Play Nice!
I’ve given you some toys to play with while I’m gone. Look over on the right towards the bottom. (Stop sniggering!) They’re nice and new, and I don’t want you breaking them. And no tantrums over the noughts and crosses. I want you to stay friends. Watch the counter on the right to see how long I’ll be away. And don’t make a mess. I want to see this blog nice and tidy when I get back.
Pervy Picture: At Last!
C[amera]W[hore]: I’ve succumbed.
CW: I’m posting a porny pic
CW: on my blog.
C[yber] B[oyfriend]: I told you that’s what they’d want.
CB: Not all that scribbling you do.
. . .
CB: Can I see it?
CW: Yep.
. . .
CB: You’ve sent me the wrong one.
CW: Nope.
CB: What’s pervy about that?
CW: It’s a weathercock?
CW: And it’s kind of long
CW: and hard and pointy?
CW: And if you look closely
CW: you can totally see
CW: two balls.
. . .
CB: I’m looking for another boyfriend.
CB: You’re weird.
. . .
. . .
. . .
CW: The weather’s shitty too.
. . .
. . . . . .
CW: Just an observation.
[logs off]
(I'll be away for three weeks until April 1st; might not be able to post much from now on. But I'm not leaving you for good. I'll be back. Promise. . . There's something about that date, but it escapes me for the moment.)
Of Mice and Men. (But Mostly of Mice.)
I have one. Not the pet kind. Unlike some other boys I was never fond of rodents as pets. I had a cat. But she got upset with me and left me to go to a nicer home. Just like my boyfriends often seem to do. Sigh. Having a mouse in the house must make you maudlin. Sorry.
Right, I’ve blown my nose, and I think I’m better now. At least, like my boyfriends, thank god, it doesn’t shit all over the kitchen floor—though that happened in my bed once, and it wasn’t a mouse—so I think it might be more a kind of outdoor mouse. It’s not surprising I’ve got one, really. Like a lot of Londoners I live in a flat that’s part of an old Victorian house built in the 1860’s, and not too well built at that, so there are plenty of cracks and crevices it could find its way in through.
In fact I’m always mildly surprised in the mornings to find I’m still in bed in my bedroom and it hasn’t all collapsed in the night and chucked me out into the street. That has happened around here—well, nearly. There’s one just along the road that was being propped up a bit by builders yesterday. No, I didn’t fancy any of them. Burly blokes, even bent over with their jeans down over their buttocks showing their crack, don’t turn me on at all.
It wouldn’t have made any difference if they did anyway. How can I bring a boy home now? Off he goes to the kitchen to pour us a glass of something, or make the coffee, and a mouse runs over his bare foot like it did mine last week. I screamed, and I’m not normally a drama queen. If I were him, I’d be out of the door, down the stairs and halfway along the street long before I remembered it wasn’t only my feet that were bare. I nearly was. That’d arouse the builders’ interest, if nothing more alluring.
I found where it was getting in, eventually, after I thought I’d blocked nearly every crack I could find. (No, in the flat, not the builders. I told you. Don’t you listen?) It was amazing. It had chewed through the skirting board, and made a hole just like the ones in Tom and Jerry cartoons. I said these houses were jerry-built and there was the proof. I’ve never seen anything like that before.
Anyway, I poured poison down it, and I haven’t seen the mouse now for a couple of days. Maybe I’ll be able to get some real sex soon after all, instead of just camsex. I’d thought of asking a friend if she’d lend me her cat, but decided against it. I mean, I’d feel so awful if the creature did the boyfriend trick on me and disappeared after just a few nights. It’s a cat; it wouldn’t leave its phone number either.
Mice can make you feel really miserable, you know. Like boyfriends. I didn’t know that before. Where’s my hanky gone?
(If you're wondering why I'm posting more than usual, there's a reason. It's not just a sudden rush of creativity. Tell you tomorrow.)
Right, I’ve blown my nose, and I think I’m better now. At least, like my boyfriends, thank god, it doesn’t shit all over the kitchen floor—though that happened in my bed once, and it wasn’t a mouse—so I think it might be more a kind of outdoor mouse. It’s not surprising I’ve got one, really. Like a lot of Londoners I live in a flat that’s part of an old Victorian house built in the 1860’s, and not too well built at that, so there are plenty of cracks and crevices it could find its way in through.
