Tuesday, March 31, 2009

April foolishness, or three tales of sexual stupidity.

This post is going to be a little snarky.

You know, I'm a very reasonable guy. I'm pretty damned tolerant. I listen. I give pretty decent counsel. I'm free with the sharing of what I've learned from my life's experiences, and more often than not, I acquired my father's habit of giving the shirt off my back when someone I care for is in genuine need. I treat my lovers as friends, and while I may treasure some more than others, I try to never be an ass to any of them.

Sure, I've been stood-up. Sure, some affairs just don't end well, no matter what you do. But, you know, some people. And what better time than April Fool's Day for some dating misadventures from the omfg label. Share my pain as I relate three nightmarish tales where the limits of my patience were supremely tested.

The Liar.

I was walking home from work and had passed a local bar that occasionally has some cool open mike nights. The Little Voice told me that I wanted a beer, and so even though I wasn't really sure I did, naturally I listened to him. My intuition was itching.

I took a stool at the bar that was neatly situated in a dark nook, and it wasn't until I after I ordered when I noticed the black leather woman's coat on a seat near me. I had just had my first sip when its owner, a slightly rubenesque brunette with Italian looks and a black clingy dress, returned to her seat and ordered a whiskey sour. I was leafing through a weekly zine, checking out upcoming concerts. We made eyes, we smiled, smalltalk happened. No biggie.

I've finished my pint when I realize that her smalltalk is starting to sound like flirttalk. What do you do, you have a nice voice, would you buy me a drink, you're goodlookin, are you single, I just had this problem with my stupid boyfriend who I just ran out on and do you know a cheap hotel in the area where I could spend the night?

I did, and I told her where it was. And we kept talking. A drink or two later and she was asking me if I had 'a really nice cut cock' and moves my hand from my glass to the rough but warm and very damp pantyhose between her thighs. I found myself hailing a cab. She told me her life story. I started hearing weird contradictions. Child, no child. Beatings by boyfriend, great boyfriend. New to the area, used to work downtown.

At my place and she's apprehensive. Ok, says I to myself, it wouldn't be the first time I held someone's hand as they were going through nonsense; maybe this wasn't a pick-up after all. So I make tea and listen. She grabs my dick through my jeans and kisses me. You ok, like, you sober? She leads me to my bed. Ok, fine.

She's thick but solid, with a really nice and broad posterior that would look perfect in an oil painting. She tugs down my jeans, pushes my chest until I'm laying back, and moves her long brown hair to around my thighs as she starts stroking and licking my dick. I'm tense, because so far this has been pretty weird, but I force myself to relax as I slip on the condom.

She insists that I not wear one. Suddenly, even my alarm bells start ringing, but I rationalize to myself. 'Ok,' I think, 'if this is the start of something with a new partner whom I'll see again... maybe. But it's the first night, she already seems a little loopy, so... I don't think so.'

No bareback, no fuck, she says. She hates the things. Allergic. To non-latex ones too.

That's too weird, I think.

But I adapt, and soon she's experiencing my hands as she rests on elbows and knees on the bed. My cock isn't getting attention, but I'm having a perfectly fine time probing and sliding my lube-drenched, gloved, index finger around and inside her dark, crinkled, virgin rosebud. I'm slowly spiralling my finger inside her ass to the last knuckle, and soon she's silently open-mouthed and eye-blinking in discovery. How could I not have a good time introducing a woman, whom I just met, to assplay?

But by now it's 4am, and we're getting exhausted. We stop. And we talk. And the contradictions continue. I have to work in the morning. I slowly realize that I've been Really Gracious and Really Patient and Really Giving, but now I'm at overload. Time for that hotel for you, honey. 'Ok, but let me tell you this', she says. I listen. Ok, time for that hotel for you, honey... why don't you call a cab? 'Ok, but...'

I was gentle until it became obvious that I needed to be firm. I kicked her out. And I didn't make it to work the next day. I haven't heard from her since. Good.

The Korean.

Meeting her was part of my bizarre and unsatisfying winter, and God yes, it was through Craigslist. When will I ever learn?

The standard ritual: she posts ad, I read ad, I email, she emails back, we chat, we agree to meet. This isn't about dating; it's about fucking, but it's also true that she's told me enough about her dogs already that I'm almost as interested in meeting her cool hounds as I am to seeing what she's all about.

She's pretty and friendly and laughs nervously when she sees me. I've brought doggie treats and that cinches it for her that 'I'm cool.'

And what she's all about, it seems, is an aspiring career in porn. She shows me the hardcore sites where she can be seen sucking black cock. (She teaches me something I probably could have guessed but never really knew before: you know those hardcore sites where women are just coated in gobs and gobs of cum? It's not cum. No man on earth... well, almost no man on earth... can cum by the half-pint. All that jizz is really, usually, liberal amounts of Liquid Silk lubricant.

I blink my eyes a lot and laugh, the naughtiest side of me wondering if I've hit some jackpot. We talk casually about my job, this blog, her gay brother in prison who murdered a violent homophobe, her mother out in the boonies, and how much she loves sucking dick. Her eyes glaze over when I tell her that I'd really enjoy a long, wet, noisy blowjob. I sit on the edge of her ridiculously small and unstable bed. I lay back. She takes me in her mouth.

And does virtually nothing. Some lip movement maybe. Slight sucking. Sure, she's looking up at me, giving me dark Korean eyes as I view my dick inside her mouth... but, um.

Now I'm totally confused. Aspiring porn actress? Loves blowjobs? Where? No, seriously... where?

Ok. This isn't happening. So, again, I adapt, again, I get Really Gracious. We both get naked, start to cuddle and caress, and I'm enjoying stroking her folds and caressing her bum gently. We're relaxed, it's fun. Things progress to the cock-wrapping and her laying to raise her generous butt in the air as I prepare to fuck her.

And she starts asking me more about my job. I try to dismiss it, but she's casually talking to me in a way that's miles from anything related to hot sex. She was wet, I know that for a fact, but this smalltalk brings my brain into a complete spin-around and leaves me in flaccid dickdom.

Would I have been as determined had I not already been in a long stretch of dating wierdness in my life? Maybe not. But the Korean still had enough spark in her for me to enjoy a last-ditch attempt at play, if only to somehow salvage the evening. I asked her if she liked toys, and she smiled with a beamy smile and directed me to her favourite vibrator. She lay back on her terrible bed, and I idly stroked my cock as I watched her tease her tender clit, her flushed folds as she jilled before me. She didn't take long to cum, and she shook sensually when she did, all the while enjoying the sight of my cockstroking and my eyes taking the sight of her in. She was really quite pretty to watch.

Afterward, we chatted about her dogs, but clearly there was nothing else there. So yes, I had sex, sort of, with a porn star. And I learned then and there that just because someone may make sex their business, that doesn't necessarily mean that they're genuinely any good at it.

