Wednesday, December 31, 2008

A dirty martini for my dirty girl.

Happy New Year, baby.

It's my sincerest desire that, as 2009 bursts before us, that you're embraced with vivacious joy, and that the best possible outcome happens for us, individually and mutually. I'm so sorry for everything that went wrong, and please know that you are, and will remain, in my heart (and libido) always. I love and miss you, Pixie. Tons.

Saturday, December 27, 2008

With the gypsies in the mountains.

I held her hand as she steered her tiny white Honda Accord, nicknamed "Zippy," through the snow-covered and muddy dirt roads of the central Pennsylvania mountains. We were laughing one minute, kissing the next, totally enjoying one another's company and the unrestricted desire that comes with newfound passion. The love that we would share for several more years was still new, and life was excellent.

It was New Year's Eve 2003, and we were on our way to a party being held at the remote and rustic house of one of her SCAdian friends. Snowy miles would separate us from the nearest neighbour, and experience working at various Renaissance festivals already told me that the people we'd be celebrating with would most likely be as relaxed, deliciously bohemian, and friendly as we were. They were the "Clan of Wolf Gypsies," she was a member, and I was her guest.

After we finally found the house, bleats of joy echoed among the icy birch trees from a cluster of people on a frozen porch. I was in the Grrl's territory now, and after she received hugs and kisses from the dreadlocked and earth-toned and bell-bedecked sirens who greeted us, I smiled as their eyes smirked approvingly. Apparently, word had gotten out about me. I shook hands and hugged these my friends whom I had never met.

Amid the laughter, we entered the dark house, the scents of the roaring fire in the parlour, roasted turkey from the kitchen, sensual oils like patchouli and sandalwood from the bodies close by, swirling around us. Someone was playing a dulcimer. The hearth and a handful of oil lanterns provided all the light that was necessary, casting the parlour in a warm honey-gold glow. I passed the bottles of wine I had brought to our hosts, and for a very long time found myself introduced to one excellent person after another. A dozen conversations resounded among wooden beams and rafters as this reunion of actors, dancers, artists, lovers, poets, craftspeople, and assorted other sybarites and sensualists enjoyed one another. This was familiar ground for me during those days, and I immediately felt at home. It wasn't long before my lover was whisked away, so I succumbed to another passion of mine and found myself in the kitchen, baking sweet potatoes in a Chambord sauce with a lovely trio of buxom, laughing, haughty wenches.

There was no dinner per se. People cooked, came into the kitchen, ate, and returned to their conversations and their drinks. One dish after another would simply arrive on a countertop or a table and gradually vanish amid the popping of uncorked bottles, the passing of leather skins bursting with honey mead, the clackle of beer bottle caps falling to the wood floor. Everyone shared, everyone tidied, everyone laughed.

I shook hands with one of her former partners, a tall, thin man with dangling black locks and sad eyes. He nodded when he learned who I was, who I was to the Grrl, and while it was cordial and friendly, I'll never forget the soft, pained look on his face. Years later, I would understand.

The Grrl and I cuddled as we watched the party behind an upstairs banister. In the dark, her back against my chest, she reached around herself and lowered the zipper of my jeans. She snaked her warm hand into my pants, doing a poor job of suppressing her giggles as her fingers encircled around my relaxed cock. I brought my glass around her shoulder to place its rim at her lips, and she laughed as droplets slipped down her chin while she kept feeling me up. Others came upstairs with drinks or food or to catch up on conversations with either of us, and all along her hand remained at my cock, squeezing and tugging at me gently. Holding her close, I felt the heat from the fireplace below surge upward to my face while I watched and listened, sipping mead, and letting her play languidly with my dick. I bent my head into the nape of her neck and planted soft kisses on her tattoo there, relishing her warmth and the taste of her skin.

A young woman came up the wooden stairs beside us, her velvet medieval gown slightly trailing behind her bare feet. She quietly walked right up the the Grrl, tilted her head, and gave her a slow, sensual kiss. The Grrl's hand stopped for a moment, then gave my shaft a hefty squeeze as I hardened more. She then withdrew her hand, turned to kiss me, and asked to excuse herself. Leaning close and whispering into my ear, she explained that the woman was an old friend whom she hadn't seen in a long while, and would I mind...?

Later, giddy with excitement, she found me again and asked to invoke one of our rules: if one of us wanted to enjoy playtime with another, we would first inform and acquire the others' consent. The rule, like us, was recent, and I smiled and blinked when I realized what was happening. I gave her a kiss, and bade her adieu.

