The Toybox: Topco's Liquid Sex Forever Silicone Lubricant.

Dean's head rested on the pillow as she lay on her right side before me, and I caressed her thigh as I lifted her left knee toward her chest. Her inner right thigh glistened with her excitement and I enjoyed the view of her small butt opening slightly as her leg moved upward.

Dean, you may recall, is my lithe and sexy early40s friend whose looks perpetually remind me of the ladies of ancient Rome and Greece, depicted in passionate scenes with flaking paints or colourful tiles. They are women who are deliciously unashamed of their sexuality, elegant in their tightly curled coifs, sensual in their joyfulness.

She looked over her shoulder to me, blinked her dark eyes as they mine, and more told me than asked me.

"Fuck me in my ass," she said, and rested her head back down. I smiled and reached for the curvaceous plastic bottle nearby.

"Wanna be a guinea pig?" I asked with a chuckle, snapping the plastic cap open and dribbling lubricant onto my fingers and palm. Kneeling behind her back, I slowly closed my eyes as I enjoyed the feel of my lubed grip first moistening my cock, and then toying with her dark, crinkled rosebud. Gently pressing, probing, spreading my fingertips, I teased Dean's willing backdoor until she felt pliant and relaxed.

When my cockhead squished pleasantly past her sphincter and the length of me started to slowly slide inside, Dean groaned quietly as we enjoyed a slow, smooth, silky ride.



Normally, I'm an Astroglide man, but Liquid Sex Forever Silicone quickly became a favourite lube for me. Being silicone-based, it stubbornly retains its slipperiness and silky texture, unlike other lubes I've used where reapplication is frequently necessary. It can stay slippery under water.

And I like the name. Why not start your night over the drink and make it a Liquid Sex night? Be careful, though: it unfortunately also shares the same moniker as a date-rape drug, so when you tell your partner that you bought some for the evening, you might want to show the sensually wavy squeezybottle before you find yourself talking to the nice police officer.

The only silicone lube made by California-based Topco Sales, the company also produces Liquid Sex in water-based formulas, including Classic, Light, Hemp and Ginseng Aphrodisiac, Warming, and X-treme. Applying previous business experience in aerospace technology and metallurgical engineering, Topco focuses on sextoy manufacturing, and is invented the sextoy material Cyberskin.

Unlike water- or (God forbid) oil-based lubes, silicone lubricants will not absorb into skin, giving it its longer-lasting characteristic. Silicone is an inert, artificial polymer (like rubber, PVC, and Silly Putty) often used in hair products, breast implants, menstrual cups, children's toys, caulking, and cookware. It's pliable while remaining phthalate-free, which should be very important to the health-conscious lover.

This can be ideal for a great session of fucking, but it's vitally important to remember silicone lubes have very few opportunities for safer-sex fuckplay. Silicone degrades latex, despite the fact that silicone is sometimes used on pre-lubricated condoms. Some sources claim that condoms marked with the "CE" label (approved by European health and safety standards) may be used with them, but I found little information to support this. In the heat of passion, it's probably enough to simply remember to use condoms and toys with water-based lube only.

As to sextoys, silicone dissolves other silicone surfaces, making them sticky and eventually disintegrating. This will be No Fun to you when your new $60 realistic dildo starts to look like something out of a 50s monster movie.

But if these limits to using a silicone lube don't really affect you (such as you're using it for self-play without silicone toys or you and your lover are fucking bareback), then I'd definitely go for Liquid Sex Forever Silicone before most other lubes of choice. It's durable smoothness makes for a fun, fantastic friction. It's one of the few lubes that, to me, felt almost indistinguishable on my cock to natural, vaginal juices. Definitely something I'll be keeping handy.

And now for something completely different.

I'm lovin' it.

The scene:
A trio of uniformed, brunette schoolgirls at a downtown McDonald's.

Girl #1: Look at all this waste! This is, like, so many trees.

Girl #2: You know where else you can find a lot of wood, dontya?

Girl #3: (giggles) Gym!

Girl #2: (giggles) I love it when guys say, "Knock on wood!"

Girl #1: All the guys I hang out with...

Girl #2: ...are dirty.

(giggles)

Girl #1: No, it's, like, everything I say, they say it right back, like...

Girl #2: ... but dirty!

Girl #3: Knock on wood!

Birthday wishes to a brave one.