The Iranian

Oh. My. God.

I've alluded to her before.

Between she and the Korean, I think I may have finally learned my lesson about Craigslist. Probably. I hope.

Repeat standard Craigslist hook-up ritual. Only, this time, the Iranian does something that I think only a Typical Craigslist Guy would do: start asking for an almost-immediate meeting. Like, later that day, the first day when contact was initiated.

It was she who was responding to a listing that I placed, this time. Ok, fine, maybe she really liked my listing... but still it seemed a little weird, out of character for a single woman seeking a partner, and this time the listing wasn't strictly about sex.

I was deep in my last-winter phase, so my attitude was that I was possibly going to hook up with someone who had Application To Partnership potential. Maybe, given that context, I let some of my guard down and upped my tolerance level. If I did, the Iranian taught me the stupidity of my ways. But I digress.

She was eager to meet, and after a flurry of emails and a phone call or two over the day following, we set up our date. We met at her downtown condo situated right the middle of the gaybourhood, which I saw as a nice plus. She introduced me to Persian cuisine at an excellent and charming restaurant, which became another plus. She told me about her career as an artist and her world-travelling as an ESL instructor, which were a huge plus. In my post-Shayne healing, I was starting to really feel like some weight was being lifted, that maybe I had actually met a possible partner with potential for me, and I was really starting to enjoy myself. It was really, really nice.

And she was hot. Petite with short dark hair, trim, firm, with a flat tummy and an obviously perky little behind. Sensual, riveting, dark eyes. Soft skin. A gentle voice.

Back at her condo, and she's sharing photo albums. Lots of photo albums. Photos of her and her family, her mother who does work for the United Nations, she and relatives in Iran, there she is actually wearing a burka, check out this great place in Greece, here's a friend who lives with her from time to time, aren't men horrible people, oh the men in Iran are such pigs, hey would I like to see some really sexy pictures?

Wait... huh?

Maybe I was like a kid who had been given some chocolate by the crazy man, because after such a terrific dinner together, it took me a second to register some of the vile side-remarks I started to hear saying. Men are what? Did she actually say paki? Wow. Ok.

But soon I had a flurry of other photo albums being placed in my hands. The Iranian obviously loved to model, perhaps not surprisingly for an artist. Her walls were adorned with multiple paintings and photographs, some of which were of her and shot by others, several of which were sensual to say the least. But, over the evening, the albums seemed gradually more and more lurid, until we were sitting on the bed together as I gazed on delicious images of her lithe, half-naked form.

My cock was straining. I ignored the Little Voice that whispered that maybe it was just a little odd for a woman to share this, or least so much of this, on a first date. But by then she was moving closer, and her kisses melted me. Was I being seduced?

I'm an adult, a mentally powerful man. I decided that if I was, I was going to enjoy it. I deserved the pleasure.

Her golden brown skin completely entranced me. I had never had sex with an Arab woman before, and she defied every stereotype that I had heard. She was taut and lean, shaven bare and smooth. Her arms coiled around me like soft, warm velvet ribbons, and her small hands were deft as she cupped my full and heavy balls. My lips and palms grazed across her tiny bronze ass in ecstacy, and her soft labia swelled juicily in my mouth as my tongue danced across her teeny button and slowly wiggled inside her core.

This time, entranced and fully believing that this was the first night to a new and prosperous partnership, I did fuck bareback, and as her legs wrapped upward and around the small of my back, I screwed my eyes shut and gasped quietly as my urgent cock slowly sunk inside her to its root. It was the single most pleasureable moment of my entire winter. Her body was perfect and she felt so good. I stroked my cock steadily inside her, her legs tight around me, her nails at my back, my balls slapping against her, until I felt myself thicken more and twitch until I filled her with torrents.

I am convinced that that fuck was my one, true, generous reprieve from all of my angst from last season. It was an indulgent moment, and while not the smartest of moves, as it was happening all I knew was bliss for the hour or two it lasted.

Because it crashed down right after.

I spent the night. It was nice. The next morning, I showered, she got ready for an interview, I grabbed some breakfast out, and returned home feeling like a new man. And then the emails began.

One sentence emails, a half-dozen of them. I replied. Ten more. I would reply. A flurry of more, some cryptic, some simply odd. I tried to reply... but now this was taking my morning up and I had things to do. I was cordial, but had to get on with my day.

More emails. Then phone calls. Nice, pleasant at first. Totally enjoyable. But I had a day to get to... More calls. Now, literally, every ten minutes. And it was afternoon. Nothing else was getting done. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry, but I'll talk to you tomorrow, ok?"

Threatening emails. Threatening voicemails. Hateful, racist, demanding comments. For the next three days, I was fielding a world of ire from someone who, I was soon convinced, badly needed therapy. I told her so. My patience was completely breached. "I'm really very sorry to actually say this, but now I regret ever having met you. Now go away. Goodbye." In the end, I had to redirect all emails from her into the "spam" file, and considered restricting her access to my voicemail. I've never been stalked before. Eventually, she stopped.

I got tested. I turned out fine.

I haven't heard from her again. Thank God.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Girl talk.

The scene: Two brunette women, each in fashionable sunglasses and skintight hotpants, strolling through a custom motorcycle show.

Brunette #1: So, you know, he's kissing your ass.

Brunette #2: Huh?

Brunette #1: He thinks he'll get closer to me if he gets closer to you.

Brunette #2: Oh.

Brunette #1: He's just... so not what I'm looking for in a man. Like, he's always name-dropping, and he's all about his being a bank manager and all. Like, I laid it out to him, "This is how you come across." And he was, like, so hurt.

Brunette #2: Oh.

Brunette #1: But, Nick, you know. He's been really... working on his identity...

Brunette #2: Nick is gay?

Brunette #1: ... Is that what you heard out of that? His sexual identity?

Brunette #2: Uh...

Brunette #1: No. His identity as a person.

Brunette #2: Oh.

Brunette #1: Sometimes I really wonder about you, dude.

Brunette #2: Oh.

Friday, March 27, 2009

And Clinton didn't inhale.

Toronto Star reporters Vanessa Lu and David Bruser must have a lot of time on their hands. And, as a result, Toronto city councillors Frank Di Giorgio, Giorgio Mammoliti and Cesar Palacio must be fielding some interesting phone calls.

These gentlemen enjoyed lunch near pervert's row during an "industry facility tour" of the House of Lancaster stripclub yesterday, and its made the local news. Seems they were there to inspect "what kind of facilities they have for the girls that work in there, whether everything was clean, whether they had space to store their materials."

"I think we made constructive use of our lunchtime," Di Giorgio was quoted. "We basically came over to see what the facility was like, and everything was okay in my estimation."

But we didn't look, they said.