The Grrl was thrilled. I learned later that some of her past male partners had given her a lot of grief about her bisexuality, and I was glad to not be among them. She was gone for a lot longer than I might have expected, which also told me that she was probably really enjoying herself. As I mingled and drank and had an excellent time, some of the others would ask me where the Grrl had gone. When I mentioned the young woman in the velvet dress, I received several knowing smiles and silent nods of understanding. The humour of it took the edge of off waiting.

Midnight was approaching when the Grrl returned. I smiled, handing her a flute of champagne. Accepting it, she kissed me hungrily and grabbed my ass. Her kiss tasted like clean, joyful pussy. My cock hardened as I fed from her mouth and then she whispered in my ear how she had taken the little miss into a walk-in closet, went to her knees, lifted her elegant dress, and gave her sweet head.

Among these lustful, happy gypsies, we toasted 2004 together.

Later, we would join several of her friends in a massive, wooden hot tub. It was a friendly and sensual soak, but completely tame until the Grrl went back to secretly handling my naked cock. The room was in near-total darkness, but a candle or two and the moonlight glowing on snowy windowsills still pleasantly revealed the assortment of bodies around us. The Grrl's impressively round ass when she would stand and turn. A tiny brunette's cute little derriere as she moved near her boyfriend. Breasts, legs, penises, chests of all shapes and sizes. How wonderful it is to enjoy being with others without shame or guilt or pressure and simply take mutual pleasure in the watching of one another being naked and relaxed.

The night drew long, and the food and drinking took its toll upon us. The sun was just beginning to rise when we, and so many others, found ourselves stretched on cushions on the rustic hardwood flooring. Where the house had been filled earlier with laughter, now gentle snoring and the occasional discrete sigh could be heard. We fell asleep instantly, and like so many others, would not wake until very late the next afternoon.

After a lazy "morning," we prepared to go, and many were the hugs that bade us goodbye. Zippy waited for us in the snow, and soon we were chilled and making our way through the Pennsylvania mountain roads again. We were bleary-eyed but blissful, struggling to stay warm in our heavy clothes in that tiny car.

We got lost. After stopping in the middle of a muddy trail and consulting our maps, we found ourselves embracing as the sunlight began dipping in the horizon during what still felt like morning to us. The skyline bled gold and red behind the white birch trees, the waning light casting blue shadows against the snow. It started to rain.

I held her face in my hands as I kissed her. I reached inside her leather jacket and cupped her breast as her tongue darted into my mouth. Once again, I felt her hand at my zipper, only this time she was reaching to withdraw me from my confines rather than tease me with her hand inside my jeans.

She stroked me to hardness as we kissed, feeling the wind gently shake the Accord and hearing the drumbeat patter of cold rain on the metal roof. She lifted my wool coat from before me, and leaning over the stick shift, lowered her lovely head into my lap and wrapped her warm, wet, strong, soft lips around the silky head of my straining cock. Closing my eyes, I moved my seat back and angled my hips upward so she could most easily have access to all of my length. She responded hungrily, repositioning herself for comfort, and began a steady bobbing of her head as she sucked me. Her mouth felt incredible, and her swirling tongue curled itself around my dick in a way that left me in puddles. I thrust upward gently as she took as much of me in her mouth as she could, all the while slurping noisily and squeezing my glans with her amazing lips. I held her head, and soon she was bobbing it faster and faster, gulping, breathing through her nose as I felt the tension build in my loins and burst torrents of warm cum into her sucking mouth. She held the base of my dick steady as I came, moving her lips and tongue over and across my head while I was shooting, making me scream and see bursting stars. She swallowed my cum, continued bobbing slowly as I was left shaken under her, and eventually pulled away.

She looked up at me, her face red with exertion. She was breathing heavily, smiling naughtily, her eyes glazed over and glowing. Smiling, she cleaned her chin with the back of her leather-clad wrist, gunned the engine, licked her lips, and drove the car through the mud and the slush until we were back on the highway in the dark.

Friday, December 26, 2008

Two cliks for happy tits.

My sexy, sultry, socially conscious Shayne (whose tits are pretty damned happy) tells me that the sponsors behind The Breast Cancer Site help finance free mammogram screenings for underprivileged women. Internet traffic to their site helps sponsors determine their contributions.

So, since you're here anyway, why not clik below, then clik on the big pink button you'll see, give a woman a free mammogram, and feel good about yourself.



"YES! I'm all for happy and healthy titties!"

Thursday, December 25, 2008

The Toybox: Aneros', uh, Aneros.

