Greetings, fellow sex-fanatics (“sexnatics”)! A little bird told me to expect more traffic today than normal. If you're new, you might be interested in The Best Of Belle De Le Oxford. Here's a selection of posts which are better than the other ones, which are also great:
“Oh Alan”, I purred. “You were so good.”
“I'm just sorry I kept passing out like that”, said Alan. “It can be such a chore having it two feet long like I do, you know, it's hard to find the blood to keep it up!” A silence fell, and he brushed his foppish black quiff across his face, out of the way of his glasses.
“You know”, he said. “That was some top-class content you delivered there, really in keeping with the spirit of the medium. I'm starting to think you should charge for it.”
“Ask for money?”
“Maybe a subscription model. Say, a fiver for a month's unlimited access.”
“But that's disgusting!”
“How else do you expect to maintain such a high quality of output?”
This worried me for a moment. “I never thought of that”.
“Well, I once had a friend”, said Alan. “She started charging for it, and within a month, sure, she was having sex with 99% fewer people, but she'd almost doubled her profits.”
“She doubled them? How was she making money before?”
“Oh, you know. Writing “Lexus” on her tits. “Burger King”. “Domestos”. Sometimes different ones for different body parts, you'd get a different demographic for each. Public sector job ads on her forehead, for the missionaries. Tequila and Pot Noodle on the buttocks for the ass men. There's a whole branch of the advertising industry devoted to this sort of thing.”
“And that didn't work?”, I said.
“It did, for a while. But then there was an advertising recession. When you're earning a pound for every thousand views, can you afford to take a pay cut?”
Of course not.
- in which I lose my sex-virginity for the first time!
He handed me a small plastic box, ‘How Babies Are Made: A Book On Tape’ (as read by Alan Carr, foreword by Boris Becker).
- in which I lose my abortion-virginity for the first time!
“It’s a consent form”, he replied. “It proves legally that you’re willing to do this.” I smiled. It’s not often you see a man with such a commitment to feminism.
- In which a nice man takes me to the Randolph
- If you are a literary agent, PLEASE read this and make me famous
- My first blogged sex!
Belle
xo
* * *
“Oh Alan”, I purred. “You were so good.”
“I'm just sorry I kept passing out like that”, said Alan. “It can be such a chore having it two feet long like I do, you know, it's hard to find the blood to keep it up!” A silence fell, and he brushed his foppish black quiff across his face, out of the way of his glasses.
“You know”, he said. “That was some top-class content you delivered there, really in keeping with the spirit of the medium. I'm starting to think you should charge for it.”
“Ask for money?”
“Maybe a subscription model. Say, a fiver for a month's unlimited access.”
“But that's disgusting!”
“How else do you expect to maintain such a high quality of output?”
This worried me for a moment. “I never thought of that”.
“Well, I once had a friend”, said Alan. “She started charging for it, and within a month, sure, she was having sex with 99% fewer people, but she'd almost doubled her profits.”
“She doubled them? How was she making money before?”
“Oh, you know. Writing “Lexus” on her tits. “Burger King”. “Domestos”. Sometimes different ones for different body parts, you'd get a different demographic for each. Public sector job ads on her forehead, for the missionaries. Tequila and Pot Noodle on the buttocks for the ass men. There's a whole branch of the advertising industry devoted to this sort of thing.”
“And that didn't work?”, I said.
“It did, for a while. But then there was an advertising recession. When you're earning a pound for every thousand views, can you afford to take a pay cut?”
Of course not.
“I suppose the problem of generating revenue from content is going to become an increasing concern in this internet-savvy something-for-nothing generation.”
“That's pretty smart.” He gazed at me. He was a much older man, of course, but if one squinted, he looked just a little like Harry Potter. But it was me who had Accio'd his heart – though only after he'd Charmed me, and we'd both had a lot of Potions!
“Hey Alan”, I thought suddenly. “Couldn't all of that stuff we've just said also be applied to newspapers? You know, about making money through -”
“No”, said Alan. “Don't be fucking stupid.”
I sighed. If sometimes I seem bipolar, it's because I am. Not clinically, I mean. What I mean is that sometimes I have good moods, but if you check back later, I might be having a bad one. I have more than one emotion, I suppose is what I'm trying to say. I'm pretty sure that's what “bipolar” means.
“Don't worry”. Alan read my thoughts. “People will know who you are soon. Soon you'll be a household name, like Brooke Magnanti.”
“Who?”
“Belle du Jour”.
“Who?”
“Billie Piper!”
“Oh!”
“Don't worry, I've got a trick up my sleeve.”
Oh, by then I'd told him I was The Oxford Sex Blogger. I probably should've mentioned that.
I'd been stood next to King's Cross station, next to one of their two McDonald's. In my spare time, I collect Happy Meals. Not the toys, just the meal. I still have a classic 1998 cheeseburger, still in its original wrappings: I can only imagine what it's worth now! I love collecting – my mum always said to never throw anything away, as it “might be worth something”. I was also holding 50 Evening Standards, to drive up their value. People were getting annoyed at my not sharing.
A baying crowd gathered. Two of them begged me for the TV listings. Another one implored that I read the sex column (the irony!). As I jammed myself into a phonebox to avoid a riot, I couldn't help feeling awkward. “You are a strong, confident woman”, I told myself, as my McNuggets started to congeal atop my stack of freesheets.
