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!’

Much like last week’s entry, this one definitely contains very adult themes — no pictures or animations this time though, so it is work-safe! The title is a little misleading, but you’ll have to read the entire story if you want to find out why. If I disappear from the Internet for a few days after publishing this, it’s because I’ve gone to hide in a corner, whereupon I will be blushing like a schoolgirl that’s just accidentally touched a boy’s willy. If you want more Too Much Information (TMI) stories head over to Lilu’s blog — but my story’s probably far more embarrassing than any of theirs.

The hotel room itself was nice enough, functional. A king-size bed: a little firm, but good back-support would be ideal for the kind of weekend we had planned.

It was all going so well until she pulled out the tube of lube.

‘It’s time, Seb.’

Time for what? My mind was racing, desperately trying to work out what I’d agreed to. Was this another case of me forgetting the little details? Women are so good at remembering. Had I agreed to do something and then conveniently filed it into the ‘Nag Me So That I Remember’ compartment of my mind?

She shifted her weight. She must’ve noticed my hesitation. I’d been very, very keen so far to try anything and everything — so had she! — but now I was sitting on the bed, staring at the tube she held in her hand. There was an impish grin on her face. An impatient-looking grin.

‘Ohhh…!’ I still hadn’t a clue but, by now, I’d learnt to just go with it, be decisive — there’s a big difference between rushing out at the last moment to buy your girlfriend a birthday present and actually forgetting her birthday.

‘Right… hand it over then!’

[I'm struggling to write the story at this point, but I'll continue on... -S]

I squirted a little lube onto my hand. Cold, slimy. What was I meant to do? Just rub it on? Sure, I can do that… On it went. Slippery. A little chilly too — menthol? Wow, my nervousness slipping away, this was going to be wild!

She sat back onto me — the Asian Cowgirl (don’t click!), apparently –  and… sure enough, the lube helped; a bit too much, if you know what I mean, boys. Before I know it, she’s bouncing around like a maniac, my biceps pumping like pistons. Faster, faster, DEEPER – penetration has never been this easy! In the heat of the moment I decide to go for one of my favourite moves, the back-breaking whip-it-all-the-way-out-and-then-thrust-back-in-even-deeper. I arch my back and push her upwards, escaping for just a moment. We take a collective breath and she grins at me over her shoulder. This is the run-up to the finishing line we’ve got to get it right. I pull down on her hips and thrust upwards.

BANG! Back in I go. But wait a second… this feels different. Really different. Tighter.

‘FUCK, Sebastian!’

I withdraw quicker than the head of a terrified turtle.

‘Shit, wrong hole! Er… not shit, I mean… er… DAMN!’

…

That was the end of that. Ironically, the lube was actually purchased with that purpose in mind! I think she’d anticipated a bit more warning and preparation. The lube went back into the bedside table drawer, never to be seen again…

But not the end of the story! Now the bad bit…

[Deep breaths, Sebastian... deep breaths...-S]

We’re in the shower now. It’s been two days since the incident and I’d all but forgotten about it. Heat of the moment. Controlling your penis isn’t easy at the best of times, especially not the tip of it, 8 inches away from the nearest cluster of muscles. Water under the bridge. What happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom. Obviously though she hadn’t forgotten…

I finish rubbing the soap into her skin and rinse her off with the shower head, with a little teasing of course. I turn around.

‘My turn. Do me!’ So she rubs shower gel into my back, my shoulders, my torso. It’s slippery and soft and warm and wet. Her hands work their way down over my stomach to my hips and then she teases me with the soap, her hands, the shower’s jets of water. I’m getting quite into it when all of a sudden, out of fucking nowhere:

POP! Finger up ass. All the way up. My last virginity, taken ruthlessly and without consent. At least she’d lubed her finger first.

‘How’d you like that, Seb?’

Back in time again, to the beginning of my second year at university. The following action will actually take place in the same bedroom that would later be involved in the ‘Voyeur Mother‘ story. Again, Lilu’s blog has a bunch of other embarrassing Too Much Information stories, if mine doesn’t make you squirm enough — which I find highly unlikely.

I looked down at plastic, pink spheres, graded in order of size, neatly strung together to form a chain of ten. Someone had left them on the kitchen table — a present? For me? I tentatively reached forward to pick them up when one of my female house mates walked into the kitchen, looked down, the blood draining from her face.