"Absolutely not. We just took a tour of the facility."

When asked by scandal-sniffing reporters (who by odd coincidence were just outside the club as these fellows dined) if their tour might not have been more "appropriately" conducted by a city inspector, Mammoliti defended their tittybar lunch. "We were invited to come and check the conditions. There is nothing wrong with that."

The report incurred a flurry of public commentary in local news media. In good, laid-back, Canadian fashion however, many commentators have been shrugging shoulders about the politicos' presence among the T&A. But still, isn't it interesting that they found it necessary to deny having watched the dancers? Unless they really didn't. But then, what does it say when we know at least the reporters sniffed something amiss in all this?

Either way, it demonstrates the continuing need to the view the sexual as the prurient, the wrong, the unsavoury. Or to be defensive about deriving satisfaction from the same.

Meanwhile, in Europe, Swedish politician Goeran Eurenius starred in at least fourteen adult films prior to and during his term as Haerryda city councillor. Socialist politician and Italian porn star Milly D'Abbraccio featured her ass prominently on all campaign posters during her 2008 bid for Rome city council. And as "Cicciolina," veteran porn star Ilona Staller successfuly served one term in the Italian Parliament between 1987 and 1991, and remains politically active today.


Wednesday, March 25, 2009


I'm now on Twitter, so those of you libertines and sluts and perverts and other delightfully horny peeps who feel like catching your roguery fixes in RealTime, feel free to "follow me" there. Peace.

Suus vapulus puga.

Dean is a trim, eagerly kinky, early40s bisexual mystic with a penchant for good coffee, corsets, and trance drumming. Her sensual breasts boast nipples that easily come to attention, her flat tummy barely tells of her children, her kisses are hungry and devouring, and she has the cutest pert little ass. We've been casual acquaintances for years, friends in the same spiritual community (such as it is), and after she made The Pass at me, we began dating late last month.

Dean reminds me of the statues and frescoes featuring the fine women of ancient Rome. And, yes, this ancient portrait of an Egyptian noblewoman during its Roman historical period really does look like her.

Maybe it's because, like myself, she has some experience doing ritual work that sometimes elicits an ominous glamour from oneself. It's partially because of her spirit, partially because of her taste in jewellery, but a lot of it is because of her hair. Dean's short hair is almost afro-like, with tight and dark-auburn curls in what would be called a "pigeon hole" fashion thousands of years ago. She would, to my eye, lk completely at home wearing a sheer stola with gold necklaces and lapis earrings, lounging comfortably amid the sound of lyres during the orgy, wine at hand, figs and olives served by naked Egyptian slaves.

Or, perhaps even better, waiting in the sacred brothel for one proud and broad-shouldered senator in particular to come by, offer his coin to the Goddess, and take her at his casual leisure.

Or siezed by the cohort as spoils of war, and dragged to the conquering general's tent as his battle-weary guard stood drunken sentry with knowing smiles on their scarred, muddy, clean-shaven faces.

She was ravenous when we enjoyed the dilled salmon that I had prepared for our first dinner together, but twice as ravenous when we were necking on the futon. Her open-mouthed kisses on my neck and shoulders, her caresses down my back were a welcome treat. How long had she kept an eye on me? The first hints of the cleft of her ass inched its way toward my fingertips as she writhed in my arms, my hand enjoying the small of her back. I learned quickly that Dean was eager to do a lot of catching up in her world, she celebrating her divorce from a restrictive and problematic man.

How could I refuse a friend in need?

She very matter-of-factly draped herself across my lap when I tugged her from the back waistband of her black spandex pants. I already knew that Dean was into spanking, but this almost seemed too casual, and soon I discovered that my Topwork was definitely cut out for me.

She settled silently, comfortably, across my knees. Enjoying the sight of her teeny butt, I began with a series of light to moderate swats that I started to enjoy just fine, but seemed ho-hum to this so-called 'beginner.' Hrm. A few swats harder, said I to myself, should change that. Nuthin.

Now, I can enjoy giving an over-the-knee attitude adjustment just fine without being altogether concerned if my pet is relaxed and quiet. But this was one of our first dates, and I'd be damned if I'd let my badass self watch this little vixen get a smacking without so much as a fucking peep. Like, puh-leeze.

So it was with humourously annoyed determination that I reached under Miss Utterly Silent's waist to lower those pants. Firm, perky, petite assflesh was my visual reward, and now my hand began raining down for true. The parlour echoed with the lovely sound of skin to skin, smack upon smack as I delivered not my most brutal punishment, but certainly something I thought worth taking note of.

Dean's fine derriere was reddening nicely... but still not a damned sound from out of her.

Well, fuck this, I sez to myself, and stood up, laying her across the length of the futon as I reached for a hardcover book from the case nearby. No kink newbie was going to be that quiet on me, goddammit, and so I raised those four hundred hardbound pages well above my shoulder and brought it swiftly down with a loud, dull, satisfying crrummp!

"AH!" this little witch finally cried. And so I continued, crummmp after crummmp until she was wiggling satisfactorily. I stopped suddenly and opened the book.

"Part of me didn't want free," I read aloud. "Part of me wanted to sink into the golden glow of her, and be lost." I closed the book and used it again and again to swat her ass before stopping once more.

"I traced my tongue along the edge of his belly button, bit softly into the skin on either side, let my mouth work lower until I could go no farther without bumping into him, straight and firm, and perfect, pressed against his stomach. I slid my mouth over the velvet tip of him as I dropped my body to my knees."

Again I closed the book with a thud and used it once more to redden Dean's wayward ass and thighs. Yet now I was inspired.

"Hold that thought," I said with a laugh and strode to the toybox in my bedroom. I returned with my favourite leather slapper, which had not seen use since the previous winter. Dean had re-hoisted her pants and was sitting with a faint Mona Lisa smile when I reached for her ankles, tugged her feet upward and her knees at her shoulders, holding her legs high while she slouched downward on the cushion.

Holding her in position with my left, my right hand cocked the slapper far behind my back before I delivered the first of several very audible swats to Dean's rear upper thighs. Oh, she wiggled and she whimpered and she cried out now alright, and my wide-eyed grin must have been as comical as it was sadistic. Swat. Swat! Swatswat! SWAT!


"Aw, the poor baby... what's the matter? Does it sting?"


Dean writhed and cried out, reaching out to catch the slapper as it showered torment to her covered legs and failing miserably. My ears echoed with the sound of leather on spandex and flesh, and when I finally stopped, I felt perfectly satisfied. I stood back with a smirk on my face as she whimpered and pet her sore wee Roman lady's puga.

And the book? Laurel K. Hamilton's Seduced By Moonlight. Somewhat appropriate, no?

(*Latin: "Her beaten ass.")

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Some light shopping.

