December 12, 2007

On Sunday, I was hungover. Hungover means one thing: The hangover horn.

I got up late, probably around noon. I turned on the computer. Straight for the porn. A nice way to start my day.

I start browsing. I start stroking myself. Very often I’m not in it for the quick orgasm. I appreciate the build-up.

An hour passes. Not much longer. I’ll finish the job soon.

Another hour passes. I realise I haven’t eaten or showered. So I go and cook breakfast; naked of course, and pre-orgasm. I eat in front of the computer, resuming my hard-on. I still haven’t showered.

In the back of my mind, I’m thinking about all the reading I wanted to get done today. But nudity and fucking is captivating.

Another hour passes. By this point, I’m at the stage where I can barely touch myself without almost climaxing. This just adds to the fun. The pre-cum dribbles down the side of my dick in sometimes alarming volumes.

Another hour passes, and I’m still going.

Another hour.

I decide to cook dinner. Again, naked. Again, pre-orgasm. I eat, and watch some TV to allow myself to calm down. So to speak.

I go back to the computer, and resume from where I was previously. It never takes long to get back into it.

Another hour passes. And another.

And at this point, I climax unintentionally. I would probably have kept going for another couple of hours, and just spent the entire day at it if I could have. I found myself longing to have my tongue buried between an intelligent woman’s legs when I accidentally let go. The accidents are never so much fun, scrambling to avoid the inevitable mess as I was.

Fucked self.

Since it was accidental, I quickly have another one.

Fucked self again.

The Sunday alone with my thoughts in front of my computer seems prompted my RSI to flare up.

Fucked wrist.



June 13, 2007

I’m in the office. The sun is shining outside, it’s distinctly summer. I’m packing up to go home.

Suddenly I notice somebody else in the office. Blonde girl, perfect height, perfect build, perfect hair, perfect breasts. “Hi.”

I realise that I’m horny as hell, and my erection is standing proudly out of my jeans in front of this girl.

She gently nudges me back onto my desk, asking “Do you want me to suck it?”

Then I woke up, my good friend morning wood having acted as my alarm this morning.


June 8, 2007

I step onto the train, and subconsciously scanned the occupants. I spy one intensely attractive women sitting, coincidentally, across from the seat I had earmarked the moment I stepped aboard. She looked Norwegian. Something about the face, the hat, and the flowing knee-length skirt.

When sitting, the blue-green skirt sat just above her knees. My day had been long. I’d been asked to do a few more weeks work on a project I really don’t value at all. I wasn’t in the mood to chat.

I wish I had been. This girl spotted me as I sat down across from her, and she was continually glancing back at me. She moved to get a little more comfortable on the train seat, in the process shifting her legs slightly to point in my direction, and also nudging them ever so slightly apart.

The single motion sets my mind racing, and starts blood rushing to my groin. Before long, I have an erection I could hammer nails with. Today I’m wearing my baggies; nobody but me knows that I’m hard.

I can’t help but look at this girl’s legs. My mind’s running through all sorts of mental imagery, most of it involving her leaning back just a little more, and me easing down between those legs. Tongue or cock while I’m there? Inevitably both for as long as possible, but it doesn’t matter. These are the sweetest pictures I’ve dreamt up in a while.

She shifts her legs back closer together. Party’s over. It’s her stop. She gets off the train. Nary a glance back, naturally.

I imagine kissing her, holding her, fucking her. Then walk home throbbing in my trousers.


May 17, 2007

I’m due to leave any moment. I need to get to my destination, and soon. I don’t care about how much it costs. My destination is far away, certainly a long haul flight across the Atlantic away.

I’ve forgotten something, and I’m rushing. I hop in a taxi to take me into the darkest depths of rural Scotland. It’s dark and raining, but I can see the roads here are red, like the old Lanarkshire roads, but covered in extreme potholes.

“The roads are pretty bad here, eh?”

“Aye, the fucking cities take all the money. We get none out here!” the driver responds.

“I need to get to my destination.”

