And now for something completely different.

The Black Jack Stroker by California Exotic Novelties.

When I was a kid, my father took me to see the 1983 Charles Bronson vigilante/cop film 10 To Midnight. Dad was a big action movie fan, a very typical guy in that regard, and always could be depended on to see the latest gun-toting, car-chasing, machismo-riddled strip of celluloid. Mom was good for occult thrillers and James Bond. Either way, I would happily munch on my Whoppers with the hit men, demonic spawn, spies, and man-eating sharks.

(10 To Midnight also featured a very nekkid Ola Ray who, in addition to being Playboy's June 1980 Playmate of the Month, thrilled me because I was dating a Nigerian at the time. The sight of her mocha self in the requisite shower-scene-as-the-crazed-killer-looms-nearby definitely caught my attention.)

But what stands out in my memory, even more than Bronson's snubnose .38 or Ray's beautiful brown tits, is the toy.

Psychopath Warren Stacy (played by Gene Davis) is a sexual predator. During a raid on his apartment, he's found in his bathroom with a large, bizarre apparatus that (to me) looked like a small fire extinguisher tank with some kind of J-shaped red rubber or plastic tubing attached to one end. The whole thing must have been two feet long. Later, while interrogating him in classic bully-cop fashion, Bronson tosses the thing on the table before Davis with a clatter, shouting, "You know what this is for, Warren? It's for jerking off!"

And then it hit me. My junior-year-high-school brain met my burgeoning, straining libido and stars burst in my head. The tank was for suction. The tubing was for his cock.

"Holy fuck!" I thought to myself, a malted milk ball held in mid-crunch between my teeth and my tongue. "They make machines to suck it??"

I very probably jacked my tender, young dick that night and burst my load into the stratosphere just with the thought of having such a thing. It did remain in my fantasies for years to come. I mean, just think of the fucking convenience.

But, and perhaps only until very recently, sextoys for men has had an element of shameful taboo associated with it. While the adult toy market easily and readily sensualizes the buying experience for women, sometimes relating the ownership of a vibrator or dildo with personal sexual empowerment and independence, most marketing strategies have yet to bridge the ambivalence that many guys might have. Many men still inwardly believe that to purchase or use a sextoy somehow conveys the message that "they have to" because they're "unsuccessful" with women. Owning a sextoy becomes connected with shame and self-effacing embarassment. This, in turn, enables interrogating police officers to hurl these toys at suspects, shouting things like "You know what this is for, Warren? It's for jerking off!" because it will emasculate him into submission out of his own shame for having the thing in the first place.

This, of course, is absolute bullshit. This is also one of the ways how patriarchal culture actually works against men, because this sort of shame robs us of wholly enjoying what would otherwise be a perfectly fun experience. Sure, it's perfectly possible that anyone (man or woman) can and may use a sextoy because a date didn't present him- or herself that Friday night, but that doesn't have to mean that this sort of bodyfun is mutually exclusive to being with a partner. And what's to suggest that someone (man or woman) couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't enjoy using toys while with your partner?

So imagine my personal glee when, after fantasizing about blowjob simulators since my teens, I had the opportunity to review one.



California Exotic Novelties is among the most successful and prolific adult toy manufacturers to be found anywhere, and frequently collaborates with respected sexperts and well-known adult performers to develop and market their wares. A woman-owned company, they contribute to breast cancer research. They very probably made the cheesy (but clever) boardgame you or your spouse got at the bridal shower.

The Black Jack Stroker features "robotic suction action" with "the perfect fit." It consists of four primary separate parts: a rubber manual pump, the battery-powered suction and vibration controller, an interior sleeve, and the plastic casing which includes fist grip and vibrating egg. Made in China, its overall length is 12.5 inches (32cm), the business end being 6.5 inches (17cm), and 2.5 inches (6cm) wide. It weighs 21 ounces (.6kg) and is powered by four C batteries to provide its individually-controlled vibration and pumping functions.

The important feature, as far as your cock is concerned, is the interior sleeve. The dead-black, well-shaped lips could seem a little ominous (unless you're into goths), and they're very, very firm. The sleeve's interior also has dozens of round nodules to enhance sensation, but certainly there's nothing to simulate warmth, moisture (unless you use water-based lube), or the action of a swirling tongue. Made from TPE, it retains some heat and is elastic, but (if your sense of political correctness wants to know this) it was probably fashioned by a nasty chemical corporation like Monsanto or Dupont. But does it feel good on your dick? With lube, not bad.