Suddenly, one man surged through the crowd, clouting any obstacles with his iPad. It was Alan, by the way, so I'm not going to describe him again. He dragged his finger across the screen, and flames shot out; he used it to jet over the angry mob, landing just in front of me. A press and a drag later, a laser fired from the screen, blowing the hinges from the phonebox. As he threw me onto his back and flew us away from the torches, pitchforks and waiting police, the sexual tension was clear.
“That's quite some iPad”, I said as we crossed Holborn. It was gold-plated, and embossed with the letters 'AR'.
“Thanks”, he said, setting us down with a somersault. “It's a special model. Built in Swiss army knife, doubles as the hoverboard from Back to the Future 2. Fully operational Gaydar. Contains the full digitised personality of Stephen Fry.”
“Can it make phonecalls?”
“No.”
“Why did you save me just then? Why now? Why me?”
“You cannot create scarcity without becoming isolated from this new networked world. Walking on might be the best decision in business terms, but it removes me from the way people the world over now connect with each other.”
I wondered what his cock looked like.
“Lentil?”, he offered.
“No thanks, I ate.”
He pounced on me again. In stature he was a Berliner, but where it mattered he was pure broadsheet. The liveblog of my heart updated. "10:51pm: Wow!"
I couldn't not tell him. The dam burst like a reservoir. “It was me, I did a sex blog and I called it Belle and nobody knows and -”
“It's alright! Stop. I know, I know.”
“How? How do you?”
“You think this golden iPad is just for flying, making kosher bacon and watching non-Flash videos?”
It was obvious. I could never have kept it hidden forever. As his brown eyes locked on mine, I let relief wash over me. A weight lifted. He was hard once more, and inside me in seconds. And so he beat on, balls against the current, borne back ceaselessly into my ass.
--
The Oxford Sex Blogger is nominated for Digital Journalist of the Year at the Guardian Student Media Awards
“That's pretty smart.” He gazed at me. He was a much older man, of course, but if one squinted, he looked just a little like Harry Potter. But it was me who had Accio'd his heart – though only after he'd Charmed me, and we'd both had a lot of Potions!
“Hey Alan”, I thought suddenly. “Couldn't all of that stuff we've just said also be applied to newspapers? You know, about making money through -”
“No”, said Alan. “Don't be fucking stupid.”
I sighed. If sometimes I seem bipolar, it's because I am. Not clinically, I mean. What I mean is that sometimes I have good moods, but if you check back later, I might be having a bad one. I have more than one emotion, I suppose is what I'm trying to say. I'm pretty sure that's what “bipolar” means.
“Don't worry”. Alan read my thoughts. “People will know who you are soon. Soon you'll be a household name, like Brooke Magnanti.”
“Who?”
“Belle du Jour”.
“Who?”
“Billie Piper!”
“Oh!”
“Don't worry, I've got a trick up my sleeve.”
Oh, by then I'd told him I was The Oxford Sex Blogger. I probably should've mentioned that.
* * *
I'd been stood next to King's Cross station, next to one of their two McDonald's. In my spare time, I collect Happy Meals. Not the toys, just the meal. I still have a classic 1998 cheeseburger, still in its original wrappings: I can only imagine what it's worth now! I love collecting – my mum always said to never throw anything away, as it “might be worth something”. I was also holding 50 Evening Standards, to drive up their value. People were getting annoyed at my not sharing.
A baying crowd gathered. Two of them begged me for the TV listings. Another one implored that I read the sex column (the irony!). As I jammed myself into a phonebox to avoid a riot, I couldn't help feeling awkward. “You are a strong, confident woman”, I told myself, as my McNuggets started to congeal atop my stack of freesheets.
Suddenly, one man surged through the crowd, clouting any obstacles with his iPad. It was Alan, by the way, so I'm not going to describe him again. He dragged his finger across the screen, and flames shot out; he used it to jet over the angry mob, landing just in front of me. A press and a drag later, a laser fired from the screen, blowing the hinges from the phonebox. As he threw me onto his back and flew us away from the torches, pitchforks and waiting police, the sexual tension was clear.
“That's quite some iPad”, I said as we crossed Holborn. It was gold-plated, and embossed with the letters 'AR'.
“Thanks”, he said, setting us down with a somersault. “It's a special model. Built in Swiss army knife, doubles as the hoverboard from Back to the Future 2. Fully operational Gaydar. Contains the full digitised personality of Stephen Fry.”
“Can it make phonecalls?”
“No.”
“Why did you save me just then? Why now? Why me?”
“You cannot create scarcity without becoming isolated from this new networked world. Walking on might be the best decision in business terms, but it removes me from the way people the world over now connect with each other.”
I wondered what his cock looked like.
* * *
“Lentil?”, he offered.
“No thanks, I ate.”
He pounced on me again. In stature he was a Berliner, but where it mattered he was pure broadsheet. The liveblog of my heart updated. "10:51pm: Wow!"
I couldn't not tell him. The dam burst like a reservoir. “It was me, I did a sex blog and I called it Belle and nobody knows and -”
“It's alright! Stop. I know, I know.”
“How? How do you?”
“You think this golden iPad is just for flying, making kosher bacon and watching non-Flash videos?”
It was obvious. I could never have kept it hidden forever. As his brown eyes locked on mine, I let relief wash over me. A weight lifted. He was hard once more, and inside me in seconds. And so he beat on, balls against the current, borne back ceaselessly into my ass.
--
The Oxford Sex Blogger is nominated for Digital Journalist of the Year at the Guardian Student Media Awards
10/10
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