I had planned to spend Saturday evening masturbating in all the rooms in the house and drinking a beautiful toasted coconut porter from Hawaii. My best friend from childhood invited me to a barbeque and to buy me food and chocolate milk and beer, so I did that instead. 

  The night consisted of sitting around a kitchen table with a bunch of guys (and a token girl) eating food cooked by our host and drinking beer/cider/whisky. We all went to primary school together and I hadn’t seen most people gathered for several years. The last time I saw our host was when I had an proper place to actually live. 

  It was a nice evening. They were nice people. They all had names like “Thomas” and “Alexander” and “Benjamin” and “Reginald” and “Daniel”. My friends are all called “Thomas” and “James” (hawhaw) and “Frederick” and “Benjamin” and “Peter” and “Robert” and “Edward” and “William”, though, so I don’t know what my point about the names is … I don’t know any girls?

  When I’m with my friends and we make jokes and comments about black people and brown people and poor people, there is no actual feeling behind it. Yes, we all are secretly bigoted and racist and prejudiced, and the jokes are funny because they’re true. Sitting around with all these middle – to – upper – middle-class young people who are desperate to become The Establishment, there was real vehemence in their comments about black people being a joke, and Chinese people being the worst, and poor people being shot. I didn’t ask them, but I can only assume that they/their parents vote Conservative. This isn’t necessarily bad, it just helps build a picture.

  When we weren’t discussing sports (with facts and statistics being nailed down all night by the resident Aspergers chap), or watching sports, there was a lot of talk of joining The Establishment. A few people have just finished their degrees in law/architecture and were discussing becoming a barrister/joining a practice and all of that kind of professional stuff that you do. Bleurgh. I didn’t realise that this mindset existed any more. It seems to belong to certain groups. I thought our generation was mostly different, but nothing really changes does it?

 Work hard at school, do well, go straight off to university to study something employable, work hard, do well, get a job, find a spouse, buy a house, contribute to the destruction of the planet through procreation, work on, have an existential crisis and realise that all the hard work and effort and achievement has been for nothing that can be adequately described as “real”, fuck about a bit with looks and motors and money and sex before realising that you’ve got to just get on with it until you die, with little enjoyment and a sucking sense of failure and disappointment and a feeling that life wasn’t made for this.

  I know I am in a very similar boat, and these people will at least have lots of money and few worries about rent and the mortgage and accommodation and going nice places and everything nice that goes with a nice, well-off, middle-class life, and my life won’t be able to match up to theirs when using their standards, but I also know that I am simply not as dull as them. Thankyou Mum and Dad. 


All I want to do is sit here and write but I’ve got to go and abuse myself and be abused.

Anal sex seems to largely be a thing for girls who want to be liked and have low self-esteem. This is based on a very small sample and a few insinuations. It may not be true. There may be a whole horde of strong, independent women who love willies up their bumholes. 

This isn’t talking about men being anally penetrated, because there is a perfectly sound biological reason for a man putting a willy, fleshy or prosthetic, up his bottom. 




It seems like a lot of these posts are about sex. I don’t really have anything else to think about.

People have been reading from Russia and Paraguay! It’s not just my crappy friends reading any more.

Talking about crappy friends, I made plans with one of my crappy friends to take a little trip and go visit this totally awesome place in about a month’s time. I won’t tell you what this place is as  it might ruin your image of me (it’s the Harry Potter studio tour) but my crappy friend and I were both pretty excited about the prospect. But now he tells me that he is going to London tomorrow with his girlfriend and he got the only tickets available and I can’t come as I have to work tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day. He apologised and said that he knew it was a dick move but he did it anyway. He did say he would be nice to me today to make up for it.


I hope that a bird shits in his hair.

There is a girl across from me in a sort of diagonal. I don’t know if she is ‘legitimately’ attractive or if I have decided that she is. She has brunette hair. She plays with it. She has pink boots. She has lips. She is wearing glasses. She is listening to music. She is studying. Goodness knows how I love studious girls.