One of the neat things about dating my new friend, Dean, is how she's at a juncture in her life where she's breaking barriers and opening herself up to things she's sought, desired, fantasized about for some time. She has that in common with the Schoolteacher, but unlike her, Dean doesn't have an uberconservative "real life" that would be endangered if, say, someone saw her nekkid ass on FetLife. This, with her own go-gettedness, seems to give Dean a vigour as she pursues her more prurient interests.

And I seem to be the kind of guy that such women enjoy dating. I can handle that.

Before stopping for a nibble in the Gaybourhood recently, we rubbed elbows among this city's sensual, leather elite during Northbound Leather's latest meet&greet social. I had picked up an an excellent leather shirt and Top-standard-issue officer's cap during last visit at one, and many has been the time I've smiled to myself while spotting Northbound's wares in sex shops and during fetish events while travelling in the States. Having this glorious temple to kinkdom in one's home city is a lot of fun.

Dean made a beeline for the corsets, and selected a very sexy black leather halter that framed her 36Ds sensually. Followed by a black (it's always black with Dean) waist cincher, she made happy smiles for the rest of the night.

Me, I was in nirvana. I wasn't really planning on shopping for myself... oopsie. Northbound is one of those places where you'd never expect a "bargain basement" vibe; it's simply too elegant, too upscale, too sophisticated. But between sips of wine, winks with Dean, and glances at our staffperson in the sexy PVC nurse uniform, this particular meet&greet included irresistable, almost below-wholesale opportunities to get some goodies:

o A pair of unforgiving, 5mm thick, 40mm wide, solid aluminum, bolt-secured collars later, and I was hunting for pairs of ankle and wrist restraints to match. Oh, how these will feel after I remove them from the freezer! Some forgivable scratches and pits. Standard retail? $350 Canadian.

o A 7.5cm wide, jaw-raising black leather collar with triple D-rings, perfect for affixing wrists just at the neck, also 5mm thick, and complete with padlock and keys to secure with. A little wear, as though it has been affixed to a wall display or secured on a mannequin. At least $90 CA.

o A deliciously ominous head harness featuring a studded, 25mm wide, 3cm deep open-mouth tube gag made from leather-covered aluminum. I would have been happier had the gag been wide enough to slide some cock through, but this is suitable for pouring liquids with a funnel. The leather needs some moisturizing, but nothing more than standard care would call for. Regularly $140 CA.

o And the two most unique finds of the evening, definitely from the "so inexpensive, how could you go wrong?" category: a pair of gas masks. The first is clearly from US or NATO military surplus: a black latex rubber, pig-jowled beast with goggle eyes, the sort of thing you'd expect to see your friendly neighbourhood riot police to be wearing. The second is much sleeker: a black rubber MSA full-face respirator with bold aluminum faceplate framing, probably intended for safety while working with chemicals or other caustic substances. Both masks lack filter canisters or tubing, but that's easily amended. In conservative doses with a willing partner, I imagine that a little smoke would make for a fun scene, and when I'm not being kinky, now I'm ready for a casual chat with the World Trade Organization. $70 CA each.

I'm due to review a toychest soon, so it was fun to pick up some new items to fill it with. I spent just under $150 Canadian on all of these fun and bizarre trinkets. I am a happy kinkster.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

The big baby daddy in the sky.

It's true that, generally speaking, I'm not a big fan of condoms.

That doesn't mean that I don't use them, or that I deliberately wouldn't use one unless asked, or don't experiment with them to try to find one I might dislike the least, or any such irresponsible and juvenile nonsense. I'll even admit that, once in a while, the scent of lubricated condoms actually turns me on because they remind me of really hot fucks I've had with them, or just because my brain assocates scent and sex in interesting ways. Many men (and women) would probably agree to disliking them too. But, my friends, I have to tell you, my general dislike for them is nothing compared to the pope's.

It should be of no surprise to anyone that, during a recent trip to Africa (of all places), the pope recently made world headlines when he blithely stated that the spread of HIV/AIDS "can't be resolved with the distribution of condoms. On the contrary, (that) increases the problem."

Presumably for the pope, and like so many rightwing reactionary minds, the availability of condoms poses a "risk" for increased sexual activity. This has been the basic argument against providing educational and health resources worldwide, once again with the underlying context that sex is an evil that must be controlled, monitored, judged, and when 'unsuitable' in 'approved contexts,' prohibited.

In Catholic doctrine, sex belongs solely within the confines of a monogamous, matrimonial (i.e., church-approved) relationship between a male and a female partner for life. Sex and matrimony are linked, and almost synonymously, within the dogma. The "purpose" of sex, argues Catholic catechism, is to provide "fruitfulness of conjugal love" in that "by its very nature the institution of... married love is ordered to the procreation... of the offspring."

Yet Catholic women are perfectly free to apply the rhythm method ("periodic continence") to avoid pregnancy. Why? A critical reading of catechism suggests that the key reason is because it might fail.

"(These methods are) in conformity with the objective criteria of morality (and) respect the bodies of the spouses, encourage tenderness between them, and favour the education of an authentic freedom," states Catholic catechism. "In contrast, every action which, whether in anticipation of the conjugal act, or in its accomplishment, or in the development of its natural consequences, proposes, whether as an end or as a means, to render procreation impossible is intrinsically evil."

Got that? Condoms are intrinsically evil. Because they prevent babies.

But HIV/AIDS? Not intrinsically evil.

"Let all be convinced," the doctrine continues, "that human life and the duty of transmitting it are not limited by the horizons of this life only: their true evaluation and full significance can be understood only in reference to man's eternal destiny... The state may not legitmately usurp the initiative of spouses who have the primary responsibility for the procreation... of their children."

You see, God needs more babies.

Human overpopulation and the depletion of global natural resources? The resulting human encroachment into remaining wilderness and affecting the displacement, endangerment, and eventual extinction of countless other species? Nah. Not intrinsically evil.

Before becoming Benedict XVI, Joseph Ratzinger was a harsh critic to American priests who tried to argue in favour of condom use. He was (among other things) the prefect of the Congregation for Doctrine of the Faith (CDF), the arm of the Vatican's Roman Curia that oversees the global institutionalization of Catholic doctrine. Prior to a name change in 1965, the CDF was the Holy Inquisition.

Experts on the intrinsically evil.

In 1616, the Holy Inquisition declared Galileo Galilei to be a heretic because he argued that the Earth revolved around the sun. This contradicted biblical references in the Book of Psalms that state that "the earth is established and cannot be moved." For the next one hundred years, the Inquisition prevented the publication of Galileo's works, and only would later relent after extensive editing occured. It wasn't until 1939 before the Vatican eased off a little further, with pope Pius XII cautiously praising Galileo as an "audacious hero."