The suction comes from your manual use of the pump. The pistoning effect really does precious little toward contributing to that apart from the visual stimulation, and the repetitive, mechanical noise this feature makes is not quiet at all. This also means that to really enjoy this toy, both hands are required to operate the pump (and keep a finger handy near the quick-release valve) and hold the entire thing steadily on your cock. Once a rhythm is in place this wouldn't seem so bad, but the sleeve remains attached to the hard plastic casing only by virtue of a 4cm grip curling over the casing opening. Even a moderate amount of lube, plus some vigourous thrusting or stroking, can easily make the sleeve detach from the casing. This can be frustrating to deal with, probably requiring the user to ignore the topmost handgrip to the Stroker and hold it by the base to keep the sleeve in place. Fucking annoying, really. Why is it so difficult for male sextoy manufacturers to come up with a design that doesn't include multiple, separate pieces that each have to be manually (and distractingly) secured?

The plastic casing is made from ABS, a recyclable thermoplastic also used in protective headgear, auto parts, pipes, and tattoo ink. Other parts are made from PVC.

The vibrating egg is affixed to the interior top of the plastic casing, and its effect on the head of your cock can easily make you see stars when properly combined with that good, if labour-intensive, rhythm. That is, if seeing a wire in there doesnt give you heebiejeebies. When all the component sensations (suction, pistoning, the lips' grip, the nodules, and the vibrations to the cockhead)are running smoothly, the Stroker can be pretty sensational when it wants to.

Does it completely simulate a blowjob? Not exactly, no, because it doesn't have a tongue and your lover doesn't have a vibrating egg down her (or his) throat, but it's still a interesting experience that had me shooting the first time I tried it.

But after then, I was quickly reminded that the Stroker is being marketed as a novelty. Hell, it's in the company name. Marketed as a novelty, manufacturers absolve themselves from a lot of quality control (and, in the case of toys made with phthalates, possibly safety).

The truth is that, for me, the best blowjobs eventually become a little vigourous and passionate. I like to thrust. Once the 'novelty' of finally satisfying my teenage oh-my-God-you-mean-they-make-things-that'll-suck-it fantasy had been met and I was moving past the newness of the toy (say by the third time), my body brought me back to wanting to thrust and fuck that little, firm, goth-black, elastomer mouth. I set the phaser piston on stun, the photon vibrator on kill, found my rhythm with the manual pump and held that sleeve in place by the base while giving this sucker a real Mythbusters-level road test.

And I promptly broke the goddamned thing.

klik whirrr wheeez All gone. Bye bye. So sad. On a downstroke, I simply oversuctioned, overpistoned, overjacked the big bad Black Jack Stroker until it too seemed like a crestfallen, whimpering, sniveling suspect on the other end of an interrogator's desk. It was defeated.

Would I recommend it? Actually, yeah. Compared to other strokers I looked at, this one seemed more comprehensive and fun to use, even with the headaches. The Blow Job Stroker seems to be more high-tech, and gadgets like the Solo Slider try to do the job is a handier, simpler fashion. But I wouldn't expect to be too vigourous with the Black Jack, and I wouldn't expect it to replace the fleshy passion of my woman's mouth, tongue, hands, breath, warmth, zeal, hunger, and whimpering.

Especially if she were, you know, Ola Ray.

Ha ha.

While we're making tea and relaxing in my kitchen, I grab Kara's camera and take a spontaneous picture of her bum.

I'm so weird sometimes.

The swing of things: a rant.

I'm casually preparing some stroganoff (her favourite) when Kara mentions that she's received an interesting, flirty message in her FetLife mailbox. I'm intrigued. I enjoy knowing that others find her as hot as I do (with her tomboy looks, she especially gets plenty of ogles from other women as we stroll along Queen Street), and this sounds like it could be fun.

She shows me the message. It's (seemingly) from a couple in our region that's into swinging, and they've expressed interest in my hot, little, schoolteaching waif.

But when I start to look a little closer at the couple's profile, I can't help but feel a few little red lights go boink.

If you're familiar with FetLife (and shame on you if you're a reader of this blog and you're not), you know that profiles typically include a listing of what kinks, pleasures, interests, and sexual curiousities one is into. Some lists are brief, some are vast, but it makes for a great way to break the ice and tell the world what makes you tick.