In fact I’m always mildly surprised in the mornings to find I’m still in bed in my bedroom and it hasn’t all collapsed in the night and chucked me out into the street. That has happened around here—well, nearly. There’s one just along the road that was being propped up a bit by builders yesterday. No, I didn’t fancy any of them. Burly blokes, even bent over with their jeans down over their buttocks showing their crack, don’t turn me on at all.
It wouldn’t have made any difference if they did anyway. How can I bring a boy home now? Off he goes to the kitchen to pour us a glass of something, or make the coffee, and a mouse runs over his bare foot like it did mine last week. I screamed, and I’m not normally a drama queen. If I were him, I’d be out of the door, down the stairs and halfway along the street long before I remembered it wasn’t only my feet that were bare. I nearly was. That’d arouse the builders’ interest, if nothing more alluring.
I found where it was getting in, eventually, after I thought I’d blocked nearly every crack I could find. (No, in the flat, not the builders. I told you. Don’t you listen?) It was amazing. It had chewed through the skirting board, and made a hole just like the ones in Tom and Jerry cartoons. I said these houses were jerry-built and there was the proof. I’ve never seen anything like that before.
Anyway, I poured poison down it, and I haven’t seen the mouse now for a couple of days. Maybe I’ll be able to get some real sex soon after all, instead of just camsex. I’d thought of asking a friend if she’d lend me her cat, but decided against it. I mean, I’d feel so awful if the creature did the boyfriend trick on me and disappeared after just a few nights. It’s a cat; it wouldn’t leave its phone number either.
Mice can make you feel really miserable, you know. Like boyfriends. I didn’t know that before. Where’s my hanky gone?
(If you're wondering why I'm posting more than usual, there's a reason. It's not just a sudden rush of creativity. Tell you tomorrow.)
Fore! Play!
I’m probably mixing my sports horribly here just for the sake of a poor pun. But then I never did give a toss for sports (oh, a pun again, did you notice?) only for the shorts, although I like swimming. But in this gay chat scene—and now I think about it, maybe in real life—I’m swimming against the tide.
I can see a reason for a lack of foreplay in video chats without taxing even my testicle-sized brain overmuch, but why some boys I’ve been to bed with aren’t much cop at it needs a brain the size of some cocks I’ve seen on cam occasionally to fathom. One lad has a really huge one. I’m glad I’ve seen that. I'd be a bit scared of having one that size in me, but I don't need to panic on cam.
Anyway, a couple of boys recently didn’t want to hold hands; didn’t want to be gently fondled, stroked, not even have their buttocks cupped and squeezed in my eager hands, let alone having their heads and luscious hair handled by the same soft palms while we kissed. Deeply and slowly. Without breathing for minutes.
"I don't kiss," each said, and I still can’t make out why. It can’t have been out of some fear of catching some weird streptococcal infection that would render them speechless for the rest of their lives. Neither were that interested in conversation. At least, if it was that they were worried about, how come both were breathlessly eager to give me one blow job after another, and even swallow my cum?
It might not sound it, but I really am very careful about my sexual health. I don’t do bareback, and I’m not—despite what you’ve just read—really promiscuous. But I do like kissing. And I’m even pretty good at it. I can play with a tongue between my teeth, roll mine around his (or hers), glue my lips to his (or hers) until asphyxia sets in and we both part pink and gasping for breath hanging on to each other dizzily as the world spins. Some guys go to all the trouble and risk of wrapping a rope round their necks and heaving on it to get that asphyxia-induced erection: kissing is much more fun and seldom fatal. But it wasn't for these boys.
All the same, the eagerness with which each hauled out their cocks from their boxers before they got down to business was a joy to behold. Only marred by the fact that neither time were their cocks quite as eager as mine. Read over the last paragraph again, and you'll see why I thought they were in the wrong about kissing, for purely practical reasons.
Now if we’d been doing cybersex. I could have accepted this “no kissing” business more casually. After all, you’d look damn silly tonguing a web cam, and before even trying it would be wise to have a friend nearby who could perform the Heimlich manoeuvre. Swallowed cum might result in a dose of antibiotics later, but it doesn’t choke you. At least, not after the first few times.