I'm a reasonably open-minded guy. I'm very GGG with my partners. When I learned that Diva was experimenting with enemas, I was cool. When I learned that the Tomboy had ponygirl fantasies, I considered getting her a bit gag for her birthday. When the Grrl revealed that she really got off on bondage fantasies featuring space aliens, I smiled and started renting tentacle hentai. When I figured out that Shayne loves to be used and abused like a useless little cockslut getting fucked by a Daddy, I saw the potential for marital bliss.

Receptive anal play has never been a staple in my sexual diet, and prostate play even less so, but it's not something I'm completely foreign to. I've never known a lover who wanted (much less likely knew how) to "milk my prostate" during a blowjob. Perhaps it's because I have yet to have a partner who has pro-actively initiated interest in exploring that sort of territory with me, although it was a brief topic with both the Grrl and Shayne. In my past, I've enjoyed experimenting with small plugs like the Pink Paradise or the Red Stallion, but something specifically designed for prostate exploration was virgin ground.

Many men have hangups when it comes to sextoys for ourselves. This is probably for good reason: We're socialized to deny our sensual natures. Plus, perhaps up until very recently, sextoy marketing strategies have long been designed to celebrate women's sexuality. Male sextoys, on the other hand, seemed the sort of thing reserved for filthy roadside porn shops and made from cheap materials. Sextoys for men were the sort of thing that "guys who couldn't get laid" were "forced" to use, rather than being enjoyed (even with your partner!) as a fun thing to experience for its own merit. How repressed we dudes can often be.

Along with two other glands, the prostate is in the cum-making business. It secretes and stores a zinc-rich alkaline fluid that consists of up to 30% of semen, and its this fluid that reduces vaginal acidity for sperm survival. It also features muscles that aid in ejaculation, which may explain why for some older men, cum bursts may get reduced in both volume and pressure. In stroking, or "milking," the so-called "p-spot," toys like the Aneros are designed to greatly enhance male orgasm by stimulating this happy cum-maker.



Originally developed by another company as an alternative means to treat prostate problems, Texas-based manufacturer Aneros now holds the patent to their flagship male sextoy, the (wait for it...) Aneros. In Japan, it's marketed as the Enemagra (エネマグラ).

The elegantly shaped device has been designed to complement male anatomy and, according to an enthusiast website, "combined with ancient Oriental awareness of erogenous zones and pleasure centers." It features three primary components, including a quaint curved handle. A nub is intended to stimulate the perineum, and after insertion, the wavy shaft is designed to cradle against the prostate. The receiver is then intended to simply flex his sphincter, which in turn moves the toy gently and provides a massage motion against and along the prostate. This makes the Aneros unique among anal toys: unlike buttplugs or dildos, repeated penetrative insertion (yeah, fucking) is actually advised against. "The Aneros is completely hands-free," the Aneros website tells us, "which means manual manipulation of the device is never needed. In fact, we recommend to never use your hands to move the device - it is counter-productive and possibly dangerous to do so" (emphasis mine).

Slip it in. Leave it in. Squeeze the sphincter. Got it?

Of its material, the packaging only tells us that the Aneros is made from "FDA-approved materials," with the website adding that its from "a high-quality, non-porous, medical-grade plastic." Is it because of patent issues that this seems so vague?

It appears nowhere in its packaging information, but the Aneros is made from the polyoxymethylene engineering plastic acetal. Some polyoxymethylenes are reputed to have a slight odor of formaldehyde, but I couldn't detect any such odor from the Aneros.

Admittedly, when I opted to experiment with this toy, I expected that gentle prostate stroking was in itself the way toward intense ejaculation. This, at least, was my impression as I read all the hype and advertising. I soon realized that I wasn't entirely correct.

Let's go on a short tangent together. Come walk with me.

"With the Aneros, a man can achieve strong, continuous full-body orgasms previously unattainable through conventional sexual techniques," the advertising claimed. "These orgasms are so earth-shattering that they deserve a special nickname - The Super Orgasm, or as our enthusiasts prefer, The "Super-O." A Super-O is entirely different from a traditional penile orgasm - it is characterized by pleasure starting from the lower abdomen that awashes the entire body in a state of bliss."

Oh. Ok.

"The man does not ejaculate during a Super-O."

blink
Oh?

"This means there is no "recharging" or "time out" period needed. Through practice, a man can have these orgasms, one after the other during sessions lasting for an hour or more at a time. Even short sessions can feel long as our customers have reported that during Super-O sessions their "beds shake uncontrollably" and they "lose all track and sense of time."