I am going to sit here until she leaves so that I can see her from behind. “Go and speak to her” you say. Who wants to be disturbed when they’re studying? Also I don’t want to have anything to do with anyone right now. I want to be asleep. So I will go home and think about masturbating in the shower. I won’t do it though. It’s a chore. Washing the dishes, buying some food, sorting through my few possessions and drinking gin are all much more important. At least whilst looking at this girl I don’t have to think about my friends, or about how I will soon be ‘living’ next to a roundabout very near where I once lost my phone and wallet whilst trying to protect a friend who was down on holiday.

I would also rather feel empty like I do now with a rumbling stomach, instead of empty after I empty my balls all over my hand and use my friend’s shampoo to wash away all the little Me’s that will never be.

Let us pretend that I was complimented on being an extraordinary lover (I am an extraordinary lover, but unfortunately for the world’s population I am the only one that is allowed to appreciate my magnificence). If we take this to be true, then it would be a great shame. This would mean that my abilities as a lover are far beyond those of the average man or woman or child. Most people will never be able to achieve what is natural to me. Too many people go through life without giving such wonder and joy, and too few ever receive it. Life truly is tragic.

It could be argued that it is indeed unfortunate that this hypothetical lover of mine went so long without encountering an individual with such awesome prowess as mine, and they may never do so again as long as they live, but they did at least experience every inch of my love. They will know that, as they return to the mundane, there is much more.

This returns us to the idea that bliss is ignorance. Such an experience changes a person for ever. How could someone go on after this has happened? They’ve got to, I suppose, constantly searching for a lover that can be alll of what a lover can be.

I say this is hypothetical just because I don’t want to cause embarrassment or shame to anyone reading this as I am so really really amazing at sex.

It really clears your head and makes you feel better. After a hard workout at the gym, there’s not much better than stripping off my drenched shorts and t-shirt in front of the mirror and admiring my sweating, beautiful body with its muscles and hard lines. Wonderful.
What I like even better than that is masturbating with my penis whilst standing in front of a full length mirror. I’ve tried it with women as well, like what Patrick Bateman does (but without the mutilation and murder and wandering around with a woman’s head on my erect penis). I don’t really like it as much though. It’s hard to concentrate on my chiseled abs and rock hard chest when someone’s coming hard on my dick. It just doesn’t work. It distracts from me, you see.
I don’t look into the mirror to see a woman’s face as she climaxes, or to observe her teeny wittle waist. I want to view myself. I want myself to watch myself. I’m in love and I want no interference. I would collect women and cut them up if it did anything for me. I find it more rewarding to die by myself in front of the mirror and be reborn as my life touches the glass.

Sometimes I like to take a break from myself, you know, just allow myself some space. And there are only so many times you can think of each woman that you know, each woman that you’ve seen during the day. There’s a finite number of disturbing scenarios that you can fantasize about before you’ve had enough. Your imagination can only go so far.

And then that’s where porn comes in! It saves you the effort of fantasizing and imagining, and presents itself to you right there on your screen. Clicking through sites and videos (go bless our ever advancing technology) with one hand whilst the other abuses your genitals (as if you weren’t abusing yourself enough already), you see a lot of messy things. The abuse and degradation of these men and women is a wonderful break from the abuse and degradation of yourself. It at least stops you from abusing your gay little virgin boss (not that you would want to, but there’s only so much that you can take). Watching other victims beign victimised helps you forget about your own victimisation.

And then you ejaculate and you’re shockingly returned to your sordid little life with a sticky hand and a sticky stomach and shame looking out from the tv screen. Which is why your internet browser doesn’t record your browsing history. What’s so shameful about self loathing? All self-respecting Brits and Americans do it.

I was once asked by a friend how to hide what he looked at on the internet from his wife. I downloaded Chrome for him and he loves it.