Daisy-chained perving

This incident got me wondering; have I ever, at least knowingly, perved on someone who was, in turn, already perving on someone else? Like a daisy chain of perving, if you will?

I'm honestly not sure if I ever before I caught Emmy being a perv at this nude beach and couldn't resist perving on her. I mean, I make no secret of how much I enjoy perving on her being a filthy slut, either with men or other women. Her lewding just turns me on too much for me to be able to turn away whenever she is doing what she does best.

However, when I started perving on her on this occasion, I had no idea that things were going to go where they ultimately did. By which I mean Emmy producing a strap-on from god knows where and then inviting the subject of her perving to hop on for a ride.

I genuinely thought that Emmy was just being her usually insatiable self, trying to turn every woman on the planet towards being Em-sexual or Ex-curious with a bit of lewd flirting or teasing. And, although I know from first hand experience how persuasive she can be, I really wasn't expecting it to necessarily go anywhere. It just seemed like she was perving on a friend who was already lost in her own world of self-pleasuring.

But once these two started going at it, my entire focus was them. On a beach that was surprisingly full of naked fuckers swapping bodily fluids, there were only two bodies that my attention was fixated on.

Well, perhaps I should say say three as my hand slipped between my legs so I could pleasure myself whilst enjoying the show they were giving me. I squelched my fingers in and out of my wet cunt in time with Emmy's partner bouncing on her fake cock. A whole week of sexual frustration finally getting released as I swiftly brought myself to the edge of an orgasm.

At this point, I may have gotten a bit lost in my own pleasure though, with my attention switching entirely towards just getting myself off as quickly as possible as I closed my eyes and furiously fingered myself to climax. 

It was only then, after I regained my composure that I realised, in the quest for my on gratification, that I had completely missed Emmy making her partner cum as well. As my eyes opened, they were already sharing a post-orgasm cuddle and I had missed the best part of the show. How embarrassing for me...

But, a final thought to sign off on; I wonder if anyone was perving on me fingering myself, thus extending the daisy chain of perving even further? I would like to think that, unbeknownst to me, there could have been a fourth participant to this lewding. Or maybe even more! 

Like I mentioned though, there was plenty of fucking and foreplay going on up and down the length of this nude beach though, so it might be wishful thinking to hope that, out of all of the available options to perv on, someone else might have chosen me as the focus of their attention. And the chances that someone else then chose to perv on that person are even slimmer still. I can hope though...

Lofi Blogging

I’d been seeing Ellis Nash posting about her new always-open café and curiosity made me wonder if I should try it out as a blogging spot. The idea had a certain pull: a space designed for chilling and without the sterile feel of working from the same four walls day after day. I wanted to see if it could become one of those go-to spots, the kind you retreat to when you need to get your head down but also get out.

It didn’t take long to realise it might be exactly that.

With a balcony stretching out over the beach, I found a comfortable spot, opened my laptop, and let the atmosphere do its thing. Lo-fi beats drifted gently through the space, never intrusive, just enough to blur the edges of distraction. Below, the tide rolled in and out with an unhurried rhythm, adding its own quiet percussion to the soundtrack.

Something about it made focusing feel effortless. Not forced, not wrestled into submission, just… natural.

It’s the kind of place that doesn’t demand productivity but somehow encourages it anyway. A soft reset button when routine starts to feel stale. Safe to say, Ellie's Lofi Cafe could quickly earn its place as a future escape hatch for those moments when I need to work, but somewhere better than the usual.

To Fap Or Not To Fap?

Question... Is the Voyeur Masturbation Lounge a lounge for voyeurs to masturbation or is it a lounge masturbators can be voyeured? Or perhaps it isn't deep enough for there to be a distinction?

It's just that it makes me think of an episode of South Park from around 27 years ago where the members of Korn, while making a guest appearance, mused over whether the ghost pirates that were haunting them were real life pirates who died and returned as ghosts of their original selfs, or whether they were regular people who died and, upon returning as ghosts, decided then was a good time to restyle themselves as pirates in their new found afterlife.