“Okay. But before we go I have to put on Muse, Knights of Cydonia.” Suddenly, it’s daylight. I wonder how I didn’t notice his computer set up in the passenger side; three screens controlling his sound system. The buttons on the computer appear to be made of rubber, not plastic. He starts the track playing, having not been paying attention to the road but still avoiding parked cars. We’re now in the city.

I comment on how it’s an ace song, then tell the taxi driver again where I’m meant to be going, at which point he looks panicky. “Well then, we’re going the wrong way.”

We get out of the taxi. It’s dark again, and I can see that we’re near to the motorway. He picks up the car and puts in carefully under his arm; we walk across the motorway. All the cars are stuck in a jam, everybody’s trying to get out of the city. Not one car is trying to go where we’re going, toward the city.

The driver puts the car back down, neatly placed between lanes on the motorway, ready to drive into town. I freak out. I don’t want to get back into the car with him.

I run to the airport, and soon I find myself touching down on an island across the Atlantic. I walk ashore.

This, I think, is America. The people are laughing, happy. Money is rolling around. Lots of shops are open in this place, which seems like some sort of open air shopping area. The sky is dark, but nobody seems to mind. Lots of people are wearing puffy jackets which carry the stars and stripes. I feel sickened here.

I spot a large escalator heading up. I cannot see what’s at the top, but I decide to take it anyway.

I reach the top. People are a lot more subdued here. Gone is the brashness of down the stairs, and the sky is light.

“At last,” I think to myself, “I’m in Russia.”


April 30, 2007

I get up in the morning. I have a mug of tea to get me going, followed by a half glass of fruit juice.

At lunch, I have a chicken wrap and a bottle of fruit juice.

I get home, and go for a jog. On my return, I eat an apple.

Later, when I’m hungry, I go and spoil it all by nipping out for a bag of chips, from which I make numerous chip butties.

A truly Scottish diet.


April 19, 2007

I’m sitting in the office and, as per my usual body rhythm, nature is calling me to partake in some sitting-down toilet-based action. I make my regular mid-morning trip to the toilet. It’s a convenient, healthy, time-efficient way of taking a pre-lunch break.

The toilet nearest to my office has not been decorated in over 20 years. I flick the light switch; the solitary light above buzzes and blinks into action. The bleak fluorescent light bounces off the stark gray wallpaper, gray linoleum floor, and gray ceiling. The wallpaper has cracked at points, exposing old wallpaper designed to look like tiles. Presumably the old wallpaper was put up in the mid 60’s when these buildings were taken over by the fast-expanding University. Sheets of toilet roll lie on the floor, and hard green paper towels overflow the bin by the door.

I look down. Here I have a toilet seat covered in multiple yellow blotches and a couple of short, thick black hairs.* I grab a handful of toilet paper and scrub thoroughly; I’d rather not sit down on someone else’s piss.

Sitting, I stare in front of me. Across the toilet on the gray wallpaper, somebody’s drawn a penis. As is typical, they’ve drawn it all wrong — if it were real, it’d be too long and thin to be useful to anybody, much like Barbie. It’s funny how our perceptions change in relation to scale.

Some things are common ground across many parts of the human race, certainly across the Western world: toilets are difficult to keep clean, and the walls of gent’s toilets will be adorned with phallus-like imagery. This amuses me. This is a toilet at the heart of a world-leading University, in a department doing very strong research, way above-par teaching. We are attracting lots of money, business relations, students, and staff. Yet there it is, evidence that even academically inclined people are still human: the drawing of a penis.

* Toilet seat etiquette is always a tricky subject (though I suspect that the only solution is for everybody to return both the toilet seat and lid to the down position, thus forcing all to use the toilet as they want, and return it to a neutral state afterward).


April 5, 2007

The underground in London is always an interesting place to be. I’m sitting amongst the weary London commuters. Specifically, I’m sitting next to a woman who appeared attractive until she started hacking up whatever junk her years of smoking have left in her lungs.