Apart from that, there wasn’t much difference, in a way, between the real sex with those two boys and cybersex. For all you have guys who say they “want to fuck your ass” or “I want that dick in my mouth” you know perfectly well that it’s, practically speaking, impossible. If not slightly ridiculous. I always find it a bit difficult to keep a straight face—but usually manage to maintain a straight cock, which is the important thing—when my cyber-inamorata comes out with that sort of thing.
But the boxers, the initial panting eagerness, the hauling out of the cock, the stroking and groping to get it hard—well, that’s much the same, so it seems, in cyber and reality. Only in cyberspace, I can work out why there’s not a lot of time spared on foreplay really. Guys who are desperate to come don’t want to waste any time or effort on running their hands seductively over the chest, pinching a perky nipple, stroking the ribcage and splaying the palm tantalisingly over the belly and mons before seizing the erect, tumescent penis.
Like I said, I’m obviously swimming against the tide. I like all of that. I love kissing. I loathe boxer shorts. Oh, and you’ll have gathered that a lot of these guys in the videochat world aren’t all that loquacious either. Do you know, I have a funny feeling I’m going to meet those boys again soon, only in cyberspace instead of the disco.
(I thought maybe it was time to try to get you all excited again. Just don't try the rope trick. I don't want to be explaining this blog in a Coroner's Court.}
I can see a reason for a lack of foreplay in video chats without taxing even my testicle-sized brain overmuch, but why some boys I’ve been to bed with aren’t much cop at it needs a brain the size of some cocks I’ve seen on cam occasionally to fathom. One lad has a really huge one. I’m glad I’ve seen that. I'd be a bit scared of having one that size in me, but I don't need to panic on cam.
Anyway, a couple of boys recently didn’t want to hold hands; didn’t want to be gently fondled, stroked, not even have their buttocks cupped and squeezed in my eager hands, let alone having their heads and luscious hair handled by the same soft palms while we kissed. Deeply and slowly. Without breathing for minutes.
"I don't kiss," each said, and I still can’t make out why. It can’t have been out of some fear of catching some weird streptococcal infection that would render them speechless for the rest of their lives. Neither were that interested in conversation. At least, if it was that they were worried about, how come both were breathlessly eager to give me one blow job after another, and even swallow my cum?
It might not sound it, but I really am very careful about my sexual health. I don’t do bareback, and I’m not—despite what you’ve just read—really promiscuous. But I do like kissing. And I’m even pretty good at it. I can play with a tongue between my teeth, roll mine around his (or hers), glue my lips to his (or hers) until asphyxia sets in and we both part pink and gasping for breath hanging on to each other dizzily as the world spins. Some guys go to all the trouble and risk of wrapping a rope round their necks and heaving on it to get that asphyxia-induced erection: kissing is much more fun and seldom fatal. But it wasn't for these boys.
All the same, the eagerness with which each hauled out their cocks from their boxers before they got down to business was a joy to behold. Only marred by the fact that neither time were their cocks quite as eager as mine. Read over the last paragraph again, and you'll see why I thought they were in the wrong about kissing, for purely practical reasons.
Now if we’d been doing cybersex. I could have accepted this “no kissing” business more casually. After all, you’d look damn silly tonguing a web cam, and before even trying it would be wise to have a friend nearby who could perform the Heimlich manoeuvre. Swallowed cum might result in a dose of antibiotics later, but it doesn’t choke you. At least, not after the first few times.
Apart from that, there wasn’t much difference, in a way, between the real sex with those two boys and cybersex. For all you have guys who say they “want to fuck your ass” or “I want that dick in my mouth” you know perfectly well that it’s, practically speaking, impossible. If not slightly ridiculous. I always find it a bit difficult to keep a straight face—but usually manage to maintain a straight cock, which is the important thing—when my cyber-inamorata comes out with that sort of thing.
But the boxers, the initial panting eagerness, the hauling out of the cock, the stroking and groping to get it hard—well, that’s much the same, so it seems, in cyber and reality. Only in cyberspace, I can work out why there’s not a lot of time spared on foreplay really. Guys who are desperate to come don’t want to waste any time or effort on running their hands seductively over the chest, pinching a perky nipple, stroking the ribcage and splaying the palm tantalisingly over the belly and mons before seizing the erect, tumescent penis.
Like I said, I’m obviously swimming against the tide. I like all of that. I love kissing. I loathe boxer shorts. Oh, and you’ll have gathered that a lot of these guys in the videochat world aren’t all that loquacious either. Do you know, I have a funny feeling I’m going to meet those boys again soon, only in cyberspace instead of the disco.