Would he have been nearly as "audacious" had not some ultraconservative, obscurantist institution attempted to sway him away from simple and proven fact because it affronted their mythology?

In 1990, when the Vatican was finally getting around to deciding that maybe Galileo wasn't so wrong after all, Ratzinger expressed support for the Church's 17th century condemnation of Galileo, stating that its "verdict against Galileo was rational and just" and that "the revision of this verdict can be justified only on the grounds of what is politically opportune."

For Ratzinger, the Vatican's significantly-delayed "acceptance" of fundamental, grade-school level astronomy was not a matter of proven science, but of social expediency. How then can we reasonably expect that, now as pontiff to over one billion Catholics worldwide, his office would "accept" the word of the World Health Organization and the 22 million AIDS victims throughout sub-Saharan Africa that AIDS is among the greatest blights of our time?

Like the earth revolving around the sun, that is a simple fact. But because it affronts Catholic mythology, billions of people will continue to be prevented from acquiring the means to safeguard themselves against one genuine "intrinsic evil," as millions were prevented from learning the nature of the universe for more than a century, because the tools for that end are an imagined one.

Or perhaps because to do so would merely be "politically opportune."

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Women in black.

The scene: A downtown bus in Toronto.

Boarding this bus are two attractive, young, black women each wearing matching black suits and black sunglasses. They're pretty hip. They board the bus hand-in-hand, the first following the second, as the second says something playfully scoldingly to the first while they are boarding.

The Second: ... Yeah, that was very naughty...

The First: (Speaking to her partner, but now directly in front of the driver.) Oh really? So then do you wanna spank me?

Bus Driver: (Smirks in response.) Oh, thanks, but she can do that.

The First: (After a brief pause, then laughs with her partner.) ...Ah! Public transit!

Monday, March 16, 2009

The winter of my discontent.

As I lay in bed and pet my cat with an amused smile on my face, I'm listening to the insistent pounding above me as Brunette Upstairs gets fucked again. She herself is completely (and disappointingly) quiet, and as my mind wanders, her experience seems to mirror my own as I reflect on this winter, relationships, and my sex life.

If you're familiar with astrology, you might know that Venus is retrograde until mid-April, making this an ideal time for reviewing the state of one's affairs. And like my affairs, perhaps like the seriously bedsqueaky pounding that Brunette Upstairs was getting, during this winter I seem to have had a lot of action without a lot of moan.

It's no secret to anyone that the time period after a primary relationship takes some adjustment. That's been my winter.

The truth is that very few women I've known have given me real, lasting cause to consider making the kind of life-changes necessary For The Long Term. That's healthy, actually, but I've come to realize that it hasn't always been my pattern. Somewhere in the many years between Diva and the Grrl, I seemed to subconsciously gravitate to "the seeking" of a hardcore primary relationship, and when or if those relationships ended, the dating and socializing and fucking that I would do in the interim still seemed to have an echo of always wanting more.

Perhaps that's "normal." It's certainly romantic: the undercurrent of wanting to have a deep, resonant partnership. But the last year or three have taught me that maybe, just maybe, I've also been cheating myself out of some of the inherent benefits of sexually-active singledom.

Emotional investment is expected in a good relationship, and while I always endeavoured to keep my eyes open, sometimes I put in too much too soon. I certainly did with the Grrl.

In the last few weeks, a terribly sexy reader in Australia (hi Morgan!) emailed me to say that the blog is a "compelling mix" of the "achingly sweet, and in the same instance... a lot of sadness." Sadness? Hrm. Perhaps lately. It certainly hasn't always been this way. I've been processing.

I learned a long time ago that if you have the courage to Listen, "failed" relationships can really teach you some serious stuff. God knows I learned volumes about myself when things ended with Diva, my ex-wife Heidi, and most certainly with Grrl. Part of my perseverance strategy has always been to the remember that what I learned about myself during these stressful times meant that my future partner(s) would be the beneficiary of my well-earned lessons, and that meant that so long as I learned, past relationships ultimately hadn't "failed" at all.

Perhaps its because I'm more selective as I get older. Perhaps its because I learn more and more about what I like and want in a partner, and as that list grows it becomes a greater challenge to locate her. But it takes a lot more than it used to before I really start asking myself if an intimacy with a woman has the potential for Something More, but I'm also becoming more and more at peace with it being ok if I don't 'find her' right away.

There's some nicely comfortable power in that.

My last primary relationship had its own limitations, not the least of which being that it was a long-distance romance. While we had a lot in common and our sex was really terrific, there were other challenges too. It's still also true that while we're nurturing a good friendship now (with the possibility of future play not entirely ruled out), I can safely say that she's one of the select few that I really fell in love with during this more enlightened time in my life. She loves me too, which warms me deeply, but we're also opening ourselves to future avenues in our lives as we See What Happens. It's ok. And she's heard me voice my heart more than sufficiently.

Sometimes, I think Aphrodite enjoys sending me a few curveballs to reorient me back onto my toes. Pausing to think between bedsqueaks above me while Brunette has her moanless fuck, it hits me that since last November, I've been privileged to share time with seemingly a surprising number of women, but each experience has also taught me more about what I do and don't want.

It's been as if Aphrodite would grace me with an attractive partner for a date and/or a passionate night or so, and then gradually I'd See Why More Wouldn't Happen. It was if I was being Given What I Wanted, and then given the post-coital opportunity to Really Think About It. It started to feel like sex was part of an interview process, which was both hysterical and weird.

Tina is fun and makes for great friend material, but. The Iranian had an amazing body and loved being an erotic model, but. Carla was friendly and eager, but. The Korean actually had experience doing porn, but. Lee is and has always been a nice friend, but. Hannah boasted about her "full service" road-trip navigation skills and was into kink, but. (And I'll share details about some of these experiences in a future post... very suitable for April Fool's Day.)

But perhaps it took dating and/or fucking these otherwise (mostly) lovely women over these short few weeks to remind me that, uh, no, not every affair needs to be a lasting one. No matter how often I might tell myself that I'd love to be head-over-boots.

Of course I knew that. But reminders are still good.

And it took me this winter to remind myself that being a single guy supporting himself with a well-paying job and having precious few real obligations to other people is not only a perfectly fine place to be in...

... For many guys, it's the fucking dream.

A big part of me actually thinks that's kind of sad, because I like being in a solid relationship. But it's also a little odd that that's an awareness that I've unconsciously resisted.

Karen, the Schoolteacher, has teased me about Something More. It's nice, and while I like her, it's also true that she responded to a dating listing I had posted somewhere because she liked the sound of me, and not necessarily because she herself reflected the kind of traits I sought in a potential partner. I had this realization as I continued listening to Brunette fuck upstairs, and her boy's thrusting seemed to pound the thought into my head.