Londoners, being big city types, do not speak to one another. They do not make eye contact. They push their way out of the train rather than politely ask for space to get out. So it was with great pleasure that I watched a bunch of foreign schoolchildren arrive.

They sounded Italian. Perhaps they’re in England on a field trip of some sort. They gleefully count the number of stops to their destination; counting the stops was a novelty for me too, when London was new and unfamiliar, but no more. They squeal the number in their native language and in English. They loudly recite the posh announcements suggesting that commuters “mind the gap between the train and the platform.” They sit on each other’s laps, they fall over when the train stops and starts, and they bump and push the natives without meaning to. One poor London gent attempts to pretend that a 14 year old kid didn’t just fall into his lap crushing his book; she laughs, while he tries to find some ceiling to stare at. These kids have more character than everybody else on the train combined; I couldn’t help myself but laugh out loud at their antics. They reach their destination, echoing laughter fading as they stumble further away.

The smoker lady also leaves. I notice her greasy skin this time. It’s skin I’m sure she hates. Perhaps she should stop smoking, or perhaps she needs to apply less antiperspirant in the mornings.

A pretty brunette takes her place. Her hair is neat, and professional (inoffensive), as is her white jacket and black trousers. I toy with the idea of saying ‘hi,’ but decide against it for two reasons: first, the efficiency with which she unfolded her free paper suggested that she did not want to be disturbed; second, my Glaswegian accent would stick out like a sore thumb amongst these Londoners and their elongated vowels. How can anybody speak so slowly? I do not know.

The brunette gets off at the same stop as I do. She walks ahead of me, thus placing her three steps higher than me when ascending out of the underground — the eye-to-ass ratio was as perfect as the flesh her black work trousers was surely concealing. Mesmerised, I only realise I’ve followed her in the opposite direction from where I want to go when I see the ticket barriers.

I snap out of my fantasy land and make my way out the correct exit to head for dinner. I find a neat little Italian restaurant, staffed by actual Italians. Native Londoners seem tremendously impolite, and my waitress seemed genuinely surprised when I said “thank you” as I sat down at my table. Such a simple courtesy than so many people in this city seem to forget. I tip heavily, thus bucking the “stingy Scotsman” trend while I’m at it.

At the airport, I nip into W.H. Smith to satisfy a slight hankering for chocolate. I spot a Dairy Milk Double chocolate, and decide to go for it. At the checkout, the girls talk to each other:

  • Assistant 1: Have you tried this double chocolate?
  • Assistant 2: No, not yet…
  • Assistant 1: Neither have I. I’m really tempted, I’ll bet it’s really creamy… [to me:] that’s one pound eighty two pence please.

I pay for my purchase, and offer them both a square of my chocolate which they both accept after a little negotiation. Such a simple little gesture is, again, met with surprise. But it’s such a simple little gesture that puts a smile on three people’s faces, if you include mine. Is it so surprising to be nice to people these days?

The flight was uneventful, aside from my sniggering at the fellow next to me who returned from the toilet with a wet patch down his right leg (followed by attempts to cover it up for the remainder of the journey). I chat to the taxi driver as he drives me home about his night, his previous fare. He started at 5pm, and he’ll be working until 4 or 5am, as per his usual shift. Taxi driver, now that’s a job way harder than any academic position. He’s a nice gent, so he also gets tipped heavily.

Surprisingly, throughout this journey none of my Scottish money was refused, and I was only accused of being English once (followed by swift sincere apology upon my correction).

Home. Tired. Sleep.


March 28, 2007

The sun streams along the street without a single cloud getting in its way. The sunlight brings a nice warmth to the otherwise cold morning.

The start of the Spring season brings the best out in people. After the perpetual cloud of the Winter, it’s always refreshing to see sunlight. It taps into something primal in all of us, whether we’re aware of it or not. Shop owners open up with a smile. Lorries and vans pull up to the various eateries to deliver goods. Postmen whistle as they move quietly from building to building. Old men nip in and out of the supermarket or newsagent to pick up their messages for the day. An old black Labrador stretches out on the pavement in front of the supermarket, panting. He’s waiting for his owner to return, unaware of the people trying to walk around him without stepping on the road.