Thanks to her Twitter, where she often shares pleasant tidbits about her wee kidlet, her interesting diet, and what new projects she's working on, I learned that it's adult entrepreneur Belladonna's 28th birthday today. I'm not usually one to be a celebrity-follower (porn or otherwise), but her work and attitude a have long been a favourite between Shayne and me for a good while.

Not only because she's gorgeous, she's hot, and she's articulate. No dummy, Belladonna found a way to persevere when her career choice was rocked by HSV2. I can't help but admire someone who has so adapted-and-overcame in both her personal and professional efforts.

You go, grrl. Happy birthday.

Oh, those wacky Brits.

In Canada, we're just coming down from the Victoria Day holiday, when our summer barbecues begin and the drinking hijinx are supposed to remind us that it's Queen Victoria's birthday.

Sexual regimentation was fundamental to social order during the Victorian dynasty, with sexual impulses (of women in particular) subjected to the strictest of controls, analysis, and barriers, most being rooted in misogynistic (or at least, ill-informed) suppositions. Great stuff for modern bondage fantasy, but I'd expect that being subjected to the public judgment of your neighbours wouldn't be all that much fun in 'real life.'

But this 2009, you say, not 1869. We don't have to worry about such things. Right?

Ask Caroline Cartwright.

There's a nifty little statute in Britain, the Anti-Social Behaviour Order, which gives the public certain powers when they're riled up about the goings-on in the neighborhood. Abandon your car on someone's property, and you're a fine candidate to be subjected with an ASBO. You and your skinhead buddies shout slurs to the Turkish people across the street, and you're a candidate for an ASBO. Spraypaint your tag on the post office, repeatedly harass that redhead, commit some obviously anti-social or abusive public behaviour, and you get slapped with an ASBO.

A "personalized criminal law," the ASBO enables citizens to file a legal complaint to "protect persons from anti-social acts," and it's no small feat to get one through the courts. First, the applicant must demonstrate that the defendant has "committed acts causing or likely to cause harassment, alarm or distress" and convince the court that only an ASBO will solve the problem. Hearsay is admissable evidence.

The defendant is then instructed to desist in the 'harassing, alarming, and distressing' behaviour. Breaching this order then changes the circustance from a civil matter to a criminal one, then to be tried in criminal court, and with criminal penalties (e.g., prison).

Did Caroline repeatedly kick the dogs in her area? Is she a vandal, a thief, an abuser? Does she threaten people, toss her trash out in the street, or shoot passers-by with a slingshot from her kitchen window? Nah.

Caroline's neighbours have subjected her to an ASBO because, well, she has great sex. In fact, she has such great sex that she screams and howls and cries out for more, shaking her bedframe with a thunder, rattling windows, heard far and wide. Poor Widow Tuffle can't bear to take her poodle out for walkies. The vicar can barely hear his own sermons on Sunday morning. The Johnson twins were perfectly scandalized during their game of hopscotch. It was awful.

Her neighbours were not, shall we say, enjoying it.

Leave it to the British to really appreciate Victorian values, despite being regarded by some as one of the most sex-positive nations in Europe. Identity crisis, anyone?

Naturally, in time, she violated the terms of her ASBO. After all, she had essentially been ordered by the court to stop having loud sex. Did she try to calm down? Probably. (And, please, no jokes about
gag orders.) But the woman may be potentially facing jail time because of how loudly she cums.

"But I can't help it," she pleaded.

Me, I'd love to see the looks that her husband must be getting from the women he passes on the street. Dude's got game!

Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau once famously commented that "the state has no business in the bedrooms of the nation." Perhaps the Cartwrights should seek asylum in Ottawa.

Frak.

Yes, yes, I know, I know... I'm a little slow on the uptake and I'm way behind in my share of obligatory teevee watching. Whatev.

But I'm actually just getting around to being riveted by the new Battlestar Galactica series (via DVD) for, like, the first time. I won't confirm nor deny that I grew up on the original series... coughcough... but, yeah, I've become really into it... But my local DVD haven hasn't had the goddamn 2nd series discs in for weeks. Then they got them, I was called for them, I procrastinated, and when I finally got to the store they were gone again.

Now I'm convinced that it's because of the hot scene that's supposed to be (you would know, I expect...) between Starbuck and Anders. All my friends told me I'd fall in love with Katee Sackhoff, and dammit, they were right. Even if she did grow her hair longer.

Yes, yes, I know, I know... I'm totally behind the times. Leave me alone in my shame, ok?

Craigslist courtesans of Toronto.

That being said...






... so there.

