Memory.

It's been about three years now since I've had sex with the Grrl. Funny how I should remember that.

Dating weirdness.

I've heard it said that "even bad sex is still pretty good."

I have my doubts.

Things have been very bizarre since the holidaze. Still adjusting to the changes between Shayne and me, still supportive but nevertheless aware of the paradigm shift with Morgan, January has left me scratching my head a lot. Crazy Stacy and I haven't reconnected (yet?), and even if we did, I have no delusions that it would develop into anything regular or dependable. Kinky Hannah is away in Europe, and I'm unsure yet if we'd have a second date or not. Glamorous Lauren and I have always been Just Friends. I've decided that I'm a little uncomfortable about the recent surprise experience with Bubbly Lee.

Whenever writing about my lovers, I always endeavor to be as positive and nurturing as possible while still remaining truthful to the events at hand. I prefer to treat women with respect and appreciation in virtually every circumstance... but sometimes I find I have to face some simple man-truths, cock-truths, heart-truths.

Fairly recent experiences with Biting Tina and Lee have shown me that sometimes I'm prone to entertaining sexual options that I already know aren't going to completely satisfy me. Maybe its because of that maxim, that "even bad sex is still pretty good," or because not-dating can sometimes suck even more than less-than-ideal-dating. Maybe its simply because I really enjoy a woman's company, whether its something sexual or not. Maybe I want to distract myself from missing Shayne.

Enter Redhead Carla. A late30s insurance cubefarm worker and single mother to an adorable wee urchin, Carla responded to a listing that, completely on a lark, I posted to Craigslist. A few emails and conversations later, we met for coffee that didn't remain just for coffee. This sounds strangely familiar.

I'm learning to listen to my gut more. My gut didn't respond with starfire when I saw her picture, pretty though she is, and maybe even then I sensed that there could be gulfs between us. But, in the spirit of openmindedness, I decided to give it a chance anyway.

I really wasn't expecting anything to happen that night. I even more really wasn't expecting anything to happen while Carla's three year-old was goofily crawling around on the couch we were on too. But, no, there she was, hoisting her jeans-covered legs over mine to share some peckish smootches while I tried to suggest that maybe, if this was going to go down, it might be better after some tiny person was fast in Lalaland.

And that's how we ended up in her bedroom, her tiny pad pitch black in darkness, as these tactics were viewed as the best possible way for some tiny person to actually drift off to sleep. She did.

It felt totally weird to be undressing and preparing for unexpected sex in pitch darkness. The wee one would sense and respond to any light, I was told, so I smiled and tried to enjoy it, ignoring the thought that maybe I was with someone who simply didn't want to be seen naked. Turns out I was mistaken, but what did I know?

Her kisses seemed innocent, shy, reserved. I began to wonder how comfortable she was, but was well assured. Deciding to relax in the moment, I slowly brought myself down her nude body with kisses and teases before parting her open for a sensual session of head. I felt, rather than saw, that her mound was shaven and smooth, her clit small and responsive, her inner labia taut and finely sculpted. Gently sliding my fingers inside as I licked and sucked her, her G-spot was small and surprisingly smooth, difficult to tease. I enjoyed listening to her quiet gasps and sighs... and then it was over. She had had her cum, and sought to cuddle and drift to sleep. I was amiable. The pillow was too hard.

"Plans" seemed to happen quickly from there. We talked about what we were seeking in longterm relationships, Valentine's Day, that there's a musical happening in town that she'd enjoy seeing on her coming 40th birthday. Some of the yellow lights in my head started blinking.

Still, I'm openminded guy, and remained willing to give it a chance.

I made an excellent turchia scallopini for our second date, where we had already planned for her to spend the night. We were going to fuck, and frankly, as I hadn't enjoyed reasonably good sex since my last visit with Shayne and was very frustrated by the almost-theres through the past few weeks, it's safe to say that this time I had expectations. I deserved a solid, passionate night of getting properly laid, I told myself. My broken heart be damned.

After, it turned out, she could tear herself away from my PlayStation. After, it turned out, she matter-of-factly undressed beside the bed; no tender kissing, few caresses, no verbal teasing, no sensual play. Was she nervous? No, she said. Was she comfortable? Yes, she said. Yellow lights, yellow lights.