(I thought maybe it was time to try to get you all excited again. Just don't try the rope trick. I don't want to be explaining this blog in a Coroner's Court.}
Now you don't have to die before you get old . . .
According to this blogger ‘Attempted Recluse’, who’s delivering a paper on it, ‘late adolescence’ “stretches from 18 to 29”. Now I understand what's going on in some of the gay bars . . .
I suppose 30-40 is now ‘youth’; 41-50 must be ‘early adulthood’ and you only get to be a proper adult say between 51 and 80. That’s a relief. But apart from being the excuse for my behaviour I've been looking for forever, do you realise what that really means?
I WILL NEVER GET OLD!
Even if I live to 104, I reckon I’ll still only die in early middle age. Isn’t that great? I can really look forward to the rest of my life now.
I suppose 30-40 is now ‘youth’; 41-50 must be ‘early adulthood’ and you only get to be a proper adult say between 51 and 80. That’s a relief. But apart from being the excuse for my behaviour I've been looking for forever, do you realise what that really means?
I WILL NEVER GET OLD!
Even if I live to 104, I reckon I’ll still only die in early middle age. Isn’t that great? I can really look forward to the rest of my life now.
That's the Way to Do it!
Some sort of spring serendipity sent me to Nightwatch again, where I found this. Scroll down a bit past the pics, but be warned, it’s poetry. Come on, it’s going to be OK, you can take it. You’re a big boy. Just breathe in, tighten your tummy muscles a bit, and it’ll be alright. I’ll be gentle with you. You'll like it. Promise.
None of the teachers at school mentioned this when I was reading Auden, even though I knew two of them were gay, and they probably weren’t exactly uninformed about me, either. You’ll probably guess a bit more about me now I tell you I love it. I wish I could do that. Write like that, I mean. The other, I have. All of it. Like that. Just not as often as I really, really, really want.
I actually met someone who'd known Auden and Isherwood. Perhaps I'll tell you about it one day. But for that poem, Nightwatch gets into my blog list even though it's not altogether my kind of thing.
None of the teachers at school mentioned this when I was reading Auden, even though I knew two of them were gay, and they probably weren’t exactly uninformed about me, either. You’ll probably guess a bit more about me now I tell you I love it. I wish I could do that. Write like that, I mean. The other, I have. All of it. Like that. Just not as often as I really, really, really want.
I actually met someone who'd known Auden and Isherwood. Perhaps I'll tell you about it one day. But for that poem, Nightwatch gets into my blog list even though it's not altogether my kind of thing.
Pink, Black, Green, Brown, Blue . . .and a little bit of Red
You’ll have noticed I’m gradually adding other people’s blogs. I’ve found, as you do, myself being led from one to another, and I’ve a funny feeling that partly due to Queer Ranter a disproportionate number might be by Malaysian boys. They write you see. And I really can’t take those blogs full of nothing but “[everything] fkn suks!” Especially when they can’t spell ‘fucking’ or don’t know what a good suck is.
It’s not that I don’t like pictures. I’m as red-blooded as you. That’s not an invitation to see any of it though. See my post about S&M, and piss off if you thought it was. But I do like a good read.
Nor is it any kind of obsession, if you’re like that guy who started chatting me up after my last long-term boyfriend finally left to go home for good. (Long-term for me; he didn’t live here, just came for a couple of years on courses, so it was spells of a month or two at a time, which is about as long-term as I seem to be able to manage.) It had only been a month since he went, and I was feeling very lonely.
I explained why I was a bit low, since he asked. “Where did he come from? Why couldn’t you go?” he said. “Botswana,” I replied glumly, thinking that answered the second part of the question as well. Then he stunned me. “Oh, you’re into ethnics,” he said. WHAT? It sounded like “Oh, you’re into leather.” Or whips or something.
No, no, no! I was into my boyfriend, a lot, actually, he was very nice to be into, but apart from that he was also into far more of the same things I like than any other boyfriend, or girlfriend for that matter bar one, I’ve ever had, and he just happened to be African. The way I just happen to be half Italian. (The other half is Viking, if you go back far enough. It’s a funny mixture. I’ve told the sort of English racists who chant “go back where you come from” they can send me back to Italy if they want and they’re paying. Not Norway. I loathe cold. I’d die there.) I don’t think he was looking for an ‘ethnic’ Italian, or Viking, even, either, when we first met. Must work both ways, I imagine, if you think like that.