“SEB! Stop!” My hand stopped mere inches from the purple balls. I turned around and looked at her. Her eyes were large, afraid and she stood transfixed, simply staring at the string of beads on the table.

“What…?”

“Th-th-those are… vibrating Thai love beads!” I recoiled and quickly scampered to a safe position behind her, peeking over her shoulder at the dirty, sinful orbs. “Love-what?” I was a late bloomer. I hadn’t a frickin’ clue what love beads were, or why they would be on my kitchen table. In retrospect, it’s even more shocking to realise that she knew what they were. She quickly told me what they were and what they were for. Ew.

Skirting around the outside of the kitchen, holding onto the worktop for support, I made my way to the sink to grab a spatula and some washing-up gloves. “So why are they on our kitchen table?” I scooped them up, holding them at arm’s length. I teased my house mate a little with my beads-on-a-stick. She screamed and ran away. But then I started to think about things: if they’re not mine, and they’re not hers, whose are they? I quickly ruled out two other house mates — they were even more vanilla than I — which left just one other house mate. The dark horse. The sex pest. The one with an Asian girlfriend that looked about 12 years old. Philip, or Phil as he preferred to be called. It was all slotting into place: he’d just come back from a trip to the Far East and he certainly had all the tell-tale signs of being a bit of a bedroom odd-job.

If the kid-like girlfriend wasn’t enough, let’s just say that when I walked into his bedroom and found a couple of restraints tied to the head of the bed, I knew they weren’t for his girlfriend. And neither was the ball gag or spiked paddle, if the noises we’d heard in the middle of the night were anything to go by. Phil, it’s safe to say, was a bit creepy.

So with the spatula extended as far away as possible, the malevolently whiffy beads hung over the end, I walked towards to his bedroom and knocked.

“Come in.” I shuddered. I bet he’d used that line before, whispered huskily to his strap-on wielding pre-pubescent girlfriend. I pushed the door open and he quickly smiled. “So that’s where they are!” Another shudder as I drop them onto his bed and make a hasty exit, keeping my eyes to the floor, saying nothing. My house mate is waiting for me as I leave his room, her big eyes silently asking how’d it go? I shrug listlessly and head back into the kitchen to wash my hands and put the kettle on.

I thought that was the last time I would see anal beads. I was wrong.

…

This is where it gets bad. You probably want to look away now if you don’t deal well with visceral, gory imagery.

A few months passed. Life in the house went by with absolutely no talk of love beads, sex toys or any other kind of interesting apparatus. We even learnt, in time, to turn a blind eye on the Filipino sex slave that he’d probably drugged and brought back to England for his vile bedroom antics.

And then one, dark, stormy night I was sitting in the kitchen enjoying a particularly fine spaghetti bolognese — is there any other pasta dish at university? — when the phone rung. Ring. Just another forkful; perhaps someone else would come to pick the phone up. Fat chance I thought, cudding, chewing, ruminating on the pasta. Brring-ring, chew-chomp. I hate being interrupted by the telephone. It’s so presumptuous to think that someone on the other end actually wants to pick up and that they’re not in the middle of something else. Rrrrrring. I sigh and pick up the phone.

Hi. Is Phil there? It’s his mum. I need to talk to him. It’s an emergency.

I call out his name, no response. Louder, still no response. “He’s probably asleep” I say, sighing down the phone. Really, it’s an emergency, could you go wake him up?

Knock. Knock. No response. I push my ear up against the door. Muffled grunts? The noises of Phil waking up from a deep sleep? Still no response. Knock. Thump. His mother’s voice still weedling away in my ear please, Seb, wake him up, his dad’s just been rushed to hospital. I’m hammering away at the door now — maybe he’s not even in, maybe he’s over at his paedophilic flight of fancy’s flat. Screw it, I barge through the door, his mother’s whining finally pushing me over the edge.

“MmffphhHFNGgrng!”

Ball-gagged and restrained — his wrists to the bed, his legs to his wrists. Take a moment to get a good mental image — OK, are you there now, with me? — his legs were up along each side of his head, his body bent in two. His waxed, smooth ass fully exposed. Just visible, at the eye of the storm, was a hot-pink shiny hemisphere. A wire ran from his puckered orifice to the control box held in his nubile teen’s tiny hands. She was wearing tall heels and not much else.