The nude snuggling was nice. Now actually seeing her, my cock hardened at the sight of delightfully round, small breasts teased with tiny eraser nipples, the pattern of sexy red freckles along her shoulders and forearms. She passively asked me to give her head again, and again I did with relish and tenderness, and again she came with sighs and gasps. When I drew myself upward again, she rolled me over, announced that the "cougar in her" was going to come out and mounted me. I bit my lower lip as I enjoyed her tight wetness and caressed her back, but too soon she was asking for a change in position and wanted me from behind.

Her narrow hips felt fabulous in my grip as I started fucking her deeply, earnestly, enjoying the sight of her pale behind ripple as my cock drove inside her. I shifted into one nuance of the position after another, and in time tugged her on her back and raised her ankles above my shoulders for deeper fucking. Carla gasped loudly as she felt me.

I tried not to think about the fact that this was a position that I really enjoyed sharing with Shayne.

And, again, then it was over. Perhaps because it had been more than seven months since she last had a man, but Carla had had her fill. Her pussy was done. And it became clear that she just wasn't the sort of lover who had demonstrable interest or experience in seeing her partner have a fulfilling time as well.

For all my openmindedness, I have to say it for what it is: that's a sexual selfishness. No, I don't need to cum every time I have sex to have fun, but as I know I try my best to ensure the best possible time with my lover, I really would like to see the same pleasurable excitement and sharing to have that sentiment returned. Call me crazy.

Other differences are apparent. Carla, for all her apparent sexual availability (if not skill), is a woman who seeks monogamy and expects The Man to open his wallet for all evenings out. She's not kinky. She doesn't carry a conversation. She doesn't express firm opinions. When I shared with her that its strong, confident women who have their own goals and know what they desire from life, from sex, from the future that attract me, and that women who wait to be rescued from their lives will almost always bore me to death... she seemed eerily silent.

It's a shame, really. And the selfish part of me wants to bitch that it's just fucking unfair.

She loves to camp and ski. We seem to have similar taste in film. Part of me enjoys the idea of corrupting her innocence. But the truth is that there are wide gaps between us, and that tells me that there really aren't any strong possibilities for LTRs. Make a friendship out of it? Sure, easy. Enjoy her company for so-called "maintenance sex"? Maybe. Not if she's going to expect anything more... I wouldn't want to be unfair.

But, no, bad sex isn't always still pretty good.

She has the power.

The scene: A men's room in a restaurant.

Guy 1: Standing at the urinal. Man, my wife is hornier than ever since she got pregnant!

Guy 2: Yeah, that's normal. Just wait another eight months. You'll be done then.

Guy 1: Dude, I'm scared to touch her!

Thanks, Daddy-O.

I love queer women.

No, it's not just a sexual attraction thing (although it can be). No, it's definitely not what most porn offers us as lesbian sexplay (although, ok, if it's genuine, sometimes that can be a little hot). No, it's not because I'm one of those men who has FFM fantasies all the time (been there, enjoyed that, have the Tshirt).

It's really something deeper, something more visceral than that. It's more of a cognitive sexual attraction than a physical one, most of the time, and almost borders on the spiritual. Inwardly, I feel a kinship with queer women of almost every stripe that practically tastes like brotherhood.

Perhaps part of it is that most of my friends in life have been women, and most of them have either been decidedly bisexual. Perhaps I lacked more male bonding as a kid. Perhaps that Old West prostitute that I was in a past life (or so the past-life psychic told me I was, so many years ago) was really a big-ass bulldyke. Or perhaps it's because, as I've often told friends, I adore women so much that the idea of having women friends who adore women lovers as much as I do is tantamount to having my cunt and eating it too.

I'm reminded of Joan. And my favourite queer woman of all, Shayne.

Sometimes, when seeing a lesbian couple strolling down the street, our eyes lock in pleasant ways, and I wonder if they feel my desire for their comraderie. It's difficult to explain.

My heart soars every time I watch Ice acknowledge Anybodys as a boy. "Thanks, Daddy-O!" she replies with a beaming smile.