I went off the guy instantly. I mean, you could only say something like that if you spend all your time on porn sites, surely? Or are a racist? I glared at him and stalked off.
Actually, the glare didn’t come off too well, because it didn’t stop him stalking me around the club for ages until I had to get quite rude. Rude ‘impolite’, I mean. I have hazel eyes. Real hazel, that is, green flecked with brown, not the other way round which is more common. You can’t glare very effectively with hazel eyes, I’ve found. (They don't photograph too easily, either, it seems. At least, not when I do it.) Not like a friend whose eyes are pale blue. He can make me shiver when he’s pissed off.
Thought I’d better explain that. Oh damn, damn, damn. Somebody told me once people with green eyes cry more easily. Writing about my Botswanan boy, I think I’ve just proved it again.
Hmmm. I know, before you start complaining, this blog's been more 'gay' than 'camerawhore' lately. I just haven't been in the mood for any whoring recently. I'll get back to that, promise. Just to remind you of some of what's on my list: men who're married but want a boy in the middle; embarrassing confusion of "nudist", "naturist" and "nude" and "naked"; men who JO at you in the dark in the early hours of the morning; the "twenty-somethings" who even on distant inspection are exaggerating their youth by at least a quarter of a century; how to frighten someone off with a milk carton; what to do with a hairy arse apart from the obvious; other uses for lawnmowers (nothing to do with gay gardeners); oh, and reasons to dye your hair blond before you enter a Gay Chat Room.
It’s not that I don’t like pictures. I’m as red-blooded as you. That’s not an invitation to see any of it though. See my post about S&M, and piss off if you thought it was. But I do like a good read.
Nor is it any kind of obsession, if you’re like that guy who started chatting me up after my last long-term boyfriend finally left to go home for good. (Long-term for me; he didn’t live here, just came for a couple of years on courses, so it was spells of a month or two at a time, which is about as long-term as I seem to be able to manage.) It had only been a month since he went, and I was feeling very lonely.
I explained why I was a bit low, since he asked. “Where did he come from? Why couldn’t you go?” he said. “Botswana,” I replied glumly, thinking that answered the second part of the question as well. Then he stunned me. “Oh, you’re into ethnics,” he said. WHAT? It sounded like “Oh, you’re into leather.” Or whips or something.
No, no, no! I was into my boyfriend, a lot, actually, he was very nice to be into, but apart from that he was also into far more of the same things I like than any other boyfriend, or girlfriend for that matter bar one, I’ve ever had, and he just happened to be African. The way I just happen to be half Italian. (The other half is Viking, if you go back far enough. It’s a funny mixture. I’ve told the sort of English racists who chant “go back where you come from” they can send me back to Italy if they want and they’re paying. Not Norway. I loathe cold. I’d die there.) I don’t think he was looking for an ‘ethnic’ Italian, or Viking, even, either, when we first met. Must work both ways, I imagine, if you think like that.
I went off the guy instantly. I mean, you could only say something like that if you spend all your time on porn sites, surely? Or are a racist? I glared at him and stalked off.
Actually, the glare didn’t come off too well, because it didn’t stop him stalking me around the club for ages until I had to get quite rude. Rude ‘impolite’, I mean. I have hazel eyes. Real hazel, that is, green flecked with brown, not the other way round which is more common. You can’t glare very effectively with hazel eyes, I’ve found. (They don't photograph too easily, either, it seems. At least, not when I do it.) Not like a friend whose eyes are pale blue. He can make me shiver when he’s pissed off.
Thought I’d better explain that. Oh damn, damn, damn. Somebody told me once people with green eyes cry more easily. Writing about my Botswanan boy, I think I’ve just proved it again.
Hmmm. I know, before you start complaining, this blog's been more 'gay' than 'camerawhore' lately. I just haven't been in the mood for any whoring recently. I'll get back to that, promise. Just to remind you of some of what's on my list: men who're married but want a boy in the middle; embarrassing confusion of "nudist", "naturist" and "nude" and "naked"; men who JO at you in the dark in the early hours of the morning; the "twenty-somethings" who even on distant inspection are exaggerating their youth by at least a quarter of a century; how to frighten someone off with a milk carton; what to do with a hairy arse apart from the obvious; other uses for lawnmowers (nothing to do with gay gardeners); oh, and reasons to dye your hair blond before you enter a Gay Chat Room.