As I walked further into the room his eyes bulged and looked to the phone still held in my hand.

“GrnngFFGNGFurgnmmpf–UCK, SEB! WHAT’RE YOU DOING?”

His girlfriend had finally unbuckled the ball-gag.

“It’s your mum. Should I tell her you’re busy?”

If only I could think of more words beginning with ‘P’. Four is pretty good as far as alliterated story names go, right? This one takes place a month or two after last week’s story and chronicles yet another disgusting story involving our disgusting house mate Phil. Read last week’s story first for the full effect, or you can’t be bothered: Phil is a sadomasochist, into odd sex games, oozes ’sex pest’ness and has a teenage Asian girlfriend that he probably bought in the Philippines. As always, if you want more stories of this kind, head over to Lilu’s blog.

Enjoy. No, really.

We were cleaning his room, my housemate and I. It was the end of the year and Phil had finally packed his bags and checked out of our shared student house. Being a sadomasochistic, selfish prick he had of course left a lot of mess in the room: an unmade bed, a floor covered in hair, some odd socks strewn about — the usual. It took a while but the room was finally detritus-free and dusted, ready for its new occupant — me! — all that remained was to do some vacuuming.

In hindsight, after the anal beads incident, I probably should’ve thought twice before shoving the end of the vacuum under the bed. The odd, musky, fishy smell that had wafted around the room should’ve set all kinds of alarms off.

Hwwnnnksplttttt-rrrrrrrrrrrrr

That’s the sound of an unhappy sucking device (trust me, I know these things). Quickly turning it off, lest I blow up the mighty suction beast, I ask my house mate to kindly go and yank the obstruction out of the nozzle.

‘It’s awfully dark in here…’ She’s poking around, trying to get a grip.

I wait patiently, wishing the machine had a ‘blow’ setting so I could just… shoot it out! (Wouldn’t that be neat?)

‘I think I got it! It’s… squishy…’ There’s some kind of thwnkwn-splat sound as she finally pulls it out, the tip of it held between her fingers, the body of the rubbery receptacle slapping against her bare stomach.

Gulping, I look at her stomach. ‘Don’t look down!’ She looks at me, tears welling up in her eyes, fear, uncertainty and doubt all intermingling. Eventually she caves and looks down, and screams.

In between her fingertips is the tip of a condom and sloshed across her naked midriff is its rotten, yellowing contents. Phil’s final farewell gift delivered in a way more perfect than he could ever imagine.

She screamed again and ran to wash herself, notes of sickness tinting her warbling vocals.

I called out to her in the bathroom: ‘The worst bit is, I know where that condom is from, and you’re not going to like it…’

Let’s go back four weeks…

I can only assume that they hadn’t anticipated on anyone returning home before 2am, the usual club closing time.

I was stumbling home from university, alone and semi-inebriated. I remember being confused at finding both the ground floor bedroom and kitchen lights on as I approached the house — it was 1am, a whole hour after midnight snack time. I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Usually I would’ve sneaked upstairs cautious not to wake anyone that might be asleep. Instead, the fool that I am, I pushed the kitchen door open.

Whack!

They didn’t hear me as I tip-toed across the plastic floor and took a seat at the table.

WHACK! Ow, baby, harder…

I reached for the bottle of cheap red sitting on the table and poured myself a glass, my drunk eyes trying in vain to digest what was going on just a few feet away. Really, a nurse outfit, Phil? Latex?

WHACK! I know how you like it, big boy!

Looking up from the wine I finally decided it was unfair to let them continue. I was drunk, but I knew this was the kind of thing that would haunt both Phil and his girlfriend for decades — and inevitably: their children. Putting away my camera phone — what an evil, malevolent grin I had on my face — I called out to them.

‘Evening, Phil. Nice ass.’

His girlfriend stumbled, her downswing with the spiked paddle missing completely and hitting the kitchen sink. Turning around to look at me I could finally see the full extent of his child girlfriend’s plastic nurse outfit. If she had breasts, they would’ve hung out of the cut-away, plunging top. The skirt, the belt, left nothing to the imagination. My eyes followed down her short, knobbly, puppy fat-laden legs until I found a pair of black, buckled stilettos with very imposing, spiked heels.