I know, I know... I make weird connections between things in my head if that is what is on my mind when perched in a room full of naked folk, rubbing themselves off. And its not like I've become so accustomed to finding myself in these sorts of places over the last decade plus of doing this that I have become utterly desensitised to sexual energy that reverberates through the air at such events.

Far from it in fact... I cannot deny that I was extremely tempted to move from my voyeur perch on the periphery of the events to the very heart of it to join in. Having not had the pleasure of getting myself off for well over a week, there were was certainly plenty of sexual frustration built up in me that was bursting to explode out.

Furthermore, it feels like forever since I last indulged at a masturbation party. Far too long , I would say. Something I was feeling quite keen to put right. But there was one thing that put me off. And, as it turned out, this was a a deal breaker - I found a few of the other guests to be a little creepy or pushy and I just don't like putting myself in that sort of vulnerable position - and what is more vulnerable than stripping off in a room full of strangers to touch yourself in a very intimate manner - when I don't feel completely comfortable with the others around me.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying there was anything sinister or menacing about any of the others guests. There were just a few attempted pick up lines that gave me the sorts of vibes that our values or sexual wants didn't quite align. For example, it was clear that a few of the guys there were just looking for someone who was down to fuck, which is 100% not the reason I would visit a masturbation party.

Experience has taught me that in those sort of situations, it is just better for all involved if I just stick to what I love the most... lurking around the fringes so I can enjoy the sexy show without any stress or anxiety. An approach that proved to be a good call given what some of those that I was a little nervous of ended up getting up to when they managed to find some willing partners.

Anyway, hopefully, I will find myself feeling more at ease in a similar sort of place some time soon though. I could do with a warm up or two before Masturbation Month arrives in the not too distant future...

Couch Surfing Over Crowd Surfing

There’s a certain unspoken contract at a rock show: your feet will ache, your voice will go, and personal space becomes a distant memory. So when I found myself sinking into a couch - yes, an actual couch - at Bash at the Beach, watching Black Soul tear into a set that rattled the air like a thunderclap, it felt like I’d somehow cheated the system.

From that low-slung vantage point, the night unfolded differently. Not worse - just… surreal. The stage still burned in deep reds and strobes, the crowd still pulsed like a living organism, and Black Soul still delivered their signature blend of gritty rock and nu-metal with the kind of precision that feels almost dangerous. But instead of bracing myself against the barricade, I was half-reclined, drink in hand, watching chaos with the composure of someone at a cinema... if cinemas came with distortion pedals and kick drums that punch you in the ribs.

And then came the real twist: new material.

A few tracks slipped into the set like secrets whispered too loudly to ignore. Unreleased, untested, and completely electric. You could feel the crowd recalibrating in real time - heads tilting, bodies adjusting, that shared moment of “wait, what is this?” before the beat drops and suddenly everyone’s on board. Even from the comfort of my unlikely throne, the energy hit just as hard. Maybe harder, because I had the space to actually take it in.

There’s something oddly decadent about experiencing raw, high-voltage music while sitting down. Like watching a storm from behind glass instead of standing in the rain. You’re still part of it, still moved by it, but there’s a layer of distance that turns the whole thing into something almost cinematic.

By the end of the set, the couch felt less like a luxury and more like a vantage point. A front-row seat to both the spectacle and the subtle details. Rock shows aren’t supposed to be comfortable. But maybe, just this once, that’s what made it unforgettable.

The Steak & Blowjob streak continues

The 14th of March arrives with the kind of grey, indifferent sky that Bob and I have come to associate with our particular brand of chaos. It’s Steak and Blowjob Day, a ridiculous, gluttonous holiday on the calendar that serves as our annual substitute for Valentine's Day.