To serve and... protect?

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Banana Blowjobs and other May games.

I just couldn't resist sharing the picture below, but it comes with a story.

In the previous post, I mention a May Day party I had hosted in the past where bawdy games were part of the day's events, including simulated oral sex with bananas or Twinkies. Women demonstrated their skills as the guys held the peeled fruit at waist level, and the boys would tease the filling out of a halved Twinkie (without breaking it) as thier playpartner held the treat before them, often between splayed legs. Yes, it was fun.

Another game we enjoyed was "genital croquet," where players would insert a cue ball into one leg to a pair of pantyhose, use the other leg to tie it all around their waist, and allow the weighted leg to hang downward from their crotch. Players would then sway their hips to get the cue ball to hit other balls on a grass field and into the goal hoops.

A more sensual game included a basket I devised that contained small scrolls of coloured paper: white, pink, orange, and red. Each scroll bore instructions that the receiver was expected to bring to the person of their choice, gain consent to share it, and then engage in the activity written. White scrolls were kept away from the others and were for minors (because, believe it or not, these were family-friendly events) and might simply state Go give your parents a hug. The colours for the others revealed increasing levels of "hotness," with pink perhaps instructing Take your partner to the willow tree and read a poem aloud from the book you'll find there or orange instructing Bring your mouth to your partner's ear and share something about him/her that arouses you. Red scrolls would instruct to discretely... well, you get the idea. wink

This was all part of a way to express sacredness in playfulness, romance, and consensual sexuality. But, like Banana Blowjobs, it was also saucy good fun among saucy good people.

B.J.'s BJ.

Teasing my sexblogging colleague, Debauched Diva, about her chocolate cravings over Twitter this evening, curiousity found me peeking online for references to foodplay just for fun. Because, you know, I'm online at home again. Yeah.

Sitophilia. Vore. Nyotaimori.

Hey, I love sushi...

But apart from teasing so-sexy-Shayne once about what I'd do to her with five pounds of strawberries (which are still in my goddam freezer), it had me thinking of real events in my past where I've used food during sexplay. I had poured Frangelico into The Grrl's mouth (and along her lips) when I had her tied up... I'm certain there was at least one time when I had painted my Diva's breasts with Nutella and feasted from her nipples while we were on the waterbed... And then there was the huge May Day party I had hosted years ago that featured goofy and ribald games among the guests, including blowjob simulations with peeled bananas and cunnilingus simulations with halved Twinkies, fifteen or so couples lined up in a row (and no one with their respective partners as one saucily held the food object before the other)...

And then I remembered B.J. Yes, that really was her name.

We were friends in high school. Barely more than acquaintances really, the sort of 'friends' who found themselves riding the subway together with the same pack of kids but were never in the same classes because I was in a grade ahead of her. B.J. was a quiet, thickly curvaceous, wavy-haired blonde Latina with a pleasant wit. We would hang in the school cafeteria amongst our mutual buds, sometimes skipping classes together when our shared pack made excursions into Greenwich Village or Chinatown.

But, in those days, dating was a new and weird phenomenon. I was drooling over other girls at the time, and had had sex with very few. B.J., barely known to me at all, never really registered on my radar.

But I guess I registered on hers... because then she took me home.



I had come from tae kwon do practice when I spotted B.J. hanging outside the school with a few other girls. Since we were accustomed to riding the R train together to and from school, she approached me and asked if we'd go together. Sure, I shrugged, and it was probably one of the few times that we actually talked, as it was after hours and we were alone while strolling toward the subway, backpacks on our shoulders. I'm sure we continued chatting during our 30-minute train ride, and she asked me to come with her to her place when we reached her stop. Maybe she liked something I said...

I thought nothing of it, really. As far as I knew, I was simply getting to know more about her and in the most platonic way. If she had been flirting in my direction, I was clueless to it. What did I know? I was a kid. And I certainly didn't sense anything would be up once we got there, where I met her father, who was busily practicing on their large, loud, upright piano in the main room of their Brooklyn apartment.

She said her quick hello to Daddy, he greeted me in cordial but broken English, and then he returned to the ivories as we scooted to her room. Perfectly normal. B.J. and I talked about homework. Perfectly normal. Homework shifted to smalltalk as we sat on her hardwood bedroom floor. Perfectly normal. B.J. suddenly leaned close and kissed me, full on the lips, open-mouthed and steamy. Whoah.