Ok, good to know, but what you're also telling me is that no, your toy isn't necessarily going to make me burst loads of cum. In fact, you found it necessary to market your product to me in such a way that you had to "create a need" and slickly redefine what a man might consider as the vital point to having an orgasm in the first place. Ejaculation? Well, no, uh, or maybe, you say... but here: have a non-ejaculatory "Super-O" instead!

In fact, there are Aneros enthusiasts out there who have sought to develop a "Super-O Society," complete with its own Wiki page and nifty corporate logo. These enthusiasts, of course, are not Aneros employees, despite their presence on the business website.

Why do I feel like someone is trying to market something that's already natural to my own body back to me? Wouldn't it be easier if I just sent them a cheque every time I jacked off?

... I know. I'm a cynic. And it isn't that I disregard non-ejaculatory orgasms for men: I have them often when I'm jacking and it's also an important component to tantra. But if I were a guy who, in buying this product, fully expected that my orgasm would mean having the Mother of All Loads, I might find myself a tad disappointed when that didn't happen. Especially with so much hype about the "most incredible" "mind blowing" "intense" "life changing" "new paradise" promised to me by the hyperbolic advertising.

Just sayin.

But that's more of a critique to the suits in Aneros' advertising cubicles, and the way us good consumers succumb to marketing hype, than a reflection of the product itself. Maybe if the packaging only suggested to me that the Aneros had the potential to introduce me to sensual stimulations that most men tend to ignore, then maybe my intelligence wouldn't feel so insulted and I wouldn't be a smartass and take my toy reviews on these interesting tangents.

Because, sarcasm aside, the Aneros definitely does have an interesting effect. Those same Super-O Society "enthusiasts" might neener-neener me by saying that I hadn't "awakened my prostate," was too focused on my "penile centered experiences," but the truth is that after a few tries, there was some difference in my semen volume. It also didn't take as long to cum, which for (sometimes frustratingly) long-lasting guys like me, can be a relief. The sensation against the prostate took a little getting used to, and being as relaxed as possible is key. Try to imagine having your balls gently tugged and stroked from the opposite end, that is to say, from inside your body, and as if part of your balls themselves were inside your abdomen as well. Yeah, I know, it's weird. But the really cool thing is that when you do ejaculate, those sphincter contractions become involuntary anyway, and this means that your orgasm is going to get immediately affected without any more conscious control on your part. kapowie!

Variants include the Aneros Progasm, a larger toy offering a "fuller" feeling and the Titus, a ribbed stimulator that looks as though it's about to be thrown at me by a crazed ninja. Like the Aneros, the Glide appears to have been developed with beginners in mind, and the Pandora also features a vibrating function.

"The Aneros can also be used to great effect during traditional sexual encounters. During oral sex and traditional intercourse, when the man uses the Aneros he will be harder, last longer, have better control. His prostate will empty more fully during ejaculation, which means a more intense and satisfying orgasm. This increased sexual performance is a great secondary benefit for the partner as well. The Aneros is a great way to explore and expand your intimacy with your partner."

So, it's slightly pandering marketing strategy and online "community" flag-waving aside, these anus-happy Texans are trying to remind us men that our sexuality doesn't always have to be centered around just our cocks. A lot of us (those who like to kiss, caress, cuddle, spank, etc) likely already know that, but it's probably very true that many of us haven't given much thought to our interior 'nads. The Aneros, it seems, can open guys to entirely unexplored sensual terrain, and so long as you don't mind looking like a wind-up toy while you're fucking your partner, can probably greatly enhance things for you during your, uh, "traditional intercourse."

Sunday, December 21, 2008

She showed me her keister.

Sitting at the bottom of our glasses of ice-cold Lemoncello, fresh raspberries began to crystallize, offering us a sumptuous treat for our tongues when we were finished darting them from across our lips. The twinkling tree stood in the corner, its dancing lights casting my parlour into a rainbow hue of shimmering warmth. We had finished a marvelous meal together, and our kisses were as tender and as searching and as passionate as they have always been when we found ourseves in one another's arms.

Last Christmas, Shayne had come for a wonderfully long visit. For two weeks of joy and decadence, we shared days and nights in loving embraces. I had a marvelous time spoiling her rotten with gifts and goodies from Santa. We were very much in love then, and having her in my home for the holidays left me feeling that everything was glorious and perfect and impenetrable in the world. Our arms entwined our waists as we relaxed and laughed, pulling one another closer on the futon.