Her hair was crisply short, blonde, and glistening as it tightly capped her head and left the nape of her neck bare. Her eyeglasses, in dark and thin frames, drew attention to her sharply intelligent green eyes. Her heeled boots, soft leather, shimmered as she walked, the wide hems of her pants moving freely and silently with each step. The leather Danier jacket she wore over her suit jacket framed her waist marvelously, and the lay of it against her hips easily detailed how her bottom was likely just slightly on the wide side but pert and round. She was the mirror image of the Grrl, and in that moment when I saw her in the train station yesterday, I was almost struck dumb in admiration, remembrance, and heartache. It was a beautiful thing. Especially when she turned to me, noticed me enjoying the sight of her, and flashed me the tenderest Mona Lisa smile as she went about her way.

A photo of Vancouver artist Amy Nugent took my breath away today. She reminded me of one of Shayne's friends. Something about the artist, perhaps her geeky eyeglasses, her masculine attire, or simply because she's found a creative moment from the collection of porcupine quills, made me smile.

It can be a frustrating thing, being a man into women into women. There are some interesting socio-political barriers in the various queer communities, sometimes riddled with its own world of judgment and exclusion. But it doesn't prevent me from enjoying the spirit, the charm, the revolutionary presence of two women strolling and laughing along Queen Street, hand in hand.

Wine and whispers.

I've drunk the La Terre cabernet sauvignon that I acquired during her last visit.

Savoring it, I remembered the afternoons when I would call her at work, and when she snuck away from her desk to jill herself as we talked on the phone. I remember the first time we did this, before we actually met, and how she would boastfully share with her girlfriends about the phonesex I gave her.

Drinking the wine is like a letting go. I don't want to let it, her, go. I miss her whispers over the phone as she devoured me and my voice. I miss hearing her climaxes. I miss hearing her whispers for me.

Back to the drawing board.

I do enjoy being single.

My friend, the Gothic Chef, has told me that he likes my energy when I'm single and "the excitement (I show) that comes with knowing that the world is full of potential new lovers." The world is my oyster. I also enjoy the anticipation of what could happen next, even if admittedly my preference is to be partnered, on some level, with a delicious daughter of Venus.

It's been an unusual, transformative, and healing past few weeks. Since New Year's, I've been doing a lot of re-evaluating.
Shayne and me discussed it in early December.

Me: Look at it this way: its a change of context. We're still friends, can still love each other, but we're not holding out for stomping on crystalware. That doesn't have to change our closeness if we don't want it to. You're still important to me, and I do love you. We can always revisit it again, in time, if we want to. No burnt bridges.

Shayne: I agree. That doesn't stop me from feeling sad over the loss of an idea. Tho i'll try to focus on the positives. Man! Why do ya suppose i freak out every time you come? ...don't answer that. ;) Love you.

There's a lot we never got to do. I never got to take her to a playparty, or scuba in Honduras, or camping on the Saint Lawrence, or even particularly intense private bdsm play. Well, hey.

But I've already decided that, unlike what happened after things ended with the Grrl, I don't want to see this blog fall into hiatus because my primary relationship is being redefined. In addition to continuing to share hot and tawdry memories from my past, tawdry moments from throughout my days, and general sexuality, perhaps this blog will feature a stronger singledom element as I embark on What's Next. Dating, for sure. Affairs? One-nighters? That all depends on what Aphrodite offers.

Following a recent date, some redefinition also seems to be happening between myself and Morgan as well. What started as a Craigslisted over-the-knee spanking affair has become a richer friendship that we're both enjoying a lot, but very recently she's taken the brave step to invest more into her troubled marriage and pause on our sensual play. The truth is that my heart sank when she shared this recent news, but that's not stopping me from cheering her on, even while she tells me how she's been fantasizing about my firm hand on her amazingly beautiful posterior. A recent discussion about the relationships between power, fucking, and being fucked left me with a raging cock in my jeans, and I think she enjoyed knowing the feral affect our chitchat had upon me. Damn, I like her.

The Tomboy and I reconnected socially recently, and it's been nice now that a lot of dust has settled. We won't be having sex anytime soon, or at all, but I'm told that that's more because her boyfriend (who is still unemployed) forbade it between us rather than any barrier she may have. Interesting.