I shook my head, trying to focus on Phil’s back and bottom. It was your usual, run-of-the-mill crotchless leather gimp suit. His buttocks were red raw, little bloody welts forming where the spikes on the paddle had repetitively hit the same spot and eventually broken his hairless skin.

But worst of all, hanging between his legs was his semi-limp penis still sheathed in a condom. And it wasn’t empty.

Back to the present…

My housemate rushes back into the bedroom and glares at me, her stomach and tank-top soaked through, her navel red from being scratched and scrubbed and purged of the disgustingly glutinous fluid.

Sometimes, she says,  it’s better to not tell the entire story.

This entry picks up from the end of my ‘stuck up a bell tower‘ story, one of the more foolish situations I’ve ever found myself in. I’d been rescued from the tallest point in Venice by some stumpy uniformed types that turned out to be the local police… It may not sound like it yet, but this is yet another too-much-information (TMI) story, so stick with it until the end, it delivers. If you want more, check out Lilu’s blog. And now on with the embarrassment…

The bald policemen, both with faces like a smacked bottom, frog-marched me all the way to the nearest canal where a boat with Polizei stencilled on the hull awaited my arrival. The boat’s captain gave a quick flash of the boat’s blue lights and a toot of the siren in greeting. If the boat had had a low roof, or if either of the officers could actually reach my head, they would have no doubt pushed me under it. Instead, they grunted and waited for me to climb on.

I held my head high in a manner that best befits a noble British naval officer as we puttered along the squalid, soupy canals. I become intensely reflective in times of danger or duress: I begun to wonder if the locals realise that tourists overlook how dirty and smelly their city is just because it’s so damn charming. I pondered where they were taking me and what they might do with me when we got there. I even thought about diving over the edge of the boat, but that would’ve meant leaving my camera behind.

So I’m heading to an Italian police station with nothing more than a rudimentary understanding of the language and primitive stick-men-drawing abilities. In other words, I’m stuck up an effluent-topped canal without a paddle — shit.

We pulled up alongside a nondescript brick building; it had bars across the windows, but no other hints that it might be a police station… or worse… jail…

While being lead inside I took one last look at my surroundings in case I had to describe my location over the phone to the British embassy or Jack Bauer while negotiating an escape plan. They pushed me through a dilapidated swing door that was once navy blue and into some kind of reception. My camera and phone were quickly placed in a locker and a form was placed on the table for me to sign. I reached for the pen slowly but one of the men behind me coughed and shook his head, yanking my handcuffs and pulling backwards towards a small room — surely they’re not going to question me… I don’t speak Italian! — and as if reading my thoughts, the other officer promptly appeared with an Italian-English dictionary.

Flopping the tome open at the centrefold I had a feeling these poor guys had done this before. Brits don’t have a fantastic reputation for being great tourists, mainly because of our yobbish football fans. I was about to receive the same treatment reserved for proper troublemakers — is getting stuck at the top of a major landmark really that anti-social?

“You… make… distress.” I nodded slowly and smiled inanely, hoping I came across as some kind of simple-minded pacifist. It’s at times like these I wish I didn’t have a beard, or really big eyes that have the tendency to make eye-contact for extended periods of time — ‘eyeballing’ they call it, in macho-man and law enforcement circles. The police officer tried again:

“You… inebriated?” I stopped nodding and started shaking my head very quickly. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the other policeman pulling some latex gloves out of his pocket. Oh, not drunk… drugged… The one with the dictionary nodded as his face lit up with a a tight-lipped, grim smile. “We check.” He shut the book and signalled to the other officer to lift me out of the chair, which he did, roughly.

The begloved officer pulls the chair away and pushes it into a corner. He snaps the cuff of the gloves with a thwack while the other man takes my still-cuffed hands and pulls them to the far side of the table, forcing me to lean over. I can feel but cannot see the other officer as he reaches around my waist to undo my trousers. I can feel them falling to my ankles, followed moments later by my underwear.