After dinner (I love to cook for lovers), we enjoyed treats as we cuddled over The Notorious Bettie Page biopic together. We especially enjoyed the scene when the (obviously) lesbian "photography club enthusiast," huddled among a group of shutter-snapping men, beckoned Bettie to "not forget us other boys" and to "show us your keister." For weeks afterward, the phrase stuck with us. We would later exchange notecards featuring 50s pin-ups and remark with scribbled notes and drawn arrows reading "Whatta keister!" And Shayne has a lovely, round, womanly keister indeed.

Feeling naughty, I broke our kisses with a smirk and slipped a DVD on that I knew my deliciously queer lover would totally enjoy. Shorthaired, tattooed lesbians "Slade" and "Brewski" appeared on the JVC, and my horny, dyky Shayne blinked her eyes in thrilled pleasure.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, riveted.

We cuddled as she started stroking her lovely self. The tombois on screen shared themselves before their camerawoman in that genuine way that no male-controlled, commercial, standardized porn can ever hope to do. I nibbled on Shayne's neck as she watched Brewski undo Slade's studded belt. Shayne leaned against me and opened her legs as Brewski started fucking mohawked Slade with their shared strap-on. Shayne only-slightly-demurely asked me if I would be ok if she jilled herself while we watched Slade turn on all fours, her stout round bottom (very like Shayne's herself) being smacked and held as Slade got fucked hard.

As if I would say no.

I held my baby close as her hand delved into her warm folds, and enjoyed her faint shaking and gasps as she stroked that magnificent clit of hers that I've come to learn so well. It wasn't long before I slipped to the floor with a smile, opening Shanye's legs before me as she giggled and gave me access to her beautiful cunt. (Have I ever mentioned how she loves that word?) Swabbing and teasing her, my tongue darted throughout her thick and friendly seam, the tip of my tongue darting above and around her girldick.

The lesbian scene ending, I returned to the futon, enjoying the taste and aura of Shayne's womanhood at my mouth. She undid my jeans as I sat down, holding my cock in her hands as she kissed me, tasting herself. She lowered her head. She flicked her tongue. She took me into her mouth for a few moments before I eased her to the floor and stood before her.

Another scene came on the screen, and I idly watched the blowjob happening there from the corner of my eye as Shanye busied herself with my cock. I gently held her head and slowly pumped my thickness in her sensual mouth, occasionally tapping the length of my dick against her soft cheek. Her slate eyes looked up to me from either side of my shaft, and then she would wrap a wet fist around my girth, aim my cockhead for her mouth again, and suck me in.

The voices from the back of my head encouraged her to suck me deep, and they demanded from me that I utterly pleasure myself with this wanton wench of mine. I gripped Shayne's head in my hands then, feeling her suckling hollowed cheeks at my fingertips, and started fucking her mouth for true. I relished in the noisy slurping that this elicited from her, and the feel of her warm saliva seething along the length of me and to my swaying balls.

But even this wasn't enough now. Gripping her short hair from the back of her head, I bent down to give her a passionate kiss before leading her by the hair to the edge of the futon. On her knees, facing the backrest, I placed a large throw pillow under her legs before instruucting her to stay still for a moment.

I fetched my toybox. I withdrew my leather slapper and some rope. Pressing the side of her face to the couch's edge, I tied her hands behind her back. I stepped aside to admire the view: my sexy slut on her knees, her weight supported by her head on the edge of the futon, her own round keister high in the air for me: open, available, submitting. I squatted down and parted her asscheeks, enjoying the pretty sight of her pale rosebud in the tree's dancing light. I stood and readied the slapper, taking pleasant aim to her copiously round cheek and bringing the black leather down with a resounding smack.

The parlour echoed with the noise, and I knew the women upstairs would likely be able to hear every stroke as I brought the slapper down to her again and again. I pinched Shayne's nipples, ran my fingers through her hair, scratched her back, spanked her ass, and teased her drenched pussy with warm fingertips. I stroked my perky cock with lube and aimed in for her tenderness. I held on to her shoulders, tilted my hips, and slowly thrust all of me inside her as I squatted behind her delectable ass. I enjoyed the sight of her face turning red as it rested on the futon, her mouth open and crying out. I felt her folds against my sac as they gleefully bounced with my strokes.

