Sunday, May 30, 2010

Sunday comics.







from Druuna

Guy talk.

"I love a woman with a big ass," he shouts into my ear. For a fleeting moment, he makes me think of the Grrl. The guitarist leaves the stage and stands not three feet from where we're enjoying our beers.

My friend, the Bodybuilder, and me are checking out Bare Rump, a local AC/DC tribute band, at one of Toronto's better bluecollar dive bars. Before the show, the married tomboy with the Gibson SG (who fully dresses the Angus Young/school uniform role) hung out with us when she overheard me talking to the Bodybuilder about the band. She playfully griped when it came time for her to change into costume, but said she 'would do it for me.' I told her it would "give me something to think about later." She smirked when she left.

She's eventually standing near me, grinding Who Made Who behind my shoulder, when I realize Bodybuilder is looking in my direction but isn't watching the performance. This happens again after the show while we're talking over our beers and spicy wings.

Behind me is a broadshouldered, muscularly thick longhaired blonde in a sundress. After her bronzed and radiant face, it's her bare thighs sauntering from under the dress that I notice, and I'm smiling when I turn back to my buddy to suggest that she's checking him out too.

Bodybuilder is in a fix, and one of the reasons we're out is so he can have a chance to vent and process things in his personal world. He's been a happily 10+ years married, monogamous, regular kind o'guy, and his world was rocked when he discovered that his loving wife was finding some additional fun on the side. He comes to me because he knows that I'm discrete (apart from the fact that, yeah, fine, ok, I'm blogging about this) and likes my counsel. But Bodybuilder and me are often on different pages when it comes to sex. I make his innocent jaw drop, so I can only guess what he'd think if he had even a small inkling about the sordid, ribald past that has privileged me with the seditious perspectives that I've developed.

He and the wife are Working It Out, though this is after she Had Her Fun with Her Friend. In time (i.e., apparently after she took Her Friend's cock out of her mouth long enough to really think), she started to wake up to What She Was Risking To Lose. Now she's dealing with his Conditions and he's moved back home, but in the interim, Bodybuilder had also tasted a little Freedom of his own and is beginning to discover His Choices. I made sure that, in his hiatus from home, yes, he had gotten laid.

Although he actually blushed when I asked.

Maybe it was the beer.

But me, I'm supporting my friend with whatever direction he chooses to pursue in this. On one hand, he does want to work it out with his wife, and who can tell him he shouldn't? Yes, true, being that they were/are/were monogamous, there definitely was a betrayal of trust involved at the very least. But if he really has the heart to look past that, well, hey. Sometimes Cupid uses broadheads.

And I must admit that part of me, when Bodybuilder first told me about this, related to the wife. Wife wanted some spark, some fire, and that sexual need eventually overcame whatever restrictions she had been abiding by in the relationship. God knows Bodybuilder isn't even remotely kinky, and I'd be surprised if he were experimental in general. So, yeah, I grokked her needs.

Part of me even thought it was kind of hot.

Maybe it was the beer.

Ok, no, it wasn't the beer. It's kind of hot.

Of course, in my brain, all this could potentially be solved with a little Polyamory 101, a small dose of introductory compersion, a few good adventurous orgasms to break the ice, and a lot of slow and easy perspective shifting. For that matter, their monogamy needn't be compromised either: with some patient listening and imagination, Bodybuilder can also explore the fantasies his wife has so that she can get a taste of candy too. But, alas, Bodybuilder is a "nice guy." "Normal."

So, my prediction is that It's Not Gonna Work. Seems to me that if Mrs. Bodybuilder has fantasies (or at least interests) that they don't share, and if she's is willing to risk what traditional household stability Bodybuilder provided (and he did) to get her fantasies achieved, and if Bodybuilder doesn't want to consider expanding his psycho-sexual repetoire to possibly find hot&sexy common ground with his wife... well, then that's all she wrote, isn't it? In the end, she wants something that she's not finding in the relationship, and he's not willing to consider broadening his horizons.

The next day, I checked in with him by text.

Me: "Dude, I still say you should have done something about the big-assed blonde. She was so checking you out."