Schoolteacher and I have almost nothing in common. This does not bode well for the Something More front. We'll be discussing this next time we see one another, I think. Now I'm asking myself if remaining friends-with-benefits is something she would want... and something I would want. Process, process, process.

But now there's also Dean. I like Dean. Dean is cool. She and I have been acquaintances for a few years and we've rubbed elbows in some of the same communities. Lately, this early40s, shorthaired, intensely-kinky-but-just-beginning little mystic and me have been rubbing more than just elbows, and it's So Far So Good. I'll doubtlessly write more about her (and the bruises she acquired during a recent paddling) soon.

But I'm so pleased that this winter is drawing to a close. With the thaw, with the birds driving my cats insane as they flutter near the windows, with the appearance of elated women strolling Yonge Street in short skirts again while other still bundle in their toques and mittens, I can feel myself release and begin to reach for sunlight.

I love Shayne very much. But I loved the Grrl deeply too, and while echoes of her remain with me still, I moved forward. Shayne and I are still close, in a fashion, and I really enjoy that, but it's also time to soak in the sun and feel warm hands around my own.

Like a cello's low tone, I can enjoy the melancholic beauty of that without feeling any sadness to it at all.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Lust and Wrath.

One thousand years ago, a charismatic fellow named Odo remarked that "to embrace a woman is to embrace a bag of manure."

A few hundred years later, two young men published a book, a real best-seller, that argued that sexuality (especially that of women) would be the downfall of all that is right and good unless it was violently persecuted.

This tradition for antisexual, so-called moralist God-fearing behaviour would perpetuate itself again and again and again in the years to follow. Sexual repression has a long and colourful history, often couched in so-called "higher" ideals.

Now, this doesn't mean that material of a sexual (or "prurient" if you prefer) nature was unavailable to the people, mind you. Certainly not. In fact, English literature alone boasts multiple examples of stimulating material, both clandestine and the wildly popular.

Sometimes, sex-positive reading could be found within both the spirit and heart of the same sort of people who otherwise would seek its purgation. That sort of suggests something, does it not? And sometimes, sex-positive expressions could be found in times and places far more ancient and diverse than that.

But still the proponents of sexual repression, of single-minded judgment, of homogenous culture, of whitebread patriarchal gender roles continued to beat their drums and their chests before the lost and wayward sons and daughters of Sodom. Finger-pointing was good business when the sawdust got into your shoes as they bellowed quotes under the Big Top, or later on the radio, and later still on the small grey screen after Mitch Miller stood behind the bouncing ball.

But between chomps on his cigar, an Austrian guy had already started a dialogue about sex that had nothing to do with the book those pulpit pounders kept quoting from. A few years later, between chomps on his pencil, an American guy wrote a book of his own that a lot of other people started quoting from. Not long after that, something incredible happened in the world of print media when, heavens-to-Betsy, women started talking and learning and sharing and realizing and connecting in a way that would have given good ol' Odo a righteous heart attack.

Then came Gloria. And Betty. And Nancy and Xaviera and Reay. Then Camille and Susie and Nina and Violet and so many more contemporary voices proudly sharing, teaching, discussing, and even climaxing in joyful abandon for and about empowered, articulate sexuality.

Welcome now to the postmodern cybersexual world. The erotic classic literature remains with us, and many modern writers continue the tradition. But now we can also add to that genre a wider world of media and expression. Phonesex chat lines yield to webcam sites, VHS (itself the successor of Super-8 film loops) yields to DVD and YouPorn, and earmarked paperback sexbooks yield to the growing world of internet sexblogs.

But still, even with all we've learned and celebrated since Kinsey and Playboy and My Secret Garden, since vibrators moved from the Sears & Roebuck catalogue for "curing women's hysteria" to the glass counters of upscale boutiques, since the development of both oral contraception and erection enhancement in convenient little tablets, there are still those heirs to Odo who insist on trying to spoil the party. They are Saturn to our Dionysus, saltpeter to our ambrosia, Wrath to our Lust.

They are the small-minded folk who harass sexbloggers.

It's because of these spoiledsports that so many people, throughout history, have been terrified to express themselves as they truly wish to live, do, be. This is part of the reason why elements of the fetish community can be as insular as it is accepting, because once we realize that we all (well, ok, most of us) have our "kinks," it becomes much easier to appreciate the diversity available in the world, providing no actual physical/emotional/mental harm is being committed. "Safe, Sane, Consensual."

Nevertheless, some sexbloggers have strong apprehensions about their sexblogging because of the possibility of a blog's discovery by another in the writer's life. Many of us write with a level of anonymity for that reason.

I, for example, use my pseudonym because it's simply more convenient. It allows me to share my truths without too much worry that I would hurt a lover's feelings should I write something critical (although that rarely happens). It's also because I'm part of a spiritual community that, in my region at least, is really quite judgmental and sexist and hypocritical despite its reputation for more openmindedness than that, and I enjoy not having unnecessary headaches. To date, two lovers have deliberately been told about this blog (and continue reading it) (hi guys!) and another found it by accident (hi!), all to no ill affects or breach of trusts thus far. But I may be lucky.

One sexblogging colleague of mine tells me of people who not only send her hate mail, but have doctored blog-shared photographs in particularly nasty ways and resent them to her. In one case, an individual was observed staking out hotels where the writer's consensual escapades took place. These people then would use other internet resources to lambast the subject's sexual play in troll-riddled forums where they freely espouse their judgement.

Another sexblogging colleague recently posted about how her blog had been "discovered" by a co-worker. This co-worker found it titilattingly necessary to share the fact among others in their office, and this resulted in a complete change of decorum toward the blogger. She became the brunt of colourful "humour" and, in one case, had actually been physically approached and touched inappropriately. She writes about sex, so she had become "easy" in the eyes of these social Neanderthals. She had become a victim of sexual harassment at work, but her first instinct was to panic about her blog rather than redress the infantile and liable behaviour she was being subjected to at her place of employment. This eventually changed.

And there is the man who stopped sexblogging because his ex-wife thought it would strengthen her case during a custody dispute to argue that his bisexuality made him a bad father.

Or the courageous, selfless woman who stepped down from her position as a successful parochial schoolteacher because of her sex-positive community building (and blog) as part of an agreement to keep her A-student child out of controversy. Not that there would be any controversy without the immature judgement of these allegedly educated people, or that child would have been part of it to begin with without their machinations. But even this (tragic) compromise didn't prevent the God-fearing powers-that-be from twisting the knife later, sending this happy and sane family into unnecessary duress anyway. So much for loving thy neighbour. Or being human.

It is easy for lesser persons to point fingers toward those who are living joyfully. In our post-Puritanical Western culture where the likes of radical conservative and religious zealots still manage to bluster their way into large microphones, it is easy to sometimes forget that those people who choose to behave thusly not only weaken their arguments with such illegal and reprehensible tactics, but they actually empower the braver souls to carry on doing what they choose to do, what makes them happy.