Good on you, old dog. Fuck everybody else, it’s nice to be selfish and comfortable on a sunny morning.

The fun part about this weather is how people interpret it in different ways. I see one postman wearing fingerless gloves, long-sleeved top, and wooly hat, while I see another wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Some women go out in what could only be described as a “summer” top, while some will cling onto multiple layers underneath a heavy jacket for a few weeks yet.

I think the old dog on the street had things right. I suspect the short sleeves and summer tops are more appropriate. (The summer tops certainly make the walk more interesting.)


March 27, 2007

I have my head down on the train, I’m reading my book, minding my own business. The train stops at the next station. My eyes flit away from the lines of text and quickly back again without thought, in an unconscious need to observe the new passengers.

In that brief moment, I spot a pretty blonde girl carefully planting her perfectly formed rear onto the seat across from me. She’s probably 5 years older than me, occupying the perfect age bracket. She’s slim and very pretty. She’s not hot like somebody you might want to sleep with once and forget. She’s hot like somebody you’d happily sleep with over and over, and wine and dine, buy flowers for, and so forth. Before I know it, I’m reading the text in front of me, but my mind’s wandered off into a little fantasy world. The fantasy world involving two heaving bodies, soft light, and bom chicka wah wah. I found myself in that little fantasy without meaning to be there. I smile at myself, I skip back to the start of the paragraph, and I try to concentrate on my book.

But it’s too late. I notice my jeans are kind of tight. I’ve had these jeans for years, and it’s fair to say they don’t feel as roomy as they once did (though I blame repeat washes). The tightness of the jeans drags my mind back into the murky world it wandered into after first sight of this girl. If only she knew what she was getting up to.

Trains and buses are the worst places to think these thoughts, especially while wearing tight trouser-wear. My jeans were closing in around me. Or, more specifically, I was expanding within my jeans. I felt that magical tingle race across my body as blood took a pit stop around my groin.

So I’m sitting on the train, and my little man is trying to grow into something of a bigger man, with reasonable success. The tightness of the jeans only serves to attract my mind’s attention to my current situation. While flaccid, I tend to find myself occupying my left trouser leg. The tight jeans perhaps wouldn’t be a problem if my wee man had to wander down a trouser leg to grow, but he was already there, in his usual place, clearly just waiting to surprise. So he’s expanding along my leg and becoming a much more obvious lump in my jeans as the moments pass, and as the train rocks back and forth, bumping over its various points and junctions. He wants absolutely nothing more than to spring free from his prison. And that’s what I want too. But this isn’t the place.

Only a few more minutes to the station, I figured. Then I can get out. Walking is a natural remedy in this situation. Thinking about walking, thinking about not bumping into people, thinking about getting out of the station, is enough to take the attention away from my trapped, throbbing penis and the tingling feeling of a body part demanding more attention. I get out and make it to the office. The office is an astounding pleasure kill, so I doubt I’ll have further problems today.

This happens more often than you might think. Trains and buses are perfect environments for guys to find discomfort. Check discretely next time you get the chance. There’s reasonable odds that there’s one guy sitting nearby who has something on his mind, or something in his trousers.

And my leg will be jiggling until I get home.


March 22, 2007

I’m walking along the train platform to my usual spot. You know the way that people have “their” space? Well, I have mine, and I stand there every morning. I get annoyed if somebody is in my space.

This morning, somebody was. But this time, it was somebody I’d seen before, and I wasn’t annoyed. It’s difficult to be annoyed when a pretty face looks back and smiles. I’m not so sure I smiled back; I suspect she got my morning scowl in return. I tend not to be in a mood for communication while I’m in transit … I’ve simply left A, and I’m trying to reach B.

It took me a few moments to realise that I’d seen her here before. It takes a while for the more sociable parts of my mind to kick in sometimes, and so I missed those few moments where starting a conversation would have been socially acceptable. She continues to read her book, and I read mine.

Perhaps I’ll talk to her next time I’ll see her.