Bodybuilder: "Was thinking about it!"

Me: "And she had thighs like Mary Lou Retton."

Bodybuilder: "I like!"

Friday, May 28, 2010

Chopsticks.

The scene: A discussion between co-workers in a silkscreening business.



Male Co-worker: "Hey. You have chopsticks in your hair."

Female Co-worker: "Uh, yeah. Pens sometimes too."

Male Co-worker: "I have this friend, he and I would go to karaoke bars, and we'd always see this one woman there who had chopsticks in her hair..."

Female Co-worker: (folding a shirt) "Uh huh."

Male Co-worker: "...so we got to calling her 'Chopsticks,' you know? Well, not long ago, this friend called me and was, like, 'Hey! You'll never believe what I just saw!'"

Female Co-worker: "Uh huh..."

Male Co-worker: "'I was at this strip club,' he said, 'and guess who was dancing in front of me? It was Chopsticks! Chopsticks is a stripper!'"

Female Co-worker: "A karaoke-singing stripper. Well, I guess if you're doing karaoke, you may as well push your exhibitionism all way, huh?"

Friday, May 21, 2010

Playing with the balls.

Oh, the things I do to keep my mind occupied.

In a bizarre trick of fate, lately I find myself helping a friend in his sports supply business. As he helps local youth soccer teams embrace World Cup enthusiasm, I've found myself getting some extra upper-body workouts in his warehouse as he deals with several major product orders. It's been a fun and relaxing source of extra income, and I actually get a kick out of it. (Ow. Sorry.)

But it's also given me a new venue lately to engage in a little friendly teasing. I've just finished emptying a truck when I text her in a blue-collar persona.



Me: Mm... Hey baby. Yo, you're cute!

Kara: :)

Me: Yeah, yeah. So, hey, lookit, whatya think about coming in the back with me, huh? There's a nice, secluded spot over there between the boxes... c'mon, no one will see...

Kara: Oh, sure! Cuz the smell of cardboard just makes me so wet! ;)

Me: Mmmm... yeah... that's right... bend over just like that for me...

Kara: You mean like this? *wiggle*



Helda, one of the women who works there, sees me texting with a smile on my face. She smirks and asks me what I'm up to. Do I tell her? After all, I hardly know the woman.

"Uh, just something naughty to my girlfriend," I shrug with a grin. But Helda's face tells me that details aren't unwelcome. I laugh and go on.

"I was teasing her about taking her into the back of the warehouse, and she poked me to say just how much the smell of cardboard turns her on." Helda's dark eyes smile as she nods and goes back to the shipment of British-style soccer uniforms that she was working on.

Helda and Holly are the women of the sports supply warehouse. They're co-workers (inasfar as I can say I'm 'working' there), and only co-workers, but they've also been a source of personal amusement for me as I go about doing this extra bit of effort lately.

Both are tall athletes, and impossibly rail-thin with adorably teeny titties. Helda is a mid20s longhaired German brunette with a strong, squarish jaw, dark eyeglasses and a background in competitive soccer. Both her accent and attitude are subtle.

Holly is an early20s, longhaired dirtyblonde Canadian who looks as though she had just walked out the pages of a child's bedtime fairytale. Her innocent-as-pie, cornfed good looks and charmingly polite demeanor are instantly dashed however when, in a moment of constraint, she utters her favourite expletive: "Oh, ballsack!"

Usually, these women are engaged in the business office while I'm tossing heavy boxes around in the back, but from time to time they can be found in my temporary, helpful domain. These moments often afford me pleasantly enjoyable moments of corner-of-the-eye voyeurism, and lately I've been especially amusing myself when (ass man that I am) I'm on a high scaffold and one or both of them are far below me, squatting or bending over somethingorother.

Now, truth be told, for all my rogueishness, I like to think that I'm completely pleasant, respectful, and appropriately distant in the workplace. I am not the dude who's leering at the woman nearby. Yet, on the other hand, even a fox in a Zenga suit remains a fox... and so, for me, ever subtly, taking personal note of their choice of panties for the day has become a silly bit of sport. Lately, it's certainly given me more reason to update my Twitter with my cell. After all, one can empty so many trucks and fill so many orders before the mind wanders...