Sexblogging, at least here in Canada, is not a crime. The harassment these people may be responsible for very probably is. The inter-office sexual assaults definitely are.

At the root of voyeurism is the desire to want to secretly witness the escapades of others. Those of us who enjoy sharing ourselves pose for photographs or films, write about our sexuality, or create blogs. Exhibitionists. We give consent, and thereby have an amount of control over what will or will not be shared.

But sometimes even consentual exhibitionism is not enough for some and an invasion of privacy (or worse) is necessary to achieve the desired thrill. These are the people who delight in seeing sudden "surprises" on Jerry Springer programs, or ferret out personal information about others for amusement, or who create and use surrepticious networks to share their vitriol with others of like heart. These are the passive-aggressive people who delight in gossip and drama and hurtfulness. They want their judgment to be shared, to be agreed upon, so that their lives may seem so much less uninteresting and puerile. They form social bonds with others to cluck tongues and roll eyes with. Misery may love company, but judgement requires a forum.

The irony is that people who take the time to send virulent remarks, or harass, or cajole, or stalk often do so out of a sense of righteousness and moral vigilance. But what in fact they only manage to demonstrate is their own pathetic ignorance, provincialism, and compassionlessness. They advertise how empty their lives truly are. There is no sophistication in bigotry. Further, I'll submit that many, if not most, people who target literate libertines do so out of a latent and conflicted jealousy.

Nyeh nyeh. So there.

But such jealousy can be easily surmounted: you're not going to beat 'em, so simply join 'em. History is not on their side. In every age and in every repressive regime, the human imagination and desire for passion has surmounted every attempt to contain and control it. Jeannie is out of the bottle, sons and daughters of Odo, and she's sucking Master's cock. Probably Major Healey's too.

And she likes it.

Love your sexuality however you choose to express it, be it, do it, have it. Sexually "conservative"? Fine. Love the arousing beauty of your partner in whatever happily monogamous, missionary, bimonthly way you choose. Stay dressed. Keep the lights on. Make it quick. Be sure to get to confession right afterward.

And if you can't handle that, really, then please consider continuing your own guilt-ridden masturbation sessions while keeping your Wrath and Envy and Anger away from our Lust.

A closing thought... How can any "sin" that has helped elicit minstrels and artists and poets to heights of inspiration, join people in happiness, be the one of the most important topics for every culture in every era on every continent on the face of the earth, and repopulate the planet after plagues and pogroms and crusades and wars be called "deadly" anyway?

Now go get laid, wouldyapleez?

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Service while u wait.

She was getting ready for a weekend away with friends, and her car was in the shop. That afternoon, she was supposed to be grading papers, but instead she made a booty call. Such a hussy.

The Schoolteacher is one my newest friends, and while we really have precious little in common (she the condo-dwelling Catholic school soccer mom, me the artsy-neighborhood heretical leatherman), she really likes me and enjoys nurturing her latent bad-assness when I'm around.

And it's so hard for me to turn down a good opportunity to corrupt a woman of God.

I smiled to myself as I drove out to meet her at her mechanic's garage. The last time we were together, we talked about kink and basic bondage play, which she readily admitted having had fantasies about for years. It quickly became clear that I hadchainlengths worth of more experience there than she, and the possibilities seemed astronomical. So, naturally, I packed a little toybag before I left the house.

I arrived at the garage. She greeted me with a kiss. The car would only take a few short hours, Mechanic Guy said. Come back in a few.

The Schoolteacher, an extraordinarily buxom longhaired blonde, sashayed her denim-covered hips with a laugh as she looked at the clock on the dirty garage wall. I rolled my eyes with a smirk as we made our way to my car.

At her condo, there was only the briefest smalltalk before she reached for me as we lounged on the leather couch. Her kisses were deep and hungry, and once again I felt the incredible presence of her truly huge breasts upon my chest. After a while, she got up to pour me some wine, but took none for herself.

She had given it up for Lent.

But cock, I soon discovered, was perfectly fine.

I carried my wine in one hand, her wrist in the other, as I led her into the bedroom. We made out as we stood before the foot of her pillow-strewn bed, my hands caressing her back and tugging her long locks. I unbuttoned her top to reveal an elegant burgundy bra straining with round fullness. She lay herself down. I removed my shirt. She groaned at the sight of my broad chest and reached upward to caress my nipples and shoulders. Smiling, I placed a knee between her knees as I climbed atop of her, and as I planted a firm and searching kiss onto her open mouth, slowly pressed and circled that knee against her mound. Even through both of our jeans, I could feel the heat that seethed between her legs as I bit her lower lip and flicked a tongue along her jawline. She gasped and writhed deliciously underneath me.

"I love how you make me feel," she said to me in a whisper.

"You'll love this," I replied as I began undoing her jeans, tugging them down over her feet, and parting her legs.

Her panties were moist already, and when I swabbed the fullness of her sex with the wet flat of my tongue after tugging them aside, her hiss filled my ears. Her hips rode up and I kept pace with her squirms, never letting my tongue leave her folds or the thrumming button inside them until she eventually came in a long shuddering sigh.

I spun her over to reveal her ass to me. I yanked the panties down her legs. I gave her butt a few friendly swats before tugging my belt open and removing my jeans. I lay down beside her.

She tasted her sex on my mouth as she kissed me again, and gradually moved her way down my chest. Soon, I was right back where I was during my last visit to her bed: on my back, my head enveloped by huge pillows, the Schoolteacher'sblonde head bobbing slowly in my lap as she languidly sucked my dick.

But our time was short, and I had an agenda to fulfill. Inspired by an image I had posted here recently, and by her expressed desire for light bondage, I slowly pulled myself away from her teasingly. My wet cock wagged in her face for a moment as I did so, eliciting the nicest little whimper of disappointment from her throat.

She looked at me as she lay curled on the bed. I reached for my wineglass and savoured a long pull from it. Standing at the foot of the bed again, I placed mytoybag next to her feet and opened it, looking into her eyes and smiling.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Do you know what a safeword is?" I asked this beginner in return. Her eyes widened just a little as she nodded.

I already had her little wrist restraints handy, those same restraints she previously confessed to me as enjoying to wear "just for the feel of them." From my bag, I withdrew some steel clamps and my pair of ankle restraints.

I love these restraints. I don't remember how I acquired them or who gave them to me, but I remember being told that they are genuine patient restraints from a mental health facility. That salacious history and their supreme construction, thickness, hardiness, and comfort allow me to forgive the fact that they are brown leather.

"On your hands and knees," I instructed. She obeyed.

"Face down, all the way down," I instructed. She complied.