Looking up at the man that’s pinning my wrists to the edge of the cold metal table I try out my best pitiful whimper, a task made all the more simple by the warm, plasticky hands now groping around my buttocks. I let forth a cry as his stumpy fingers enter me with no ceremony, foreplay or lubrication. Prod, wiggle, grunt. Mamma mia! Che macello! (Don’t look that one up)

And then it’s over and he’s pulling out, I’m being uncuffed and he’s pulling his gloves off into a bin. I lay limply on the table for a few minutes until the one with the dictionary breaks the silence: ‘You… free… go, prego, prego.’ He points to the exit and looks irritably at my half-naked form. Smiling bravely and nodding, I reach down with aching arms to pull up my underwear. Thank God I’d already lost that particular virginity a few years ago, I thought to myself, my senses slowly reclaiming ownership of my body. That would’ve been a fun story to tell the kids: how I lost my anal virginity to a bald fat man — and I didn’t even know his name…

Stumbling out into street I knew I’d got off lightly. It could’ve been a lot worse. I could’ve been thrown into a jail cell with a fat, big-bossomed man called Martha that insists I call him ‘mummy’. I could’ve been deported after just 24 hours in Italy.

Most importantly: the policeman could’ve had cold hands.

Another Thursday, another dose of too-much-information. Hit up Lilu’s blog if you want more! This one though is one of my favourites, and one I’ve never actually talked about in public. I hope my friend forgives this little tale about bodily fluids gone wrong.

Once upon a time I had friends. The real type. I would speak to them on the phone for hours, we would hang out after school and play video games, or go down to the park to watch girls. Nowadays I don’t have real friends — I have friends that I talk to regularly of course, just not face to face, and not over the phone. Friends like you, in fact. Eventually I’ll run out of stories to tell, I suppose, and then I’ll have to make some more real friends. But until then…

This one’s about a chap called Tim. I have a few stories to tell about Tim as he was a very interesting fellow; not always in a bad way but prone to moments of weirdness and insanity. He wasn’t a great friend of mine either, but for a variety of reasons we would often end up sharing the same space. We certainly got on fine; he was a friend, but not one I would go out of my way to hang out with.

After a party, I ended up sleeping on the floor of his bedroom. I’m not great at falling asleep, which means I’m normally the poor sod that has to try and fall asleep while someone else snores noisily. That was no different. There I lay, on the floor below Tim’s bed and looking at the lamp beside his bed, wishing fruitlessly for sleep to take me.

He certainly seemed to be sleeping soundly, if the snoring was anything to go by. At first I thought it was just a bump in his blanket, an unseemly fold placed at just the wrong place — or right place, if you’re a hormonal teenager. I giggled.  Or maybe, on closer inspection, it was his knee…? I shrugged and turned over, trying yet again to leave the waking realm.

Thankfully, the snoring ceased soon after. But then a rustle and the clink of the bed springs as he redistributed his weight and got comfy again. I opened one eye a fraction of an inch but was surprised to see him looking down at me. He didn’t react, so I can only assume he thought I was soundly asleep. He hadn’t seen my partially-opened eye in the dark.

He looked to the bedroom door to make sure it was closed, and only then did he slip his blanket off revealing, you guessed it, an erection, a turgid penis, a boner — it certainly was not his knee. For a moment I held my breath, hoping that he was just a little hot; praying that he was just getting a little fresh air before he went back to sleep.

But then he went for it. His hand grabbed his man meat and started thrashing up and down and sideways in that violent, unceremonious fashion that only teenagers have mastered. His hips lifted, thrusting his penis and pelvis to new heights. A groan escaped his lips. I wanted to shut my eyes but I’m half-ashamed to say… I couldn’t. Like watching a car drive faster and harder until a crash surely seems inevitable, I was morbidly mesmerised — I wanted to see it through to its conclusion!

The hip thrusting and fist-pumping were rhythmic in their movement, quicker and angrier; I thought he might tear it off, to be honest (I learnt in later years that the male penis can withstand quite a stretching, and beating.) After 10 minutes he started panting. His back arched. Two more decisive, piston-like tugs with his right hand and he shuddered, the orgasm quickly gripping his entire body. His feet twitched, his free hand clenched and he bit his lip as he came. He shot a single, long stream of white, warm goo from the tip of his penis. It felt like it took ages, slowly arcing through the air gracefully, taking its time, picking its target.

It actually moved damn quickly.

Splat.

‘DUDE! It’s in your fucking EYE!’

I quickly leapt to my feet and looked down at Tim’s naked body, his war-torn, victimised cock red and fast becoming flaccid. I looked at his torso where a few spatters of semen dotted his chest. Then my eyes found the sticky trail that began at the base of his neck and followed up over his chin. Across his lips, along the curve of his cheek and finally to the ejaculate that pooled in his right eye socket.