This profile entirely lacks that, which (in my view) almost defeats the purpose of having a profile on FetLife to begin with. It also lacks a lot of detail of who and what they are, apart from being a 'professional, educated couple seeking playmates,' and there is no specific information about (or from) the woman in this couple at all. We see her in a series of deliciously explicit images from (what seems to be) their past swinging experiences, but who is she?.

She's an attractive blonde, and appears to be having loads of fun (pun intended), but apart from her smiling face in the vicinity of throbbing cock, we see and read precious little of her. So we can only assume that it's the male in this couple who (as one can see on a profile) has been having a fine time sending individual, seemingly flattering comments to a long string of other, different women on the service.

"Wish I could get her to do that." "You could have some great fun with us." "Would love to convince her to get piercings like those."

Now, sure, maybe I'm making assumptions. Now, sure, maybe these people are exactly as they seem to be. They very well could be perfectly cool people who simply have very little to say but totally love fucking newly-found strangers in their extra rented apartment in another part of town. Maybe he "does all the talking." Seen it before. But having witnessed a fair amount of stupidity in my life, I can't help but wonder what gives here.

I might have at least expected to see individually-written paragraphs from each of them, or at least a cogent write-up about what and who they are, what they like, what they dislike, and what they're ideally seeking. After all, sez I to myself, if Kara and I were to consider meeting another couple for fun, frolic, and fucking, I'd like to think we're meeting people and not just another set of genitals. For the love of God, who are you?

And then those references to "convincing her."

As a man, I get it. You have fantasies about sharing your partner with another hot, fun couple or single for any number of reasons, and you're probably used to being the initiator in your partnership's sexual escapades (or so you might think). You want to introduce this idea of swinging, and maybe you've even done a little research and reading about what that means and what that doesn't mean. Hopefully you've been asking yourselves hardcore questions about trust, jealousy, communication, fantasies, desires, fears, worries, boundaries, and other Really Important Things That Could Fuck Up Your Relationship Unless You've Gauged A Path Through A Potenial Minefield.

But, Mr. Guy-In-A-Couple-Who-Messages-Other-Women-Everywhere, I have to tell ya: the moment a word like "convince" goes past your lips, you've lost all credibility. And it doesn't help the optics when it's obvious you (and apparently only you) are messaging every hottie on the internet without any apparent attempt to really introduce yourself, make a social bond, or even, you know, be polite.

If she's not saying anything, not contributing to the process, to the fun, I end up asking myself why. I think any sane, respectful person would too.

"Convince" implies that your partner wasn't there in the first place and somehow, someway, got nudged in a direction she perhaps really hadn't intended to go. Loving people, sexually adventurous and otherwise, don't try to "convince." Even if you're (seemingly) successful, what you've achieved with him or her is far closer to acquiescence than sharing or cooperation.

I enjoy swinging. It's a very different dynamic than being polyamourous, which I prefer, and its been years since I've really engaged in it heartily. But that's also because Kara and I are still totally enjoying being engrossed in one another. While we've discussed it here and there, we already know that (unless you're already a friend) someone who doesn't aproach us as sensual, intelligent people first very probably won't make it past the first drink.

But part of the entire reason why I enjoy swinging, or even sex in general, is because I love watching my lover get off. And if there's any modicum of doubt to me that she's not having an entirely awesome time (which will never happen if "convincing" is necessary), I may as well read a book.

Carol gives me her ass.

Kara was out on a date, of sorts, and I was enjoying some tea and futzing around on Twitter. I like to be selective about whom I "follow," but it's true that I have a weakness for interesting, sex-positive women involved in one element or another of consensual adult fun. For me, that usually means fellow writers, sociosexual pioneers and advocates, or local porn stars. Take Montreal's own online 'amateur' Carol Cox, a fiery mid40s blonde, for example. Her ballsy don't-fuck-around-just-fuck-me-goddammit attitude makes me smirk.

To me, Carol Cox is among an interesting, seasoned sex-positive internet elite. I'm intrigued with people who saw the internet's sexual potential early on, and she began sharing her saucy self long before the days of Twitter or Facebook. I think that's very cool.

So recently, when she tweeted about finding a past picture of herself, I couldn't help but peek.

@CarolCox Just came across an old promo pic for my website...



I can't help but notice the sparklybits barely hiding the girlybits on the other model. I'm in a goofy mood, so I reply. Does Carol know me? Nah. I'm just being a fun smartass.

