over-the-knee socks sold at freepeople.com. Unfortunately, the ivory socks that Dushku wears were out of stock, but the black ones were still available. The conversation between Sebastian and me in the post comments can be summarized as follows:
Me: Hey, I found those socks! Seb: How about I buy them for you so you can take pictures and then I can ogle at your legs all day! Me: Um… sure. Seb: On second thought, I’m too cheap. Me: Fine, save the money for someone you’ve actually met; I’ll buy them for myself and take pictures.
[Journalistic integrity is something that happens to other people. I'll let the libel go... because of the next photo. -S]
My luxurious, long, soft, shimmery socks arrived in the mail soon thereafter. Now that I had the socks, I had to keep my promise to take some pictures of me wearing them. But what should I wear with the socks for my “photo shoot”? Truth be told, I had neither skirt nor shoes to go with these socks, but these items could be obtained. The question was, what does Seb like (in addition to Eliza Dushku’s legs)? Let’s see… geekery, short skirts, pointe shoes, and the color pink. Using my pointe shoes solved one of my problems, so all I had to do was find a pink miniskirt, and then I was all set.
Prior to my photo shoot, I sent Sebastian a teaser photo with just the socks and the pointe shoes hanging on the back of a chair. Quite innocent, really. He responded–and I quote–”Are yoou tryin’ to seduce me Misses Rawbinson…?” The only proper response was this:
Would you like me to seduce you?
[This was possibly one of the best emails I've ever received. -S]
I think he rather liked that. Whetted his appetite, and it got the ball rolling for me. I had already decided my outfit would include the socks, a pink miniskirt, and pointe shoes. But what poses could I do to display these accessories? What would most get a geek’s attention?
One way to seduce a geek is by playing into his geeky fantasies–in this case, by mimicking Eliza Dushku. In the opening credits of Dollhouse, there are two clips in which Dushku is wearing the (ivory) socks. In one, we see her legs as she walks into a room, dropping her coat on the floor behind her. In the other, we see a close-up of her legs as she rests one foot on a low table and pulls up her sock, and between her legs in the foreground we see her looking out from a mirror in the background. These two photos are my attempt to recreate these clips. The latter was considerably more difficult, since I don’t actually have a mirror and my nascent Photoshop skills can only do so much.
“la la la la la, la la la la la…” (Dollhouse theme song)
[Watching the intro to Dollhouse will never be the same, thanks Eleni. -S]
Another way to get a geek’s attention is to show off your own inner (or not so inner) geek. Here, I model my xkcd shirt (the “I’m not slacking off, my code’s compiling” shirt that’s supposed to raise your programming and swordfighting skills to 18). Because geek girls are awesome, right?
If all else fails to entice your geeky mark, you can always pull something less geeky and more basic…
So there you have it, my crazy geeky photos. Seeing as Sebastian’s birthday is coming up next week, I guess I can call these photos my birthday gift to him. Hope you like them! By the way, Dollhouse’s exciting season finale airs tonight. It’s going to be a good one!
Warning: This post contains adult themes of a sexual nature.
After the (un)comfortably-short-skirt incident my life settled down: I got a proper girlfriend. A fun-loving straight girl that actually liked PENIS instead of strap-ons — hooray! Now fast forward a year: I’ve been in a relationship for a year and things are going well — as well as can be expected for my first long-term girlfriend!
It was 10am and far too early to be up and about, but we both had lectures to attend so there we were, lamely limping into university, her arms around me.
‘I’d offer to carry you on my back, but I think I put it out during the standing-69…’
We hobbled on in contemplative silence, the night of passion coming back to flood our senses. We grin at each other.
‘It’s OK, Sebby. I don’t think I could hold on with these thighs anyway… What did you DO down there?’