‘Seb, stop staring and pass me the box of tissues.’

I need to begin this one with a little background information: I have gas; the internal, intestinal kind, the type that comes out both ends with startling regularity. I don’t know if it’s a male thing, windiness, or if some men get it more than others, but I do know that I have plenty. The reason for this is quite simple: I eat a truly diverse range of foods — often at the same time — and I drink plenty of carbonated liquids, like Coke. I mix my food types with reckless abandon, and my stomach and intestines rebel violently enough to generate gas — lots and lots of gas.

Being a full-time hermit, it’s not really a problem: I mean, does a hirsute British bear shit or fart in the woods? Does it really count as burping if there’s no one there to hear it? What’s the sound one one butt-cheek farting…?

The problem is thus: when I actually find myself around other people, I have very good manners. I don’t fart or burp, nor do I pick my nose. I hold in all of that gas until, by the end of the evening, I’m ready to burst. If you’ve ever held in farts for long enough (I don’t expect girls to admit to this, but the boys probably will), you’ll know just how rough it gets; everything starts to feel really… compacted. Holding in burps isn’t so bad, but it compresses the contents of your intestine from the other side! Finally, with enough swallowing and butt-clenching… something’s gotta give. And it’s always your ass. Always.

And so with that introduction… we move onto this week’s embarrassing, too-much-information tale. As always, if you want more of the same, hit up Lilu’s blog. This is a short one, with yet another Flash animation from my favourite site Sexinfo101. If you can’t see the (not work-safe) animation further down, you need to read this story on my blog.

This one’s so terrible that I’m not going to give you a location, nor shall I mention any names. It involves me and a girl. We might be in a hotel or at my house — or we might be in a cave in Turkey — it’s irrelevant, for the sake of this story.

All you need to know is that we’re having sex. Dirty, no-holds-barred sex. The kind of sex you might have with someone you may never meet again or alternatively, a lover that you know incredibly well: you either know exactly where to touch them, or you hit all the rights spots with a fumbled, scatter-all approach. It’s that kind of frantic, frenetic sex where your heart, arms and crotch feel like they might give out at any moment — but that’s OK, because you’re going at it as if tomorrow might never come. You’re there, in each other’s sweaty embrace, breathing heavily and giving it everything you’ve got.

‘Hey baby… how about a sixty-nine?’

I pause momentarily, wondering if calling her ‘baby’ might be spoiling the moment; I ruin the deep, wet rhythm we’ve so carefully nurtured too. I look at her slightly-parted lips and grin winningly as I kiss her closed eyes. Gradually, as she realises that I’m no longer plunging back and forth like a maniac, she opens her eyes to look at me. A gentle sigh escapes from her lips, the fleeting ghost of a moan that never quite made it. ‘Sure!’

Up she climbs into old-faithful sixty-nine. I guess it varies from girl to girl, but she certainly likes it. She’s one of those few delightful girls that actually derive a sense of power and pleasure from deep-throating a long, hard penis. Funnily, most men like it because it’s very dominating — but girls like it because they’re totally in control of the man’s pleasure. And with the 69, there is of course the tiny matter of the girl receiving oral sex too, which normally settles the deal. It’s safe to say that the position is, for almost all intents and purposes, awesome.

I’ll let the animation above do most of the talking as I don’t really want to make a name for myself as a softcore erotica writer (can’t see it? You have to read this story on my blog!) Perhaps, if one day I feel the urge, I’ll start another blog and write pseudonymous porn under my dress-up-at-weekends alter-ego ‘Debby’. But I digress…

She was quite thin, so I could easily see over her stomach and breasts to her head and mouth. Magically, mystifyingly bobbing up and down. She realises I’ve stopped to look and grunts in that I’m-not-using-my-teeth-but-I-could-if-I-wanted-to way. There was actually one girl, a few years back, that took my cock out of her mouth, looked down at me, staring up from between her legs and boldly stated: ‘Look Seb, get on with it. This position does my knees in and I ain’t got all day.’ This girl was more polite and I took the hint: I got back to work and the thrusting, sucking, whimpering and moaning continued.