To my shock, Stacy and me also reconnected over the phone recently. Long-time readers may remember this saucy, secretive tart whom I also encountered via Craigslist almost a year ago. It seems she had thought I had "given up" on her, and expressed interest is getting together some time in the future. Interesting.

And speaking of shock, how on earth did my reasonably old friend Lee end up in my bed recently? While she's made no secret about her interest for years, I still can't quite figure out how a night bar-hopping among friends... turned into us stopping at my pad for caffeine as I drove her home... turned into her voraciously sucking my cock. (Yes, I disclosed.) An early30s goth, Lee is a fun and friendly sweetheart but, to be frank, hasn't really been on my sexual radar. Perhaps I'll slip my tongue in my cheek and chalk this one up to "helping a friend out," because I have to admit that it was really fun to hear her scream "Fuck me! FUCK ME!" as I tugged her dark braids while pumping into her from behind. Oh, for the Women Upstairs. Interesting.

How can you not enjoy a woman with such vocabulary?

A recent date with Hannah was very bizarre. A mid40s entertainer (no, not a stripper) and mystic, she's a self-described control freak whose kink, articulate nature, intelligence, sexual independence, and spirituality intrigue me. I already sense that here's a woman I could potentially explore tantra with, and she's already made it clear that she has experience in other sexual territories that remain only fantasies to me. Over the phone, our vibe is resonant, but somehow the energy seems a little wonky and elusive when we meet in person. She's made it clear that she's attracted (the kisses were a decent hint), so I'm scratching my head about it all still. I may learn more when (if) we date again after she returns from a trip to Holland, whereupon I've joked that she'll be pegging her Dutch boy there while he squirms in his woody clogs.

And talk about contrast. While Lee is such an abundantly endowed BBW that the acronym seems like a polite understatement, Hannah could easily pass as the poster child for a refugee fundraiser. Now, I appreciate a healthy grain&green vegan diet, but when I'm tempted to hook my date up to a saline intravenous drip between bites of goat cheese pizza, something must be wrong. Further, doesn't the idea of a self-described control freak in an admitted submissive sound like a headache waiting to happen? Call me crazy.

Just prior to New Year's, I enjoyed a sumptuous dinner date with Tina, a buxom 40s businesswoman, who encountered me through a dating site. This became a very, very short-lived affair. The fact is that the combination of my own early-post-Shayne angst and Tina's inability to respect some boundaries (like, you know, don't bite the fucking nipples as though you're trying to eat a steak, especially after he's asked you for the third or fourth time) made any potential for further sexual play less preferable than getting pinkeye. I made that Just Friends right goddam quick.

But then there's Lauren. With Shayne and me at a romantic distance, with Morgan courageously Trying To Work It Out, Lauren has kindasorta become the defacto sigh-maker in my world. This actually sucks because Lauren and me are Just Friends.

A mid30s social worker and former model, Lauren is, in a word, stunning. Intimidatingly so, with rich brunette locks and eldritch eyes, a statuesque elven shape, and a voice like cognac. We've been casual acquaintances for some time, and after she had learned about my newly-single status, she sought me out for drinks. Also healing from an ending relationship, she did the smart thing and enriched a friendship with someone in a similar space, and what's been developing since is a very pleasant closeness between us.

But we're Friends. Despite us enjoying my famous chicken vindaloo together and cuddling deeply over a James Bond DVD this week. And despite me giving her a sensual hot-oil massage afterward. And despite the most sensual, relaxed, tender night of shared sleep I've known since my last visit to Chicago. Simply said, of all the dates and the one-nighter and the drinks out with this wonderful assortment of excellent women, my completely nonsexual evening with my-just-friend Lauren soothed every stress and almost every sense of heartgrief for the few hours they were shared. It was very healing, and because I really don't believe that things with her will really ever progress beyond this, also frustratingly unrequited. But I wouldn't have traded it.

So I seem to be nurturing possibilities these days, and enjoying how it enriches my friendships with cool women. That isn't necessarily a bad thing.