Straining Towards a Conclusion
If you didn’t know, I still blush easily, even though I’m not a kid any more, and I’m a giggler. Can’t help it, all sorts of things set me off, even in bed. But I defy any of you to keep your lips primly pursed at this YouTube video I’ve just found on Nightcharm. It’s an HBO documentary, which I think I might have seen sometime on one of those crap cable channels you watch when you can’t sleep.
Let me quote you the beginning. “In 1996 psychologists from the University of Georgia devised an experiment to test something that had long been suspected but never confirmed. From a pool of undergraduates, they selected 76 young men all identified as heterosexuals who had never experienced a homosexual thought or fantasy, let alone a sexual act . . .”
What? They could find 76 on one campus? None of whom had ever had their libido tickled just a tiny little bit by a pretty boy when they were thirteen? Not even a microsecond of a mental image of another boy when they were jerking themselves off all those years afterwards before they got to Uni? Not once? I’d have thought they’d have had to trawl all the states, if not half the world, to find that many. I’ve noticed before, psychologists can be amazingly naive. Come on, they were lying!
Well, I giggled at that, of course, but just wait until they get their pants down—you were hoping for that, weren’t you?—and you come to the description of the “penis strain gauge” for measuring the strength of an erection. Let alone the picture. I think it must have been designed by Torquemada, who also probably claimed he’d never had a homoerotic thought or fantasy, but likely got the sort of erection that’d measure pretty strong on the contraption once the bonfires were burning nicely.
The conclusions are pretty obvious, of course, at least to us gay or bi boys with even a modicum of experience. Even if they aren’t to you yet, you’ll probably learn as much, maybe more, reading my posts here, I should think. The other thing I’ve noticed about psychologists is they never just believe the people who know.
I wonder if you can get one of those gadgets in the sex shops in Soho? I think I can usually feel the quality, and the width, but it could be fun . . . “Hey, I had a 9.7 last night.” “You lucky bastard. I got him too pissed, he could only manage a 3.4.”
(I’ll try to nick it from YouTube, if I can find it, to post here. In the meantime, if that link doesn't work, click on Nightcharm up in the first para. You might have to scroll down a bit, but you can't miss it. It's the pic of the boy with his pants down, who looks as though he's been put in the corner by the teacher for showing his dick to the boy next to him in class.)
Let me quote you the beginning. “In 1996 psychologists from the University of Georgia devised an experiment to test something that had long been suspected but never confirmed. From a pool of undergraduates, they selected 76 young men all identified as heterosexuals who had never experienced a homosexual thought or fantasy, let alone a sexual act . . .”
What? They could find 76 on one campus? None of whom had ever had their libido tickled just a tiny little bit by a pretty boy when they were thirteen? Not even a microsecond of a mental image of another boy when they were jerking themselves off all those years afterwards before they got to Uni? Not once? I’d have thought they’d have had to trawl all the states, if not half the world, to find that many. I’ve noticed before, psychologists can be amazingly naive. Come on, they were lying!
Well, I giggled at that, of course, but just wait until they get their pants down—you were hoping for that, weren’t you?—and you come to the description of the “penis strain gauge” for measuring the strength of an erection. Let alone the picture. I think it must have been designed by Torquemada, who also probably claimed he’d never had a homoerotic thought or fantasy, but likely got the sort of erection that’d measure pretty strong on the contraption once the bonfires were burning nicely.
The conclusions are pretty obvious, of course, at least to us gay or bi boys with even a modicum of experience. Even if they aren’t to you yet, you’ll probably learn as much, maybe more, reading my posts here, I should think. The other thing I’ve noticed about psychologists is they never just believe the people who know.
I wonder if you can get one of those gadgets in the sex shops in Soho? I think I can usually feel the quality, and the width, but it could be fun . . . “Hey, I had a 9.7 last night.” “You lucky bastard. I got him too pissed, he could only manage a 3.4.”
(I’ll try to nick it from YouTube, if I can find it, to post here. In the meantime, if that link doesn't work, click on Nightcharm up in the first para. You might have to scroll down a bit, but you can't miss it. It's the pic of the boy with his pants down, who looks as though he's been put in the corner by the teacher for showing his dick to the boy next to him in class.)
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