After 21 days, numerous edging sessions, a whole bunch of PIV sex, several blow jobs, pretty much all my butt plugs, an unexpected Tenga egg adventure, and one ridiculously hot strap-on fuck, I finally had an orgasm last night.
At the time, I was naked on a hotel bed, surrounded in a casual semicircle by my wife, other partners, smutty friends, and – by video link from DC – one of my longest-standing erotica pals. It was pretty awesome.
It’s Friday 8th March. Day 13.
Time since my last orgasm? 12 days and approximately 20 hours. That’s over 300 hours in total. Somewhere north of 18,000 minutes.
Time till my next one? If all goes to plan, eight days and approximately 1.5 hours. That’s under 200 hours in total. A mere 11,610 minutes.
The end may not be in sight, but it’s certainly getting closer.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I work from a brand-new office close to my client’s main building. It’s small and completely open-plan, with pods and pockets of desks at various heights, and a pair of L-shaped sofas in one corner.
I tend to park myself at a bank of high desks, next to one of the video screens that line the walls. From my stool, I can see the whole room, and because most people prefer a regular workstation – complete with monitor, plug sockets, and a swivel chair – I’m often alone up there.
Which is no bad thing. I like my own space, both in life generally and while I’m trying to work. It also means that for most of the day no-one can see my screen, leaving me free to flick regularly from Excel and PowerPoint to Twitter, WhatsApp, WordPress, and…other interesting sites.
Life has been pretty hectic lately! I’ve had a really busy few months at work – a really busy year, if I’m honest – and of course there’s been loads to do to get both ourselves and the flat ready for the impending arrival of EA/TOL Jr.
Somewhere along the way, my sexy photo mojo sort of went into hibernation. I also got out of the blogging habit more generally, though I think there are several reasons for that, not least the constant deadline pressure of Smut Marathon (which has been a wonderful experience overall, I should add).
Even my libido has been a little up and down – more so than I’ve been used to over the last few years, anyway. Liv and I have both written about the impact of pregnancy on our sex life during the first two trimesters, and it’s natural for things to change a bit as you get closer to the big day. However, since the summer (maybe mid-August?) I’ve been interested (and surprised!) to find that my overall sex drive and interest in fucking other people has also taken a bit of a hit – or perhaps it’s more that other concerns, worries, and time-consuming professional obligations have made it harder to relax and tune into that side of myself in quite the same way.
I spent this afternoon wandering around an exhibition at the Barbican Centre with Exposing40. It was called Modern Couples, and showcased all kinds of intimate photography and other artwork made by unconventional, creative couples over the last 150 years. I particularly enjoyed the Man Ray/Lee Miller pieces, and was really happy to be introduced to Claude Cahun/Marcel Moore’s gender-fluid portraits from the early 20th century.
We’re unlikely to spend another lazy Sunday in an art gallery till spring 2019, at which point the Royal Academy will have opened its much heralded exhibition on the Renaissance Nude. Designed to strip out the contemporary male gaze, and to reflect a largely hidden historical gender equality/balance in nude portraiture, the collection they’ve brought together promises much – I hope it delivers.
For now though, I feel inspired to up my own erotic photography game. I’ve always loved the idea of finding a gallery willing to host a Sinful Sunday exhibition, and have idly wondered on many occasions which of my photos (as artist, subject or both) I’d submit for inclusion. Especially after today though, I kind of hope my best work is still to come – and that wherever life takes me over the next few years, there will always be lovely, creative, brilliant people nearby to join me in my photgraphic adventures.
Whether or not we end up in a museum.
Photo credit: Exposing40
Last month, the lovely people at Godemiche sent me their new toy to test. I’ll be posting a full review soon, but for now it’s fair to say that I really like it.
I have a new phone! My old one died a sudden, though not unexpected death early on Tuesday morning, so yesterday afternoon I went into my local Vodafone store to pick up a shiny, intimidatingly-large Samsung S9+.
It’s my third Samsung handset, though my first since the mid-2000s, when I traded in one of the old flip phones for a Blackberry – in hindsight, a move that sort of sealed my transition from stubbornly mobile-resistant grad student to digitally-aspirational white collar worker.
Back then, mobile cameras weren’t much to write home about, but I put them to good use anyway. I was in a long-distance relationship for much of that period, and on both my sleek silver flip phone and my chunky new Blackberry, I would snap all manner of filthy photos to send to my transatlantic love.
It wasn’t your footsteps that gave you away. It wasn’t your breathing either, though if I close my eyes and stay absolutely silent, I can now hear the occasional stifled gasp as you go to work somewhere behind me.
I’d like to say it was your camera – that the steady, measured click-click of the shutter carried just far enough for me to measure each stroke – but we both know that would be a lie. You’re too clever for that, too cautious, and if you’re using the same fancy piece of equipment you brought to our neighbourhood street party – yes, I watch you too – I’m pretty sure it doesn’t make a noise anyway.
Ever since visiting Clearwell Caves and Wookey Hole as a child – along with the grottes and caverns of the Dordogne – I’ve been fascinated and instinctively unsettled by cave systems. There’s something alien about the cool, still air that fills their networks of chambers and tunnels, and it’s easy to be disorientated by the way light reflects off different surfaces or sound echoes at unexpected angles.
One of my favourite horror movies, The Descent, brings to grotesque life some of our worst fears about what might happen were we to find ourselves trapped below ground for too long. For some people, giving that terror corporeal form is unnecessary – the claustrophobia alone makes the idea of being surrounded by that much rock a deeply unpleasant one.
I’ve never seen the point of ironing my shirt-tails. I work in the corporate world, where it’s important to show up looking at least moderately well put together, but even on days warm enough for me to leave my jacket or jumper at home, those last few incriminating inches are always tucked safely out of sight, under the waistband of my suit trousers. No-one is ever likely to see them.
Except you.
You’re the one who wants to yank at my belt in the office toilets, or under your desk while I stare out into the busy corridor.