After a few moments, I withdrew, took a sip of my drink and munched on its raspberry as I continued to admire Shayne's pretty keister. Her anus was completely in my randy view, and so I casually lubed her there as I chewed on the frozen berry. I gripped my cock and aimed the spongy head to her tightness, one hand at her shoulder as I slowly pushed myself inside her. I teased her with my cockhead, darting the very tip of me in and out for a while, as she cooed and steaded herself. Soon, she felt just the head of me in her ass as I kept myself from going further, just for fun, fucking her with perhaps only two or so inches of me. I enjoyed the tease.

By then, my poor baby's knees had had enough, and so I smiled as I released her from her bonds, stood her up with a kiss, and led her to the bedroom. We shared another passionate night, like so many that we shared during that Christmas visit.

Christmas this year is a little different: things have shifted between us some. Again. But God help me, I do love the pain in the keister, and will be thinking of her fondly over my spiked eggnog.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Overheard on a streetcar.

Rumours and Brazilians.


An attractive, longhaired brunette Latina is talking on her cellphone while riding the Harbourfront streetcar.

Latina: "So that's how it is... can you believe it?... Right, I'm apparently sleeping with Jessica and Marie... I don't know where it was heard either, but it's a riot... Right apparently so, but Jessica, you know, mmm... no, no you weren't mentioned, you're safe... (laughs) ...so I went back for a trim, but her place wasn't open, and I would only let her go there, you know?... You did? When?... It feels awesome, huh?"


Andre's friend gets a new job.


A group of tall, cleanshaven, 20something dudes are on the crowded Bathurst streetcar. Andre is taunting his friend about some good news. Andre's friend seems pleased but kind of shy about it all.

Andre's friend: "So, it has me moving out of my parents' place. As soon as I got the word, I started looking for neighbourhoods."

Andre: "That's great. Definitely good. What area are you moving to?"

Andre's friend: "Downtown here, close to campus. It's an awesome place, and I would never been able to afford it without this. I'm already planning what my home office will be like."

Andre: "Hey guys, can you imagine this home office? Porn stud."

Andre's friend: "No, no, it won't be like that. But I tell you, Andre, they didn't even ask me for my qualifications, nothing. I gave them my resume, some references..."

Andre: "Your education would have taken you far. So what site is it for?"

Andre's friend: "I think it's called Twisty's dot com."

Andre: "Twisty's?? Are you serious? Dude, that's serious!"

Andre's friend: "You've heard of them? I hadn't."

Andre: "Dude, no way, that's something else, pornoboy."

Andre's friend: "Alright, fine, but let's not let the females in on it, k? I work for a film company, that's all."

Andre: "I got your back."

Saturday, December 13, 2008

The Toybox: Lelo's Iris. Or, Shayne drives a BMW.

We were nude and sipping tea.

I sat on the hardwood floor at the edge of her bed, casually stroking her warm bare legs as we talked in the afterglow. It was another sunny morning in Chicago, and again we began our day with sensual and tender sex. We enjoyed the respite, smiling as we yawned, indecisive about whether or not we we done playing for the moment.

"You know," she whispered coquettishly to me, her head resting on the pillow, "this might be a fine time to explore the Iris..."

I smiled wide and my heart skipped a beat. Bringing the Iris was one of the highlights of my visit, an early holiday present for my naughty lover. She had asked for it specifically once upon a time, and I was happy to oblige her. Earlier during this trip, I enjoyed her as she explored with her Mini Corsair, and during a threesome with one of her former partners in the past, I was privileged to watch her fuck sexy Annie with her G Twist. But this was a treat we both had been eagerly awaiting.

Similar to the Gigi and the Liv, the Iris is among Swedish manufacturer Lelo's finest products. Sculpted like a burgeoning flowerbud, the Iris is made from phthlate-free silicone at its play end, which is specifically designed for G-spot fun. It features a sensually curved and girthy shaft that houses a merry-go-round of varying vibrational tones, timbres, and speeds, allowing for an incredibly versatile experience.

We enjoyed the charming black case that toy came in. Being silcone, the Iris shouldn't be extensively exposed to direct sunlight, so we also appreciated the sleek black sleeve it could be discretely held in as well.

Tempted as I was to join in on Shayne's play, as she brought this treasure to her happybits, it didn't take long before I realized that I was observing sheer carnal beauty. I simply couldn't intervene, and relaxed on my haunches, occasionally caressing her, as I remained riveted to her lovely, contorting face as Shayne entered her own jilling nirvana. The subtle movements of her body revealed to my eyes that she was experiencing waves and currents that I had rarely, if ever, witnessed a lover enjoy before. Clearly, she liked this girltoy.

So, naturally, after she had crested in her ecstacies, I solicited her collaboration in sharing this review with you. "Homework!" she cried out happily. I have no doubt that she enjoyed the necessary study sessions.