@UrbanRoguery When I die, will I head toward the light?

@CarolCox The dark is always much more fun. ;)

@UrbanRoguery Oh, now, if you're offering me *that* option... turn over. ;)

@CarolCox hahahaha, I wasn't even thing about that, but it's all yours for being quick ;)

Mmm. All mine. Which, of course, gets me fantasizing about fucking this delicious blonde sexythang in her tightest places. Ain't I bad?

@UrbanRoguery Ok. Now I'm thinking about @CarolCox 's beautiful derriere. Be still my heart. Thank you, Twitter.

@CarolCox Thinking about my derrière? Just for you ...

I think I made a new friend.

Women of the summer vacation.

Is the Great White North really that frigid?

As this post goes to press, so to speak, I'm boarding a WestJet flight to Edmonton, Alberta, and from there to Yellowknife, Northwest Territories. I will be within erection distance of the Arctic Circle for the rest of the week.

The Northwest Territories. To me, just the sound of that is incredibly exotic. It's not even part of the recently-created Nunavut province; it's still a damned "territory." Ooo.

When I was a kid in Brooklyn, I loved maps. Still do. And I have a faint memory of being bent over my desk, poring over atlases for hours and hours as my imagination ran wild, and I do remember looking upon the Canadian north and wondering how life would be in (what I figured was) barreness.

It's a family trip; Kara flew there last week to visit relatives, and I'm tagging along because I can. Because we'll be in tight lodgings and her urchins are with us (and I write this teasingly and with a smirk), I have my doubts about how much sexplay we'll get to have. I'd love to slip out of her family's place during the perpetual twilight, find a glen near the banks of Great Slave Lake, and take her from behind at the base of a black spruce. Feel her tightness grip me as I watch her claw the bark, hear her pant as she squats, bent-over, with my hands gripping her hips and tugging her backward to me. Mm.

I think the sexual anthropologist in me might be a little frustrated on this trip, though. I love to travel, and part of that pleasure (if I'm in a city) is to learn about and explore the seedy nightlife. It's a sport, probably enhanced by my first eye-opening (and cock-awakening) experiences when I cut class in high school to cruise around Times Square.

Stripclubs, sex shops, BDSM networks, lingering skanky porn theatres that refuse to die in this DVD- and internet-age... they become unspoken additions to my personal to-do lists, simmering underneath my plans to find excellent pubs, museums, historic sites, and galleries. For fun, I'll explore Craigslist postings from escorts in a given area, not because I'm necessarily seeking them out (no, really), but as a visual and voyeuristic taste of the women who'll be around me there. (Shuttup, no, really.) It's a game, and now that I've been doing this sexblog thang for the last few years, sometimes I'll share my results with you. I did this before past trips to Chicago or back home. Some people collect tchotchke shotglasses or refridgerator magnets; I look for pix of gorgeous, interesting local women and post them there. My little hobby.

But Yellowknife, Yellowknife, Yellowknife! You're freaking me out! I'm going to totally love being with my woman. I'm going to totally love meeting her family. A chance to perhaps see bison or bowhead whales in the wild? Sign me up! I'm going to be thrilled to experience your 23-hours of daylight, to meet and hang out with your Dene First Nations folk, to get a beer and a bison burger at the landmark Wildcat Cafe. But I've been looking through the 'net, Yellowknife, and I'm dumbstruck. Flaccid, even.

I did find an obscure inventory record of historic buildings. It includes the "Old Prostitutes Log Cabin" at 3804 Bretzlaf Drive, built by John Stakston in 1938. John lived there until the 1950s, and we might readily assume that he was a local pimp because the house "became a prostitution den when this street was Yellowknife's red light district, known as Glamour Alley." Now that can be good and fun sexual history to discover.

But I am learning that many of the 18,000 or so folks in "the Knife" aren't exactly the sex-positive type. I've found one blog covering queer issues there. One. Jason tweets me to say that "western Canada, in general, is much more prudish than Toronto or Montreal. That's not to say "things" don't happen. It's discrete. Yellowknife is filled with well-traveled, educated, adventurous people. It's very diverse, inclusive and friendly."

Yet a local pro-atheism blog recently detailed an account of discrimination against gays by a religious zealot.