And Shayne? We talk, though perhaps not as often, and perhaps not quite as tenderly. We're adjusting, and the future remains unwritten. I understand that after some physical hiatus of her own, she's met a wonderful woman and may be falling in love with her, an early20s violist with a penchant for healthy cooking, social justice, and introspection. From what little I've gleaned, thanks to Facebook and the like, she seems virtually perfect for Pixie, and I'm genuinely really very pleased and excited for her.

No, really.

This may be one of the healthiest breakups I've ever had. I regard Shayne as family. I can only hope that her dating future isn't nearly as weird as mine has been over the last few weeks. God knows she deserves some peace of mind and unfettered fun.

I miss her a lot. I miss holding her close, naked, at night. I miss giving her pleasure, hearing her laugh, sharing breakfast. I miss our sexy textmessages, her sassy smartassy nature, and her queer politics. But everything is ok, I'm doing really well, and sooner or later I know I'll be with a woman again who won't have me wanting to whack my head against a wall.

Until and after then, every day remains an adventure.

The dunes.

the morning mist rolls over the sea
onto the sand across our feet
a light rain wisps from the sky

the sun in a golden field
rises above the clouds
its reflection in your eye


grains of sand between our toes
the salty breeze in our hair
gathered from the passing night

beside one another on the dunes
i caress your face with a finger
you are such a sensuous sight

our tanned bodies aglow with the dawn
your hand moves across my chest
our breath but wistful cries


the gull soars proudly overhead
the surf laps on the shore
with rhythm rite and rhyme

my palm rests at your shoulder
and as our lips slowly meet
our hearts take joyous flight

our kiss is full of beauty
of passion need and desire
our touch is soft our bond is tight


you keep me close as i kiss you
gently between your breasts
down your stomach along your thigh

then i move my lips closer to you
so good i want you to feel
my pleasure rises as you sigh



I wrote this when I was sixteen or seventeen years old, and still a virgin. I rediscovered it last month among a stack of material, short stories and poetry, from my youth.

At the time, I remember finding an ad for a swinger's network in the back pages of the Village Voice. It was a voicemail service featuring audio listings from singles and couples throughout the New York region, and being the hard-cocked-but-smart teenager I was, I had a blast raking up my parents' phone bill as I listened to the entries. Eventually, I found the cajones to record my own listing, and to respond to others.

I remember actually talking to one single woman, likely significantly older than I, and reading this to her. I certainly didn't (and don't) think this could pass for Keats or Bly, but she seemed to like it enough that she refused to believe that I wrote it and promptly hung up on me. I smirk about that now.

Finding it again now, in the depth of winter, makes me think of beaches and warmer weather. I'm reminded of making out with my first girlfriend, Jackie, under the boardwalk of Coney Island. I remember skinnydipping with Tari, whom I recently re-discovered via Facebook, and totally enjoying her tiny dimpled butt as she ran into the Nantasket surf under moonlight. I'm reminded of sensual times on the beach with Diva: sexy photo poses along those Nantasket rocks in New England, or simply enjoying her sexy nude self at clothing-optional Gunnison Beach in New Jersey. I never did get to take Shayne to Honduras last summer, where I had every intention of fucking her senseless under a palm grove or in a diver's cave.

I have a vacation coming to me soon. I wonder if I can afford a night or two in Cuba. Havana Club, warm sand between the toes, and a hand on a sinewy, bronze hip would be ideal. Hrm.

The air vent.

I've just stripped off my gym pants and am walking, naked, to the shower. My soft cock sways against my thighs as I pass the air vent. A sound stops me in my tracks.

One of the women upstairs. Not the one whose bedroom is above my own, as these sounds seem to be coming from another end of my pad, but still clear through the vent.

It was a loud gasp. A moment of silence. Then a short, high-pitched cry. Another. And a third, even higher in pitch. There's no bed creaking, no foot stomping, no other voices or sounds.

She's masturbating. A vibrator? No, a thick and heavy dildo, I tell myself. She's fucking herself with a hard cock. I'm picturing her on her back, legs wide, her head pressed hard against a pillow, her mouth open in silent ecstacy.

Then a quick, high cry out followed by a a wail, a beautiful howling wail, a long and satisfying "Ohhhh..." in a descending note as she crashes in her cum. It slowly tapers into silence. I stand near the vent, listening to the sudden and complete quiet.