"I have gleefully been speaking of "her" as the "Cadillac" or "BMW" of vibrators," Shayne wrote to me later, "and let me tell you why."



"I still can't count how many settings this little puppy has. She goes from quiet-little-butterfly-kisses strength of vibe to something-like-lion-in-a-cage to V8-under-the-hood-roar. I prefer closer to the roar."


Shayne and I both love the fact that, despite its powder-blue and white colour, the Iris is really very green. It's completely rechargable. It also comes with a warranty, which is virtually unheard of for sextoys. Lelo knows what they are doing.

"The first and best thing about the Iris is that she's electric. I go through so many AAA and AA batteries with my other vibrators (and they aren't even as perfect as the Iris) so imagine how often I'd be running to the corner for another pack of batteries if she weren't electric! Huzzah! She recharges really quickly and holds a charge for a long-ass time. I haven't plugged her in in over a week and have used her several times for maybe a total of ninety minutes and she's still purring as smooth as ever. A beautiful thing.

"The Iris is also gorgeous to look at: befitting a queen, she's sleek, classy, and sensual. I'm happy to leave her on the bathroom shelf to dry after a rinse because she's just so pretty to look at.

"One of the settings I like best is an alternating setting. This vibrator has the capacity to vibe either at the base, or at the tip, or both simultaneously. Being the eclectic lady I am, I really like the setting that alternates tip, base, tip base and back. It really adds to the rocking motion that I've come to love on the Iris.

"My favorite method of use: first I use the vibe in the tip over my panties to get me revved up. Then, when I'm wet and hot, I pull the panties off and put the setting to steady (no pulse) in both the base and the tip at max vibe and slide her halfway deep into my cunt. I hold her there and rock my pelvis to simulate thrusting while I flex my kegel muscles and rub my clit in those nice circles you've described. I pretty much stick with that until a first shuddering clitgasm happens, and then I back off, take a breather for a minute, and switch to the alternating vibe. That's when I start thrusting by hand while still rocking my pelvis."


During our play, one of the things we noticed was how both the shape of the Iris and the way it needed to be held was visually similar to a man stroking his cock. We both smirked over the genderfuckery about that.

"Remember that awesome jack off motion? That's where this comes back. I jack myself off then, fucking my cunt and grazing my hard clit. I flex my muscles to really milk the sensation of being fucked. It's pretty amazing and it makes me cum really hard.

"One of the very few drawbacks to the Iris is that it's easy for your hands to slip and change the setting when you're holding it. A lock mechanism of some sort would be great. So would a handle; I declare all vibrators should really have some sort of handle, as that's definitely one thing dildos have going for them."


Later, when Shayne enjoyed a bath, we also learned a second, minor drawback: unlike her Mini Corsair, the Iris is not waterproof and must not be submerged.

"But that aside, this is just one of the beautiful stories of the Iris. I'd fucking marry this thing if I could!"

And there was a time when I thought she might marry me. Ah, well.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Bettie Page 1923 - 2008


Thank you Bettie for your courage,
which for you simply meant doing what came natural to you.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

One thousand days.

We had shared our final night together on the futon in the parlour. By then, you were uncomfortable about being in what was our bed, and somehow being in the main room helped you be at ease. We spent the previous night there also, although for several nights before that, we were apart. It felt strange, adjusting to the growing distances and your changing energy, but it was a confusing time for us both, and we were still doing our best to remain as patient and as elegant with one another as possible. You really tried hard, and I know that was a struggle for an Aries like you.

You were not my first love, and you were not my longest love, but you were my most crippling love. Even though you languished at my boots and submitted to my whip's kisses, yielded your generous and curvaceous bottom to my punishments and lovingly submitted your body to my shadowy hungers, it was to you that I freely and willingly gave the last of my innocence. I gave too much of myself; that was part of the problem that I developed later, after you were gone, after I was left with your possessions and your abandoned animals.

Then as now, they remind me of you, and they remain cared for with the love you knew I would give to them.

I gave too much of myself because I surrendered. I was wrong to. In you, I thought I had found everything I hoped for and desired in a woman, a lover, a partner. I neglected to look past your delicious faerie glamour (a mistake I had made before), or least past it enough to see those nuances of you that you kept under lock and key. I thought I loved your angst, your rage, your moments of sullen indulgence with your art, your offerings of puja, that wicked nighthag's laugh of yours which I still miss.