And speaking of religious zealots, it seems that the Catholic school board there refuses to administer HPV vaccines to female students despite statistics apparently showing that young women in Yellowknife become sexually active at earlier ages than in the rest of Canada, and that STD infections are eight times the national average there. Suffer the little children.

Yellowknife. Jason suggests that your discretion is the better part of your valour. I hope so, because I'm wondering: have you no healthy sexual consciousness, no sex-positive venues, no reasonably enticing sensuality for the erotically adventurous, woman- (and queer-) respecting, blog-posting, kink-conscious, I'm-really-not-trying-to-be-such-a tourist? Dammit, Yellowknife, inquiring minds want to know!

¿Es sobre?

She makes abstinence sexy.

Toronto radio personality Fearless Fred recently featured Claire Brosseau on air to speak about her new project to entirely give up on sex with men for one year. The "boy crazy" early30s Toronto comic and actor is sharing her experience in the blog, The One-Year Manbbatical.

Until May 2011, she plans to restrict herself to "no sex, kissing, flirty texts or emails or conversations of any kind, dates (including lunch and coffee), handholding, pictures, suggestive status updates or tweets. No looking at dudes' websites, Facebook or Twitter page more than once per day, inviting boys to (her) shows or going to theirs, or making any decisions based on dudes (including gigs, outings, number of drinks consumed once realizing said boys are in the same location."

But, as she said during her interview, "man-shaped objects" are still ok, as her newfound path has been more about reducing attempts at finding love than sex alone. "If I have an afternoon of flicking my bean, lovely flicking my bean, say with a lovely battery-operated object, I want to go out and pick up dude, so if I refrain from that, I'm slightly more composed. I can watch porn, and though I find porn very romantic, it hasn't been interfering. My porn habits have not been interfering with my manbbatical."

You have to love a woman who talks about flicking her bean on the radio, regardless of the circumstances. But not that I'm waiting to see her trip up (I think what she's doing, and how she's doing it, is interesting), but the newly-abstaining darling has already tweeted, "say what you want about lebron james. i'd still make sweet, sweet love to him."

You'll find Claire's updates on the blogroll posted here.

She likes weenies.

She's away on vacation. I'll be joining her in about a week.

Me: Whatcha doin?

Kara: Off to a weenie roast! :)

Me: Nice! Wanna roast my weenie? ;)

Kara: Uh... Do you WANT me to roast your weenie? :o ;)

Me: All you gotta do is drop those pants, bend over, reach behind and open up, babe. You'll roast one juuuust fine. Smokin! ;)

Kara: Ooooh! That might be more of a slow boil, but I'm good with that!! ;)

Me: With relish...

Let's make a deal.

Jesus. There are times when I'm so fucking bad.

Given the chance, the right amount of caffeine in my system, and how tired I am, my imagination takes my brain on sudden whirlwinds from time to time. I roll my eyes to myself, I smirk, I'll chuckle on the streetcar, and people look at me like I'm crazy.

But it's just so fun.

Lately, I'm trying to sell some antiques that I've acquired over the years, and have been making a lot of postings on CL. Some of the pieces are artifacts from when The Grrl was with me, and so parting with them would be healthy for my psyche. Some are simply things I just don't have the space or dire need for. Other things are echoes, physical noise from my past.

I had a pair of antique window frames that I rescued from a house renovation, for example. I intended on replacing the glass with either stained glass work or mirrors, but the damned things just sat in my storage unit for ever and ever.

A CL posting later, and someone whom I thought was a male with a uniquely Slavic name was heading over to buy them for three times my asking price. kaching! I open the front door, and "Virve the artist" turns out to be this statuesque Nordic blonde who looks as though she's previously won biathalon gold. I must have looked somewhere between cute and ridiculous when my jaw dropped and my eyes fluttered. Leading her into the garage, where I was holding the frames, my cock twitched under my jeans as she stood directly under a crossbeam.

"Oh, ja. Just relax, meinem frau. Raise your arms over your pretty head. No, no, don't be afraid, these ropes won't cut into your wrists, won't hurt a bit, I promise. See? I'm not feeling a thing! Now, how effectively might these scissors remove the tight denim covering your lovely, butch bottom, mm? ...Sehr gut...

I'm selling a wooden dresser. It's worn, but with the right TLC would be a very solid piece for someone. An office worker named Tina responds, and she's haggling over my dirtcheap price right away. I cave. She sends another email now that she's seen a very swish dining table I'm also offering (the very one that Molly sucked my cock beside and squirted her grrlcum under two years ago) and is haggling with me over email for both pieces. I like her spunk (Tina's, not Molly's. ...ok, I like Molly's too...), but she's undercutting me way too low.