To say that we had an active sex life would be a massive understatement. Once upon a time sex 5, 6, 7 times a night wasn’t a problem. I’d collapse in a sweaty heap afterward but be ready to go again in the morning! Today, a flight of stairs will leave me breathless. That’s why I’ve been working on my cardiac fitness, incidentally. I can’t imagine a girl would be very understanding if I go to all the effort of serenading, courting, wooing… and then not follow through with the goods. Anti-climax, I think they’d call it. Not usually a problem of mine, being an under-sexed geek, but a man should look after his heart! Back at university, I actually kept a list of every available room and surface in the house, and by the end of university everything on that list had been crossed off (I think some of my university housemates are reading this — sorry you had to find out this way but we did tidy up properly…)
In most extended sexual encounters, a couple will go through a variety of positions: the tight, fully-clothed embrace, followed by lingering kisses down the jaw to the neck. A hand slips inside your shirt, or skirt, and then your hands are everywhere all at once, fingertips reawakening parts of you that have lain dormant since the last time you were together; nether regions that can only be awoken by your lover. The kissing and groping continues, the latent heat building up between you until you’re uncomfortably hot. Finally one of you stops and looks down. Pause. You’re at a crossroads: to the left there’s dinner, dessert and Desperate Housewives. To the right, a night of sweaty, limb-entwined debauchery. I grin and slide down over her stomach, leaving teasing little kisses as I go. A quick bite on the thigh and it’s time for sex, baby!
If you’re athletic and gymnastic, or just plain crazy, there are a lot of positions available to you: some intimate, some not. Some easy-going and some so blisteringly intense that I’m lucky if I last more than a few minutes. A lot of couples, I am told, don’t get much further than the missionary position — whether that’s due to lack of creativity, or an upbringing where inventiveness in the bedroom is considered aberrated I don’t know, but they’re missing out!
This is where things are going to become a little Too Much Information (TMI), so if you’re under 18 or wearing tight clothing, you might want to look away now.
We both had a day off and we were making the most of it — sex during daylight hours is a lot of fun: erotic and explicit because you’re totally exposed. It’s about as ‘exhibitionist’ as you can get without actually doing it in public. Little did we know, there actually was a spectator, a voyeur — we were unwittingly exhibiting ourselves! There we were, on my bed, naked and excited. The kissing had come and gone, the foreplay had been abandoned and she slid over my my body into one of our favourite positions (if you can’t see the animation below, you’ll have to visit my blog — it’s not quite right, but it gives you a good idea of what I’m talking about).
I’ll spare you most of the details (you can click the little animation, if you want more info) but I’ll tell you this: it’s a good position, a really good position. For both of you. And I haven’t had the chance to do it in… 4 years now… Jesus. ANYWAY…
You have to imagine lots of panting and whimpering now — mine if you’re a girl and hers if you’re a guy. Faster, harder, deeper! No, no, wrong hole! YES, yes, YES.My arms are burning — I’ve got strong fingers from the typing, but my arms just aren’t up to the job. Quicker and tighter, I give it all I’ve got, hoping we make it to the finishing line together — it’s going to be close, but if I can time it just right and if I don’t pass out… The panting turns to moaning, the whimpering now a low growl. Sebby, I’m… coming…
‘OH MY GOD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO THAT GIRL?’
Sebby… don’t… stop!
‘My housemate’s mother is looking through the bedroom window at us. Do you really want me to carry on?’ Mid-thrust, I give her a little wave from my vantage point, hidden underneath my girlfriend’s very naked, very pink and still-quivering body.
But, but… buttt… She squirms around, still very much attached to me and not ready to let go just yet. She sighs. Fine… The g-spot orgasm she’d been seconds away from has eluded her, for a while longer at least.
My housemate’s mother is still watching, her nose pushed up against the window, a rictus of curiousity and terror embossed upon her face. I notice I’ve left one of the windows open. Damn.
‘Should we continue…?’ I don’t want to disappoint our new-found fan. Finally it dawns on my girlfriend that someone’s mother has just watched us go at it, possibly for a long time… She quickly climbs under the duvet and glares at the window. Make her go away, Sebby…
Eventually my housemate arrived — she’d heard the scream and come running. Looking in she grinned at me (another story, that one) and pulled her catatonic mother away who was still muttering to herself, ‘but… she’s just a child…’
What I would’ve given to read her mother’s thoughts. I have my money on: ‘That girl needs a merkin!’
I wanted to call it the ‘animal special’ but I think ‘animal and assorted creatures of fantasy’ would be more accurate. Though ‘any excuse to dress up as an anthropomorphic animal so that girls can ride you’ would be pretty accurate too.
I’m busy writing and recording (Guaranteed 100% Italian Free) some kick-ass (non-faerie-related) entry for tomorrow, so you just a photo of me as Tinker Bell (which is incidentally hosted on my Flickr photo stream).
Bonus points if you can work out what’s stuck into my waistband. And aren’t my ‘flowy arms’ magical?! Not bad for a frickin’ giant.