It’s all going so well. I can hardly see — damnit, I need wipers attached to my forehead — but what I can see looks damn fine! My body starts to tingle, starting at my toes and quickly zipping up my thighs to my groin. I have a firm grip on her legs and back, and I can feel her squirming with the involuntary spasms of muscles all over her body as she orgasms yet again. Any second now I’ll join her. Her head, her mouth, still bobbing, still dipping, still sucking. My nails dig into her thighs as I start to climax; my back arches as my muscles tense and then shudder with a violent convulsion.

PPFFAAAAAAARRRP  PfffTTTTTttt  ppft    ffftt

The monster of all pent-up farts fired explosively into her face. As if the semen wasn’t enough, she’d swallowed her pride and sucked a fart straight up her nostrils.

Those of you that have farted in the bath will know the diabolical intensity of pure, undiluted farts.

We never did the sixty-nine again. And I now excuse myself from a girl’s bedroom for just a few moments before commencing with the foreplay.

Today I’m breaking the mold. If you thought you’d get some kind of smutty sex-related story you’re wrong. Instead, as it’s still impossible to string two intelligent thoughts together in this heatwave that’s currently afflicting us, I’ve made a shiny little video blog.  Or a vlog, as some call it. It’s still ‘too much information’, and as always if you want more, head to Lilu’s place.

This video is work-safe, but you probably want to use headphones as I grunt and whimper a little. The peas really are frozen, and the second bag at the end is broccoli.

Entirely unscripted and filmed in just one take, I give to you: Sweaty testicles: meet a bag of frozen peas.

(If you can’t see the video you need to visit my blog.)

These are my legs, Jesus sandals and shorts.
Sorry for opening with such a picture, it’s unforgivable. But all will become clear as you read on…

Being a man, body hair, schlong and all, there are some things that do not come naturally. Remembering anniversaries. Washing my hands after using the bathroom. And organisation, planning. Lists, I hate lists. I might come across as a deliberate, slightly-gay, well-measured guy that organises his books and DVDs alphabetically, and makes sure everything is just so, but I assure you that isn’t the case. There are a few things that I’m good at: photography for one, I’m perfectionist in that regard. Video games? I’m down-right pro at video games. Rational thought too: if you want someone to make the right choice at the right moment, I’m your man.

But these are living-in-the-moment affairs. It’s the long, over-arching planning that I suck at. If the devil is in the details, I’m Jesus. I don’t keep a diary or even a wall calendar marked with important dates. The only birthdays I usually remember are my parents’. When someone asks me if I’m available next weekend I shrug non-committally, say ’sure!’ and pray no one else has requested my presence elsewhere (I don’t have many friends so I’m usually safe in this department…) In short, I’m a man and I require a good woman to do my thinking and planning for me. Currently this is a role fulfilled by my mother, but I’m sure there’ll be a lucky wife eventually…

[If you can't deal with vivid 'male bits' imagery, the next bit is probably not for you. If you do like stories of this kind, go check out Lilu's blog!]

Anyway, to cut to the chase: I’m the kind of guy that packs his bags only a few hours before he leaves. And I always forget something. I’m fairly experienced at the whole bag-packing thing so I rarely forget anything important — I’ve only forgotten my mobile phone charger once and I’ve never left my passport at home! — but on more than one occasion I have forgotten to pack… underwear. That’s right, I spent 12 days in Turkey, in 40-degree (104F) heat with just a single pair of boxer shorts. (Don’t worry, I had two pairs of socks, my hygiene wasn’t that bad…)

I’m going to use the same picture so you can look at them again but with this new information in mind!

(See those crinkles? They are well worn. They say ‘kiss’ all over them, if you can’t make it out. And those are red lips printed on.)

You’ve probably heard about the ‘back to front’ and ‘inside out’ techniques of odor-mitigation and boxer freshness longevity (or more simply ‘the underpant inversion method’ as I like to call it). You’ve probably seen it joked about in films like American Pie or Van Wilder. You probably laughed and said ‘Eww! Gross! No Way!’

What you didn’t know is that men actually do it.

I know, it’s too disgusting to contemplate, but men actually wear the same underwear for days or even weeks at a time! With creative folding, those sprays that people use to remove the lingering smell of cigarette smoke and a radiator or hair dryer, a man can stretch out one pair of boxers an awfully long time.

In my case, on no less than three different holidays, I’ve taken only one pair of boxer shorts.