"You sure you can't take just $60 for them both, mister?," she asks. "Your price is really fair, like, but it's just that I can't afford to spend that... and it really is a great table..."

She glances over her shoulder and reaches for my crotch gently, leading me into the storage unit. She turns on the timed light and it cliks loudly as she lowers the aluminum door behind us. She bites her lower lip as she kisses me.

"I really like the table..." She drops to her knees and unzips me slowly.

Yeah. I chuckle to myself.

I continue haggling with CL responses when, speak of the devil's mistress, a message from Molly herself appears on my Facebook. Talk about serendipity.

She's interested in some books I'm culling, but making it to the storage unit to pick her choices is a small hassle for her. No crisis.

Now, I know for a fact that Molly, God love the sexy fandom geek she is, isn't exactly swimming in cash. She's been rebuilding her world, and more power to her. Sure, the books'll be cheap... but my brain had already been in the gutter. Shameless, sarcastic me. I caught myself smirking again when, you betcha, part of my naughty, laughing head pondered poor, happily-submitting Molly sucking me for garage sale reading material.

"I just happen to love cock," she told me once, her wet lips slurping around my shaft after dinner. "And yours is attached to a particularly nice guy."

I can just picture it now...

"Oh! Mercedes Lackey! Piers Anthony!" likk Oh! Anne McCaffrey! Douglas Adams! sssuk Oh cool! A Laurel K. Hamilton I haven't read ssstroke Hey! The complete Marion Zimmer Bradley! mmmbub mmmbub Mmmm.. nice.... Oh! A limited edition series of Anne Rice?! mmf mmmf slrrrp! Oh... oh my God! A hardcover, limited, gold-embossed, fucking fiftieth anniversary edition of The Hobbit! mMMmmmm mmmlp mulp mmmf mmmph Mm MmMMMMmmmm...

I wonder. What would she do for some out-of-print Michael Moorcock? Hardbound? With, you know, a thick and sturdy embossed spine?

The ironic and funny thing is, kidding aside, I would be surprised if Molly wouldn't enjoy sucking my cock again, books or no books. She keeps inviting me to the local polyamory social events. Maybe one of these days I won't be too busy to go.

And maybe I'll have some Andre Norton in my pocket. You know, just in case.

In the happy countercultural house near the park.

I nearly panicked. A backhoe has been parked in front of the house, and as I looked down from the bedroom window, I heard a cluster of people talking around the glorious tree in the front yard. Was the city taking our fucking tree down?

False alarm, it turned out, but not before I texted Serene downstairs. She's been in this pad the longest, and between that and her (excellent) no-nonsense attitude, I appreciate her gentle but self-sustained role as resident quasi-matriarch and delegatrix. Sometimes we switch between playing Good Cop and Bad Cop when dealing with the maintenance crew. But I digress.

Earlier, as I sipped my tea in the quiet morning, I smirked to myself as I faintly heard Serene and her lover, the always-laughing black Becka, enjoying themselves beneath me. Serene has unapologetically told me before about how loud she gets when she cums, and between her and Lacey with her lover, I enjoy some audio entertainment on occasion.

You see, I live in a house full of lesbians. Sucks to be me, huh?

I'm on top. Serene and Lacey are below me with Becka as a regular visitor, but come next month, Lacey and her airline attendant fiancee Pamela will be taking the space on the main floor. They'll be replacing the breathtakingly delicious, shorthaired Sam, who has been the cunt-throb (ok, and cock-throb) of the house. A new woman, a spritely little pixiechik whose personality I have yet to learn, will be replacing Lacey as Serene's housemate. Confused yet? Add to that that sexy, outdoorsy Australian Lacey also happens to be Serene's ex-lover.

Me: No, wait, I'm mistaken. Our tree is fine.

Serene: I was just getting dressed to come investigate. Ok.

Me: You mean I missed out on seeing you dash outside in your Wonder Woman underoos? Dammit! ;)

Serene: LOL! Indeed you did. I have been known to go out in just my robe many times. I wonder what the neighbours think. Don't care tho! :)

Me: *winking shrug*

Serene: Did you just feel the house shake?

Me: That good, huh? ;)

Serene: :D

Softly breathless.

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Happy Canada Day.