My head raced to catch up, but by the time I realized what was happening and was just beginning to wrap an arm around her back, she stood and excused herself out of the room. For a few moments, I was left on the floor, blinking my eyes in stunned perplexity, my eager teenage cock having a much clearer idea of things than my head did. The piano playing stopped as I overhead B.J. and her father discussing something in Spanish. It started again as she strode back into her bedroom, closed the door, and opened the jar of honey that she had collected from the kitchen. She dropped herself into my lap, held my head, and resumed her passionate kisses.

Clearly, my high school friend had something on her mind.

Her warm and searching tongue probed my mouth, darted across my teeth. I held her tight, still completely surprised by it all, but now also aware of the heat coming from my hardening shaft as it lay pressed firmly along my bare thigh under my tight jeans. B.J., being a pleasantly thick girl, had firm and very large breasts under her top and bra, and my adolescent heart thundered in my chest as my hands explored them. She, in turn, reached down to my waist, and her breathing quickening into a gasping in my mouth when her fingers found and started petting the length of me from over my jeans. She felt my heat, my girth, and she started to shake as she gyrated her hips on my lap. We were fully clothed and very hot, all the while the apartment echoing with her father's piano playing two rooms away.

B.J. slowed down and started to pull away, telling me she was getting nervous about being discovered. Instantly, I realized something: so long as we heard the piano, we knew where her father was. At that, her eyes widened gleefully, her kisses resumed again, and she started pawing at my crotch for true.

She lay me back onto the floor. She dropped her weight on top of me, my legs pinned by her thighs at either side. She panted as she started to unbuckle my belt and unzip my jeans. My chest was shaking, my head spinning, completely disbelieving what was going on. We listened to the piano.

She undid my pants and yanked them down my legs. I reached down and under her shirt to cup one of her large tits. She squeezed the length of my dick from over my boxers. We listened to the piano.

She bent herself over, still kneeling on the floor and pinning me in place as I lay there, and tugged my boxers off of me. My cock sprang free before her reddening face, and without a moment's hesitation, she engulfed me with her panting mouth. We listened to the piano.

She reached for the jar of honey and, scooping a glob of the golden thickness onto her fingers, she started coating my cock with it. It was cold and sticky and actually somewhat uncomfortable, tugging my skin in ways I wasn't entirely happy with, but soon the excitement of it all got the better of me. There was no piano.

We froze. She spun around to look at her bedroom door and was about to leap off of me when... it started again. I tried to keep from laughing out loud, but I faked "real conversation" with her during the moment of silence. Sneaky, naughty me.

Soon, teenage B.J. was giving me a honey-dripping BJ on the hardwood of her room, the bobbing of her head slightly slowed by the thick stickiness of the sweet goo she had almost completely covered me with. B.J. lapped at my cock, feasting on the sweetness, feeling my thickness pushing past her full and honey-drenched lips. I taught her how to stroke the base of me with her fist, and I relished in the weight of her impressive breasts on my legs. Her long, curly hair teased my thighs. Reaching down some more, her young breasts spilled out of my hands.

She repositioned herself to grind her jeans-covered crotch against my leg, and I could feel her seething wetness and womanly heat. My head filled with thoughts of how drenched, how steamy, how tight, how hot she would feel if I could fuck her, feel my balls against her plump ass while her legs reached high into the air... and by then, she had consumed most of the honey from my cock and I could feel her sucking mouth and strong tongue more firmly. The sudden sensation, with my mind's eye hungering to fuck her hard, sent me over the edge as I exploded stream after stream of my cum into her honeyed mouth.

I can't imagine how much of me she tasted, if any at all. But she sucked me, swallowed me, and her mouth lingered with slow slurps as she slowly came down from her high. Her face was bright red with passion and exertion, and when she sat up again, her lips were puffy and swollen, slick with honey or cum or both. Her hair was wayward. Her top, halfway undone. The crotch of her jeans darkened with her own musky cum.

It was late. Her father pleasantly said goodbye to me as I gathered my things. B.J. and I talked in the apartment building hallway for a while before I turned to go home. The piano continued as I caught the elevator.

We never hooked up again, and I have no idea of what's become of her. But no one else has ever used honey on me.

Something sweet.

For Debauched Diva.

Bzzt.

Aah.

I still want to replace my iMac, do some upgrades, yadda yadda yadda, but I'm finally online at home again. The ISPeeps sent me my spankin' new modem, so very soon now I'll be sharing news about spankin' new spankins, new sexy friends, toy reviews, and more from the comfort of my pad.