Cornfed blonde Holly possesses a delectably heart-shaped derriere with just the nicest bubble, and seems to be an all g-string girl. I particularly enjoyed the brief view she lent today when she squatted near the silkscreening rotunda in her low-rise jeans and revealed a generous eyeful of youthfully tender ass seam. Nice.

Teutonic Helda, on the other hand, with her smallish, boyish, perpetually black-denim-covered butt seems to prefer comfy panties. And I must admit, as appealing and as fashionable as gstrings are these days, more often than not I do remain a loyal panties fan. Somehow, to me, the idea that More Is Yet To Come when I'm slowly lowering my lover's jeans from behind her just teases my mental cockhead all the more.

Helda and I haven't really been flirting as much as just being playfully adult on occasion. Asking what other tasks needed doing one day, for example, she sighed and looked me over before requesting a back massage... and then promptly suggested a more realistic thing that cold be done around the place. It was cute.

"I'm worn out," she said during a rough day of unloading a truck of soccer balls coming in from Pakistan.

"Nothing a shot of scotch and a hot tub wouldn't cure," says I. It's something I say a lot. She shot me a smirking glance.

"Ok! Over there?" she asked, pointing to a large space between stacks of boxd uniform jerseys. Instantly, I was reminded of the recent, teasing textmessage between Kara and me hat I had told her about.

"Uh, yeah," I caught up, just slightly surprised. "But this isn't necesarily the sort of ambience I would have sought for."

She winks and smiles. "And you're girlfriend might not like it, huh?"

Yeah. Leave it to her to reaffirm that I happily have a partner. Typical, no? But then, maybe she's never heard of polyamory...

No. I'm not seeking to pursue something with Helda the German soccer girl with the boyish butt, or with Holly the only-slightly-innocent, pertly-bummed gstring babe. But as I go through a few days of helping my friend out and pocketing some extra pre-summer cash, my eyes and scandalously beating heart remain nicely entertained.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

And speaking of gay...

I was amused to find myself bouncing at a sexclub again recently. It's been a while.

Goodhandy's was the excellent venue for the Sodom dance party last Saturday night, where I enjoyed a stint doing security again for the first time since my days at Paddles. The irony is that it was only a few months ago when I was there to give Kara her birthday spankings. It was a fuck-free night this time (apart from the private spaces upstairs), but that doesn't mean I didn't have my share of the fun.

Amid the mostly-male, very glam crowd were a sprinkling of happily sauced women,some of whom made it a point to "get to know the new bouncer" standing at the door. Comic Scott Thompson quietly turned up. Actor and model Woodrow Monteiro as the iconic face of the partay. Mahogany Browne as the reigning drag queen. Tunage by DJ Sumation.

Whether or not I bounce there again remains to be seen, and if so, perhaps for upcoming Pride events, but staffing in a charged, sex-positive space is always a treat for me. Kara's been particularly excited by the prospect of me there from time to time.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Gay math (redux).

Thank you, Anonymous. Here we are...



Yes. Much better.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Gay math.

This morning (after she playfully scolded me for being dead asleep last night when she tried to rouse me to fuck), I was driving her to work. Kara, you may remember, is a high school math teacher.

"So I'm covering adding and subtracting polynomials, right? It's hard because a lot of these kids just aren't getting how to combine the like terms, not realizing that a negative number and doing the subtraction is essentially the same thing.

"Then one of the kids, this guy who's usually a handful, pipes in to say that adding x squared is like 'homo math.' Huh?"

"Yeah, he says, because keeping x squared together is like the boys staying with the boys, and only adding x to x is like the girls being with girls."

"Kinda tell you what's going on in the back of his head," I say.

"Hey," she laughs. "Whatever helps 'em remember."

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Squeaky clean.

I was enjoying some morning tea while cleaning my pad. When she texted, I was polishing the brass frame and fixtures to my shower stall.

Kara: Hey! What's happening with you today? Mwah!! :*

Me: Decidin' what to tidy next...