But, in the end, you were simply counting coup, weren't you? Despite all your efforts and beauty in healing arts and work, there always would be that cast-iron nugget in your spirit. It's simply a matter of time before your lovers have earned enough demerit points before you not only leave them, but abandon them, and in your zeal for personal re-incarnation, you also leave behind all that you were with them. Now I understand why, when we were together, you never discussed your past partners in depth and we never heard from them in any social, friendly way.

Alright... that's not true. After you left, and after you left so many of your goods for me to sort through or dispose of, I found the holiday cards and a letter or two. I was not, I learned, the first one whom you had left so 'cleanly,' and whom you had hurt so deeply with the sudden abandonment of your entire self. I grasped your modus operandi, and the awareness helped me heal.

And yet, like a moth (...or a dragonfly?) to a flame, something about you kept me from entirely forgetting you. In a spite, you even had sex with the one man on this earth whom I truly loathe, and a man who has been accused of child sexual assault no less and who has harmed so many spirits of so many people whom we love... and yet I still longed for you. Why?

It's true: more often than not, sex with you was fabulous. We were sensual lions, you and I, and I treasured all the build-up and all the epilogues to our heat. I miss the way you used my shaft and cockhead to jill yourself. I miss the way you moved and begged as I took you in your fabulous ass. I miss our daydreams of hosting playparties. I miss holding your sexy head of short hair as you sucked me. I miss your tummy. I miss your tattoos. I miss your hands in my hair as I sat on the floor in front of you.

Do you remember our torrid nights in the motels of Maple Shade? Do you remember the hot tub during the New Year's party with your SCAdian friends? Do you remember when we got lost driving in the woods? Do you remember being bent over the stair railing in Maryland, on the grounds where we met? And do you remember that sacred night during your first visit to me, when our embrace caressed with deity?

Have you heard the gongs at Millbrook Crescent that have called to you?

It's only been in recent months that I've come close to knowing as much love, desire, and passion in a partner. That feels good, and in the past year or so, that's helped me heal in many ways. It taught me that, no, you're not perfect, no, you're not The One For Me, no, it is possible to know deep and resonant love again. My head and heart already knew that, but in the past year, my body learned it too.

That's good. Because, in your own way, you were really pretty messed up too.

I still love you. I likely always will, even if it's different, even if it's ill-advised. But I'm also over you, and while I never wanted to be, that's ok.

I still have that last bottle of 2002 Boordy coastal claret. We drank its sister on that last night together. I've thought the bottle would make a fitting offering to Aphrodite (do you remember how incredulous you were when your reading with Her revealed how I would find love again?), but I have yet to uncork it for such a purpose.

That last night, you had told me how horny you were. I lit up. It had already been a little less than two months since we had last had sex. You seemed intrigued by my offer, made with my eyes and open hands and smile, for us to enjoy one another without the attached angst of our breakup, a casual no-risk fuck, but something in you kept you from crossing the line. I think it was your fear that I wouldn't keep it casual after all. I still don't know if you would have been right.

The January snow ticked at the bedroom window on that last night we had sex, and you mounted me in the dark and took me deeply as I held your beautiful, pendulous breasts. Later, I learned how that position was sacred to your patroness, and I enjoyed the irony and the knowledge of having loved you in a position so potent for feminine sexual empowerment. It seemed only fitting for you.

It was a Monday morning when we awoke on the futon. The cats were hungry, and I had to get ready for work. I was holding you close, and after I turned over, you caressed my back and scratched me there in the way you knew I liked. We barely spoke. I didn't want you to go, I didn't want to get up, but I forced myself to go ahead and make a nice breakfast for us. I knew it would be the last time we would break bread together. I knew you would be gone when I got home, and that our lives apart would really have begun.

You packed some of your things as I dressed. You were waiting for the moment to come, and then you would have our space to prepare yourself in privacy. When the moment did come, you were standing at the bedroom doorway and I in the hall. And it was there where, a thousand days ago, we shared our final deep and loving kiss. Your kiss was warm, your mouth open and giving, and I was glad for our embrace. After, you walked me to the front door and I took my leave.

For a while, in the later months that came, I made it a point to kiss future lovers in that same spot in the house. This wasn't because I was trying to relive that moment with you, but because I wanted to mark the change in what felt like a sensually seamless way. I wanted to remind myself that I could be ok without you in my world.

And I was right. In losing you, I gained a great deal, and all of my present and future lovers are and will be the beneficiaries of all that I learned.

I do love you, I do miss you, but in the end, it's you who has missed out... because, baby, I have a lot of love to give.