Keds.

You're walking down the street, enjoying the sunshine along the lake. Around you are the yuppies, the dog-walkers, the tourists. You, in your funky torn jeans and baggy Tshirt, are a spirit unto yourself as your charm and character contrasts with those around you.

Your sneakers. Dark Keds, the kind I haven't seen in years and seem to making a comeback on the fashion scene. They still remind me of hot summers in Coney Island, hanging out at the pier, first kisses and first pettings with cool, countercultural grrls like you.

Am I bad because a part of me is now imagining you on your back, your naked and strong legs tight around my waist, those Keds high in the air as I fuck you? Am I a naughty man for, in between my moments of genuinely admiring your prettiness and the way the sun races across your form, wanting to feel those rubber heels tapping the small of my back as my potent thrusts force your legs to shake?

Let me fuck you while you're wearing your sneakers. Hard and deep. Let me feel your flesh cloying wetly to the length and girth of me, your succulence being drawn from you as my hardness withdraws and pumps in again. Let me feel laces along my spine as you lock heels together, yielding to me, getting fucked, getting taken.

Coffee shop.

Caffeine. I needed caffeine.

It's not my favourite coffee shop, but it's there, and I didn't have a lot of time. I'm not thinking about anything in particular as I wait behind a blonde woman with a huge double stroller. Little googly kids. Aw. She, her babies, the Asian woman behind the counter, and me are the only living souls in the shop.

Mommy's hair is straight, golden, and reaches to the center of her sweatshirt-covered back. She's young, perhaps in her late 20s, slightly rubenesque in that she's-got-sexy-love-handles sort of way, and charmingly relaxed in her comfy jeans and running shoes. Very girl-next-door. Mm.

She squats down, reaching into some lower compartment of the stroller. In my haze, my eyes were already gazing toward the floor.

Slowly yielding to my awakening peepers is a truly lovely, curvy bottom. I smile to myself, a faint chuckle, and look aside... ...out of respect? ...out of embarassment for her? ...perhaps because what's revealed to me isn't simply a quickie look of a hint of her, but a full, almost complete revealing of a lovely, curvaceous ass in half-profile.

No one else in the shop to witness this... so how can she be embarassed? Mine eyes alone, and from a bare two feet beside her, are treated with this serendipitous pleasure.

So I enjoy. She stands, pays the attendant. And does it again. My cock swells in my summer shorts, my widening head beginning to strain against the soft, sun-warmed cotton. Between the clearings of my throat, I think I ordered my coffee the way I like it.

After she's stood again, I help her out the door because her stroller is so damned huge. Or because I wanted to see her face. Ok, both. Her beaming, appreciative smile clutches my chest, my penis twitches, as I return her friendly smile with my own.

It was a lovely start to a day.

Seriously nice.

We retired to her private, basement chambers where the incense smouldered, the cat stared out the window, and the pipe full of greenery rested on the bedside table. Our bodies happily tingled as we tasted the mysterious earth, the heady waves and delightful arousals in our senses awakening our selves.

It's so sensual to be legs akimbo with an enjoyable partner, to share cannabis' whispers along with a passionate kiss. Dean stripped off her black tanktop and pressed her charming little breasts close to my chest as she straddled herself on my lap. My back rested against the wall as we sat on the bed, and my warm hands caressed her bare back as her lips hungrily tasted mine. Her nipples were firm. Her skin was cool. She reached down to feel my growing girth against my so-very-thin khaki pants.

She tugged me down the length of her new bed, pawing at the button under my waist. Undoing it, she freed me with her thin, eager hands and stroked me to fullness as she squat above me, legs bent at my calves, her head hovering over my thickening dick.

Her mouth was soft and warm, her sucklings eager and relaxed. I can only imagine how it felt for her, to enjoy both being high and having my cock in her mouth, but her deep and gutteral moans gave me some vague idea. I held her head gently as it bobbed in my lap, as I felt her tongue flicker across my glans, probing into the ridge of my frenulum and swabbing across my darkening cockhead. My dick was swelling nicely, and I closed my eyes as I lingered into my own personal haze.

She eventually changed positions, and soon her hips were beside my shoulder as she reversed herself. I smiled as I softly patted her covered ass with the palm of my hand while she continued to suck me, but I wasn't content with poor accessibility for long. I tugged her aside so I could undo those black pants of hers, reaching under her tummy to unzip them and draw them down her lithe legs.