I wore them while clambering over the ancient ruins of Thermessos in Turkey. It’s safe to say I perspired rather heavily in the process. Six days later I was still wearing them when I went for a hot-air balloon ride with five other people — they kept throwing odd glances in my direction (which is not unusual) but instead of staring as they usually do, they grimaced and pinched the bridge of their nose, a look of revulsion spreading across their face.

Then in Prague, through 3 days of drunken debauchery and sweaty hiking around the city, I wore the very same boxers. I had washed them since Turkey though.

Finally, during a 4-day LAN Party, I forgot to bring spare underwear. Four days of sitting on my ass, four days of no showers. In the middle of summer and surrounded by 1000 other gamers and computers.

I had to use rubbing alcohol and a chisel to prise them from my skanky, geeky legs. I even had to get my mother to come and help. What can I say, we’re close.

This is a story about young love.

Young, embarrassing, sticky love.

Love that we thought safely hidden by the shadowy embrace of a moonless night. How wrong we were…

(An old photo of mine, taken during a blue moon)

You probably know, if you watch the news or have a friend that rejoices in telling you useless, geeky facts, there’s a very big meteor shower occurring right now: The Perseids! If you get a chance, go outside and look for them. It’ll peak at around 100 shooting stars per hour (though by the time you read this, they’ll probably have passed — so do it next year!)

(For more TMI this Thursday, hit up Lilu’s blog!)

This story takes place almost ten years ago, in August, during the Perseid meteor shower. I was 18 and drunk and dizzy with the affections of a certain girl. She was 15 and perky. And lavishing me with lingering looks and touches. It was only a matter of time before things got out of hand.

We barbecued and she laughed at my little jokes. We strolled at dusk through beautifully-lit woodland and she walked beside me, catching my eye and smiling. And when the night’s festivities were finally through and we settled down on the castle’s lawn to rest and sleep, she lay very close to me.

By most measures we had a romantic night that could only lead in one possible, carnal direction… right?

Wrong.

I failed to tell you that this was a party. We were 20 friends having the night of our lives.

I failed to tell you that she was also in a relationship. With my cousin.

But I was young and horny… and she was even younger and even hornier… and you know how I have a thing for pretty young girls…

So there we are, under a blanket, surrounded by a big group of our friends.

We’re all looking to the heavens and counting shooting stars. Occasionally someone tries the classic: ‘There! Over there!’ which of course, by the time you’ve looked, it’s gone. Minutes pass, meteors perish with a dazzle and our chatter slowly dies down as the magic becomes mundane. Sleep begins to take hold when her hands suddenly fine mine.

A firm grip and a meaningful, deliberate squeeze that speaks much more than a spoken word ever could.

My fingers trace teasing, tantalising designs on her palm and wrist.

Her body moves fractionally closer but the tiny increase in body temperature is palpable.

My fingers continue their gentle slide along the smooth underside of her arm.

Her breath warms the side of my neck and then, as my fingers lightly tickle her she shudders, her head dropping to my collar bone.

My hand moves from her shoulder and up her neck, under her ear and she bites me, she bites my neck hard.

My whimpering is only just audible but of course I look around, nervous that we’re being watched, that someone might’ve spotted us — but no, everyone seems to be asleep or looking at the meteor shower. Her bite has become a soft kiss and yet again I can feel her hot breath on my neck. She shakes — with nerves? — as my hands encircle her waist and pull her closer, my concern for eavesdroppers and voyeurs diminishing by the second.

Her body pushes closer and I can feel just how hot she is. She squirms as my fingers tease her waist and hips. With a hard kiss on the lips I smother a moan as my arm and hand and fingertips slide yet further.

Craving her flesh I hastily pull down my pants and undress her with my spare hand until she’s almost naked; bare enough that neither of us feel restricted. My fingers then find their mark and she rolls on top of me, her body convulsing, her hips grinding against mine.

This was a stupid move for an obvious reason: I’m fairly certain our foreplay had been heard already but our friends, in a moment of true Britishness, had decided to ignore it. But that wasn’t all. When I’d rolled onto my back there’d been a quiet click, a terse snap. Our small and sweaty under-blanket world was instantly illuminated in blinding white light. Someone had brought a huge torch, just in case of emergencies.

Those that were still watching the meteors turned to look. Those asleep were woken by the kerfuffle. In a truly Austin Powers moment they all saw our mid-thrust silhouette. There were screams from the girls and cheers from the boys.

To this day, I’m told that my silhouette was very generous.