Kara: Me! Tidy me! It's my turn now! ;)

Me: ...Uh. *blink* Well, ok... *sprays you with Windex*

Kara: Okay... NOT exactly what I had in mind... :P

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Good feelings.

Remember Shayne?

I don't always get to deleting things from my email folders, and every now and then I find that I'm pleased for it. This is from last May, about when things began to finally change between us, before I met Kara. I was in a Toronto internet cafe and she was in her Chicago office cubicle. It's probably the last saucy little chat exchange between us before everything went haywire.


Me: Cmere. Bend over.

Shayne: hoo! every time you say that electricity shoots from my clit to my cunt and up my spine making my nipples hard in the process and getting my saliva glands all worked up. AROUSAL

Me: Well, my my. You're so easy to please, you little tart. I've been enjoying the thot of you bent over your kitchen table, the scent of fire-roasted peppers and your sex in the room. Yum yum.

Shayne: oooh, good combo. you know, i had this realization last night. when you talk about spending an hour, or hours, giving me head, i can't ::like:: fathom that. it seems completely unreal and fantastical and i don't know how i would react. all of which is rather interesting to me. damn. i'm totally horny now.

Shayne loved it when I gave her head. I have hot memories of corkscrewing my hands, alterating between my left and right under well-lubed non-latex gloves, as I took her miniball of a clit between my lips.

Me: You'd love a decadent treat like that, I'm certain. It'd be fun fun fun... you, a super comfy chair, a pipefull, some wine, mellow tunage, and my slowly circling tongue, probing hands, and smiling eyes.

Shayne: mmmm i loved when you would look up at me with a mouthful of cunt. so many good feelings associated with it.



Well, those good feelings lapsed for a while. It's been about a year, which I can scarcely believe, actually. After our final break (because God knows we seesawed for the longest time), there was the expected amount of angst between us. She was being an ass. I was being confused. Time was, as should be expected in all situations like that, necessary.

But very recently, we've become friends again. I'm pleased for this because Shayne was and remains important to me, one of my favourite people. Our lives have progressed, of course, and that's ok. We connect through sites like Facebook and FetLife. I enjoy her poetry and her blogging, she asks me for advice about reading Tarot cards and thinks of me when she rebuilds household shrines. Our worlds are good.

She's since moved to Washington state and is enjoying a good, rustic life with her new man, an artistic Daddy who takes her camping in giant geodome tents and hogties her in the woods. She's happy, and that's all that's ultimately important. Me, I smile and nod and remain pleased for her, as well as for our friendship as I continue to embark on adventures of my own and make worldly plans with my awesome friend and lover, Kara. Perhaps one day she and her Dude will break bread with me and my Pet, and over cold beers and a hearty meal of grilled Ontario salmon we'll make laughing eyes and make tribe. It's a nice idea.

Do love ya, Shayne. No, really. Nice to be ok with you again. Peace.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Saturday, May 1, 2010

May.



Many are the memories I have of the frolics around the sacred pole and the accompanying teasing and joy with the season.

In New York, we would gather for sensual potluck parties, and light candles for assage nights. In New Jersey, I would collect with comrades at the clothing-optional Gunnison Beach, where we would raise glasses of wine in praise to the warming sun as we enjoyed the sand in the nude.

When I lived in Massachusetts, we would awake before dawn and see the waltzing students, clad i evening gowns and tuxedos, dance over the Charles River. The morris dancers would summon the season with bells upon their ankles, and the hobby horses would chase the women with clacking and hungry jaws.

There, and here in Ontario, my friends and me would gather in the parks, and among the trees we would share old classic stories and pass forfeits, small papers with taunting and teasing dares inscribed upon them, among one another. "Give the person of your choice a kiss." "Whisper on someone's ear what you would do for them on a cold, winter day alone." "Tell your lover what your favourite memory of her/she is when you're alone and think about her/him."

The bonfires at night, sharing mead under the stars. The rustle of nearby bushes as partners excused themslves. The scent of roasted meat on the breeze. Laughter overheard from far away. The drums. The naked, bejeweled dancers. Embracing friends one had never before met.

I live for the May.