I picture her enraptured in satisfaction. My cock continues to swing against me as I step, smiling, into my shower.

Withdrawal.

We've snuck into my friend's house. You're a passenger in a truck I was driving, but I made a wrong turn and screwed up a routine. We've come here because it's cold outside, and I'm waiting for a phone call on my cell where The Boss is going to give me instructions about what to do next. The truck is parked nearby, and while it's somewhere that's probably going to bring me trouble, I'm really not caring about it because you're just so hot.

You hold my hand as we make our way into my friend's finished basement. I don't know where he is, but I have keys to his place, and it's very cozy and comfortable in here. Bright winter sunlight reflects off of the white walls, the white overstuffed furniture. It's charming to be in a warm place where you can still see bright snow, dripping icicles, swirling wind, blasting frost from a place of comfort.

And then we're laying side-by-side, forgetting the time, forgetting responsibilities. Your blonde hair is slightly in your eyes as you rest your head on a small pillow, and I lay on my chest across from you when we both feel the moment. We're strangers, you and me, but as I draw closer I watch your mouth slowly part open, your tender lips gently shudder, your eyelids gently waver as you accept my kiss. The metal jewellery in your lobes tinkle as your small mouth opens up with mine, the faint moan from your throat, the surge of warmth inside me.

Your dusky blonde hair is slightly in your eyes. You're on top of me now, bent over me, kissing me hungrily as we caress, rub faces against one another's skin, touch. Playful ferrets.

Yet still a seriousness about you. You're no doe-eyed innocent. You know what you're doing and you like it. When my hands caress under your top and my fingers reveal your small breasts to me, I can see the tiny tattoo, the small scar, the huge silver ornament that dangles from your pierced left nipple. The crinkles around the sides of your little tits, the contour of your small dark areolae, tell me about the baby you've mothered. You've had some experience, you've seen some things of the world. You know about life, men, the way things happen, and how to still stand up.

Your nipples, tiny and curling upward, respond to my gentle pinches as you hover over me, your legs tight at either side of mine. I take your nipple jewellery, the whole ornament, into my mouth in my eagerness to feel my lips and teeth around that particular nipple, and the silver clacks against my teeth. The metal leaves a sharp flavour on my tongue. My hands are caressing down your exposed back. You're warm.

You bend forward and press your chest closer to my face, your breasts at either side of my mouth, as my fingertips make their way under your tight jeans. I feel the strap of a thong pass my fingers, and the denim is firm against the back of my hands when my palms reach your tight, firm curves. Holding your ass, I grind you closer to me, and you can feel my cock through my pants as well. You part your legs a little and arch your back, and I relish the feel of your ass in my hands. A fingertip finds your rosebud, and your hips are grinding in small circles against me when you feel it flutter on you there. You like it. I can tell. In that one movement, you've told me everything I needed to know about whether or not you liked it in the ass.

The jeans are gone. We're naked. You're still on top of me. My hands are still holding your butt, and it's round and pert and small in my grip. Hungry kisses. Hot skin. The grinding. Panting.

You've been slowly bucking your hips, feeling my thick shaft between the folds of your beautifully wet pussy against you, pleasuring yourself with me, grinding your hard and quivering clit against my cock. I feel the head of me slip into you, and we freeze for a moment.

Oh my God, you feel incredible. Oh my God, it's tight and sucking me in. Oh my God, the warmth and wetness around the most sensitive part of my body. Oh my God, I want to stay here forever. Oh my God, I want to tug down against me and fuck you hard. Oh my God, and we've crossed a line.

We withdraw because there's no condom. We withdraw because we forgot to watch the time. We withdraw because I'm going to get it from The Boss. We withdraw because we've overstayed in my friend's place. We withdraw because we just met.


I awoke then, perplexed by this dream. The cat was warm and purring beside me. The blue morning light cast shadows against the snow outside my bedroom window. The clocks were ticking quietly, soothingly. Naked, I slowly pulled the thick blankets off of me and went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

And now for something completely different.

Photo Essay: Burlesque dancers, New Year's Eve 2007.