This left her ass high and round in the air, especially when I adjusted her so that her upper body weight was supported by her shoulders against the bed. I reached for her wrists, securing them in her restraints, and brought them under her massive tits and against her feet. I secured my asylum restraints to her ankles, smiling as their brass rings slid through their leather slots unforgivingly. Using a pair of double-ended steel hooks, I clikked ankle to wrist to wrist to ankle into a continuous line of leather and steel.

Her feet dangled over the edge of the bed. The side of her face and her shoulders were firmly planted onto the sheets. Her ass was fully available, raised saucily high, completely vulnerable for my use.

I admired her soccer mom's posterior as she got used to her position. I sipped the wine that she so obediently denied herself. I began spanking her broad, round, naughty ass as she cried out loud and pleaded. Ignoring her protestations, I didn't relent until each cheek was appropriately red and blushing, framed with the strokes of my nails along her thighs and back, dappled with the tiniest scarlet dots and faint handprints. Her face was flushed with embarrassment, but her quivering pussy was flushed with excitement. Her folds were almost purple and dripping when my hand began swatting her there also. I cleaned off my dampened fingers with swipes across her brutalized ass.

She squirmed in her restraints, undoubtedly experiencing some of her first stirrings of deeper submissiveness. Though by my standards I was being terribly gentle, this was still probably a little more than she bargained for... so I chose to give her what she was expecting, although in my own tawdry way.

I gave her a few more sound swats as I wrapped my cock. Stopping to caress her back, I held a hip as I pulled her closer to me, slowly sliding mycockhead into her drenched tunnel until every bit of me was deep inside her. Her gasps were different now, and when I held both hips firmly and started to use her pussy for my own pleasure, her cries stopped including pleas for mercy.

The steel clamps clackled against the D-rings as I fucked her, the bed squeaking as my thrusts urged the mattress forward. I took her deeply, firmly, feeling her tighten around me as I stood behind her and thrust. I pulled her ass against me as I pumped inside her, and my balls slapped noisily on her skin until she screamed and came, shuddering.

I slowed down and withdrew. I sipped my wine. I checked the circulation in her wrists. She was doing fine, fine, more than fine.

But I wasn't done. Still enjoying the sight of her ass so beautifully high in the air, and knowing that I was sparing her more interesting torments that I otherwise would have ushered her through, I decided that I deserved one particular treat.

I returned to my toybag and began lubing my fingers as I riveted my gaze to her oh so vulnerable, oh so available, oh so tender anus. Her hole was faded pink and surrounded with a sunburst of short, little seams. I teased her ring with my wet fingers as she closed her eyes and opened her mouth silently, her face still pressed down, down, down to the bed. Her hole clenched against my fingertip as I wiggled my wet index finger inside her, circling her, only slightly widening her up. Squeezing the bottle, I ran a line of lube down the length of my cock and then slowly stroked myself until I was covered with joyful goo. I tapped my cockhead against her rosebud, held her hip with my free hand again, and gradually pressed forward and watched the head of my cock slither and pop into her nethers. Eventually, I was gripping handfulls of her asscheeks as I tugged her against me, impaling her onto me, taking her.

The Schoolteacher squirmed. The Schoolteacher moaned. The Schoolteacher stayed on her shoulders and knees, locked in restraints by the wrists and ankles against each other, while I fucked her submitting, Lent-observing, should-really-be-grading-papers ass until her entire body was shaking and perspiring and cumming and red and squirming and utterly, completely fucked.

Her cellphone rang. Her car was ready. She blinked her eyes a lot after I released her and held her shaking body under the blankets before we each grabbed a shower. She was still weak in her knees, she said, by the time I was dropping her back to her mechanic's garage.

I smiled as I drove home, tapping my little toybag with my hand.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

The pornographer.

The scene: A late20s guy makes a cellphone call while riding the streetcar.

Guy: Hello? Hey, it's me. So, how'd she work out? ...No, huh. She wasn't into it. ...Well, maybe she just wasn't ready for it, yaknow? ...No, no, it's ok, it's ok, I was sort of looking for more of a woman of quality anyway. Maybe we can hook him up with... no, hey, you're the only one who thinks he's ugly, ok? Maybe we can hook him up with Madeleine. ...Uh huh. Well, you know, she (whispers)... yeah. ...Oh, yeah, Bangkok is all set, you'll love it, but we got to plan this carefully because we'll be wiped out from all the partying later, so we want to get in as much as we can from the start...

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Chantel gets a good one.

The scene: The bar of one of my favourite pubs.

I'm enjoying some dinner while equally enjoying the athletic, denim-clad tiny derriere under brunette server Chantel's studded leather belt when her co-worker, a longhaired dirty-blonde, swats her soundly on her ass as Chantel taps a keg. The healthy crack echoes over the hockey game blaring from the flat-screen.

Chantel: OW! (laughs) ... Good one!

Co-worker: (smirks) You deserve it, slut!

Chantel: (laughs) Bitch!

Co-worker: (laughs) Ha!

This just in.

For those of you who have been following this part of the blog...

Through the magic of Facebook, my smile widened as I learned that one of the women upstairs (the aforementioned blonde-with-the-heartshaped-derriere) is engaged... to a woman.

Then it would be the brunette fucking her man in the boudior above my own.

And here I assumed they both were into the boys. Silly me.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Mysterious ink.

I dream of my dreaming as I lay, deep in slumber in the dark. I dream of my waking as you approach the bed, undress, and slide in beside me. I have felt you, and it's been so very, very long. I've missed you... not as badly as I used to, but I've missed you.

I have felt you beside me again, and my eyes open to the clouded wonder of your presence in the room.

The covers are thick and grey and warm as we entwine in them. You're fitter, thinner, than I remember you being, but it is you, and my spirit is soaring. You're nude. I'm nude. Your beautiful back takes my caresses with softness and memory, and I relish in the pleasure of massaging your muscles again. I remember.

It's just been so very, very long. You feel wonderful. Are you really here with me?

Your shoulders are tense, and I smile deeply to myself as your skin yields to my touch once more. You lay on your stomach, the grey covers curled about our limbs as my working hands make their way to your spine, the small of your back. My fingers push your flesh into slow waves. Your delightful bottom is before me, and I want to bring my face close to you as my hands continue roaming, massaging, releasing tension from your muscles.

It's then that I see the patterns. You have new ink. It's almost raised like some neolithic image on a stone wall in Tanzania. New tattoos. Dots upon dots just under your ass, stark and black and strong within the sensitive skin at the back of your thighs. And, under them all, you bear... inscriptions. There are words in poetic meter, bold and small letters that have a message. What does it say? Is it about you? Is it something I must know? What is this in, upon, across your thighs that I must read?

But I awaken. I wake and you're gone again. Only I remain in the bed under the thick, grey, warm covers, and the inscriptions inked into the back of your thighs remain as mysterious to me as you yourself.