I sat upright, my cock sliding wetly against her shoulder as I did so. Reaching a forearm around her waist, I tugged her across my lap until her head was well past my knees and supported by the wayward pillows near the foot of the bed. She drew her knees closer to her chest.

Dean's delightfully small, slightly boyish little ass curved before me in the dimly lit room. Her seam was dark in the shadows, hiding the little rosebud that I tenderly teased with a moistened fingertip as she relaxed her weight in this newfound position. And then she received my first swat, firm and squarely across both cheeks with a loud and authoritative crack.

The first swat was met with a second, a third, and a raining series of smacks that quickly sent her squirming across my legs. I parted her thighs open, and with a palm, pressed against the bottom-most curvature of her behind, tilted her hips until her lower abs were against the bed and her knees raised her butt high and tight for me.

I could have spun around, kneeled behind her, and fucked her that way. I could have languished in the feel of her tight pussy, or her tighter ass, gripping my strong hands to those deeply arched hips of hers, pulling her hard and fast against my thrusting pelvis. But I didn't.

I grinned as I parted her wet thighs, spreading her knees even further apart, and began spanking her pretty, nicely trimmed, little cunt. Her labia met my slapping fingers with moist smacks, and I felt her arousal against my digits as I kept up the pressure. Interspersed with loud and full-palmed spanks to her reddening ass, I concentrated my abuse to spanking her quivering pussy as she cried out in astonishment from across my lap. I was relentless. She pleaded. The little hussy who could so easily handle the angriest of trimmings now found herself discovering what it was like to have her soaking and opening and shuddering innermost core become the target of my broad fingers and palm. I made certain to hone in on her clit whenever she foolishly placed herself, for all her writhing, into position for it, and many times I felt a fingertip strike her button like the business end of a riding crop.

And that's when her shudderings and pleadings carried her into a new vista of experience for her. Dean screamed out, and I felt the first droplets quickly followed with pulses upon pulses, as she began ejaculating directly onto my blurry, spanking hand. Her streams splashed across my arm, her ass, her thighs, my chest, the wall, the sheets as my downward strokes collided with her upward bursts, as if I were smacking the opening of a small hose. Each slap on her squirming cunt was loud and sounded as wet as it felt. Her labia was swollen and puffy, perfectly soft as thick petals covered in rain.

I slowed down as her streams began to subside. Dean was left shaking, gasping across my lap, disbelieving that a spanking had made her cum.

The merry month of May.

Well, my modem is pooched, and it'll be a few days yet before my ISPeople send me a new one. So, meanwhile, it's the internet cafes for me. I write to you from one such 'net emporium on Yonge Street, the Times Square of Toronto, right across the street from the famous Zanzibar stripclub. It's tempting to drop in after I submit this post, but the fact is that I'm not really in the mood for an overpriced bottle of beer at barely two in the afternoon. But the Seductions adult toystore just up the street, hrm...

It's May. I adore May. There was a time in my life when I filled May weekends with barbecues, pool parties, and camping events where my good heretical friends and me would joyfully clamour to the resonant beats of drum and pipe. We would dance the maypole, back in the days when I actually had one, and taunt our partners with love games, sensual oil massages on blankets amid the grass, and share stories around the fire as we passed a skin of mead. It's a wonderful thing when one's sense of the spiritual can so easily and seamlessly blend with one's sense of the sensual.

Walking in the sunshine as I've enjoyed these past few days, my eyes and heart and spirit have soared as I catch glimpses of this city's ocean of alluring women. My chest tightens and my eyes involuntarily close while I deeply breathe in the passing scent of a freshly-showered businesswoman dashing to catch a train. The young sprites in camoflage pants and sleeveless Tshirts, holding hands as they cross the street, deliciously break my heart with their lightness of presence. Even the black woman in dreadlocks with whom I had an argument recently gave me pause when I enjoyed the fire in her eyes.

It's not simply about watching the passing tits, the swaying ass, the runner's leg, although those moments present themselves also with the better weather. It's not about ogling. Somehow to me, May brings out a more sensual, elegant, nuanced appreciation for the feminine form to my eyes, as if each smiling, laughing, proud woman around me is a constant and crowded reminder of the many faces of the divine feminine all.

It's a strange thought, in a way, to be recording here from the across the street from a stripclub. How many of the patrons therein relate the working dancers before them, sauntering sculpted hips just above the laps of their business suits, with the hetaerae of old?

Not many, if any at all, I'll wager.