The doorbell rings at 6 PM sharp. I open the door to find Bob, holding a cast-iron skillet in one oven-mitt-clad hand and a brown paper bag in the other. He’s got a few more grey streaks in his hair than last year, and a new, faint scar on his chin from a biking accident, but his smile is the same: a little lopsided, a lot knowing.

“Are you grilling this year, or am I?” he asks, stepping inside without waiting for an answer. This is the ritual. He usually brings the steak - generally a dry-aged ribeye from the butcher two towns over, because Bob refuses to compromise on this one day - and I provide the rest.

“You already know the answer to that” I giggle, taking the bag. Inside, nestled on a bed of butcher paper, are two perfect, marbled slabs of meat. “Jesus, Bob. These are obscene.”

“Only the best for our annual tradition” he quips, heading directly to the kitchen.

We’ve been doing this for nine years. It started the spring we were neighbours, two single people in our early thirties, living in adjoining apartments. Back then, we’d help each other with groceries, water plants, and bitch about the landlord. Then, one particularly bleak March, after a bottle of wine, the conversation turned to Hallmark holidays. Bob, with a straight face, mentioned one that truly spoke to him; Steak and Blowjob Day.

I thought nothing more of it until, on the very day that we'd joked about us celebrating together a few weeks prior, he showed up at my door asking if he could borrow some supplies for a steak he was preparing. Mistakenly, I took this as some sort of coded proposal to indulge in some oral delights.

We were both single, both curious, and it was presented with such ironic detachment that it felt safe. I pulled him inside my door, closing it quickly behind him, dropped to my knees and blew him right there. Being our first time being intimate in any sort of way, it was a fumbling, laughing mess and Bob's steak turned into a charred mess while I kept him occupied. But it was fun.

Not until I had swallowed his sticky mess did he he quiz me on what had come over me. And then came the realisation that he had no idea what day Steak and Blowjob Day actually feel on and it was just a funny coincidence that he's chosen that very day to have steak.

We fell about laughing at the silliness of the situation We agreed on one rule: just this day. No strings, no awkward mornings-after, no expectations for the other 364 days. And the next day, when we saw each other getting the mail, it was a simple nod, a return to neighbourly pleasantries.

From time to time we mix things up; like the time I took him out to a fine-dinning restaurant and enjoyed the thrill of pleasuring him under the table while other dinners were blissfully unaware of the different sort of mouthful that I hand. But, generally speaking, it’s now a finely tuned operation. While I man the grill, he makes himself comfortable and gets himself in "the mood" ready for when it is time for my other service. 

We eat at my kitchen table, the steaks bleeding into the mashed potatoes, the rich, savoury scent wrapping around us like a blanket. We talk about his new job, my recent trip to the coast. We laugh about the time another neighbour from across the hallway almost walked in on us when we left my front door ajar, such was our hurry to get going. It’s easy. It’s us.

After the plates are cleared and the wine is half-gone, the air in the room shifts. It’s a subtle thing, the way our knees brush under the table, the way his gaze lingers a second longer than it does when we were just chatting in the hallway. The irony melts away, replaced by something simpler, more primal. This is the part of the deal we never speak aloud, the part that isn’t a joke. For one night, we get to be selfish.

Later, when the deed has been done, both of us lounge naked on my couch in each other's arms. The frantic, playful energy of the early years has mellowed into something more deliberate, more knowing. We’re not just two people grabbing a thrill; we’re two people who know the intimate details of each other’s bodies, as well as how they like to be pleasured. There’s a tenderness in it now, an unspoken gratitude for this strange, suspended reality we’ve built.

Afterwards, we lie in the dark, the scent of seared meat and oral sex mingling in the air. He traces a lazy pattern on my shoulder.

“Another successful year,” he murmurs.

“The streak continues,” I reply.

I feel him smile against my hair. We don’t say ‘I love you.’ because we honestly have no feelings for one another. We don’t talk about what this means, or what it might mean if we let it spill over into a Tuesday in July because we know that will never happen. We are just two consenting adults who exist together in this single, perfectly contained moment that repeats itself once a year.