And now for something completely different.

Sunday comics.

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Abundance.

Lately, I've been shaking my head about something.

Describing bodytypes can be such a minefield, and God knows there are plenty of people out there who have trouble doing so with tact and grace, if not simple politeness. There are also those who, being at opposite ends of a spectrum, can either speak with beaming appreciation or horrible viciousness.

I'm talking about larger women.

Now, while it is true that, in my case, my first preference leans closer toward slim-to-average sized partners, that doesn't mean that I haven't had some spectacular experiences with women of the curvier or even BBW tribes. And yes, I do think that personal sexiness often has more to do with attitude, confidence, character, wit, and style than simply whether or not her dresses are size 8 or 18.

But I have noticed that it's the leaning-toward-the-larger of the species who seem to most often find themselves attracted to me. Or so it seems. And for some reason, lately the Fates have been blessing me with several new friends in my local kink community who meet that decription (hi, guys).

When I asked Aphrodite for abundance, maybe she decided to respond with a playful smirk?


Oh. And this sensual creature is my online colleague Coy Pink.
You really should check out her blog too.

Dear Life,

It's been way to long since I enjoyed a black lover. And with the Caribana Festival coming this weekend, I know I'm going to suffer immeasurably.

Love,
Rogue

The Mound of Venus.

Ami had been working very hard, and she's almost always completely stressed.

As we curled underneath her exquisite tiedye duvet, the coolness of the sheets ensconced us as we listened to the clicking insects singing outside the window. All was dark, all was comfortable.

I smiled as she cuddled close. Feeling her long, auburn locks cascade across my bare chest and shoulder, I smiled to myself as I thought of the
small purple vibrator that she openly kept on the bedside shelves, just beside the egg vibe that I had given to her.

She was stiff beside me. I could tell that she was trying to relax, but to little avail. I kissed her head, deeply inhaling the scent of her russet locks of hair. I whispered in the dark.

"Would you like me to jack you off? So you can sleep better?"

Dark though it was, I have no doubt she she blinked several times as she digested my question. It often amuses me, in a perfectly nurturing way, to introduce her to new experiences. She paused.

"Um," she whispered back as a breeze caught her plants near the window, "would you like to? You're not too tired?"

I chuckled.

Her lips met mine as my right palm began a slow caress down the shoulder that rested on my chest, along her arm, and soon gently clutched her solar plexus. As always, Ami's skin was warm, soft, yielding, just slightly innocent. I pressed my head to her hair again, savouring her scent, feeling a slight stirring in my cock as I took her energy in.

She dropped more weight of herself against me. She began to relax more. I smiled in the dark.

My arm continued to explore under the pillowy duvet. I traced circles around her navel, and after completely bypassing her mound, began tracing a slow finger in circles at her upper right thigh. She sighed gently.

Clutching her thigh now, caressing it wholly, my fingers very almost grazed against the light tuft of black fur she kept between her legs. I opened my palm and grasped her thigh firmly, squeezing her, knowing that her petals were oh so slightly parted as I firmly tugged her flesh. I kissed her temple.

Wiry, feral, just slightly curled fur at my fingers now. How I adore a nest of pubes. My fingertips swirled in slow circles as I enjoyed the texture, the faint coarseness of her forest thatch, and my cock grew alongside her leg as I closed my eyes and licked my lips.

But, no, I wasn't going to taste her tonight.

Instead, my fingertips found themselves darting lower, and soon both index- and forefinger found themselves making gentle caresses at her labial mound. I lowered my hand further and gently cupped her, holding the entirety of her feminine essence in the hole of my hand, embraced, possessed, adored. I felt the Mound of Venus of her vulva against the Mound of Venus of my palm.


I brought my fingers up to my face to lick them liberally. I returned them to her core, and this time, my first and second phalanges angled themselves convexly so their nubs could press sensually just above her hardening clitoris. I began to swirl them, feeling her nubbin against my fingers.

Fast, slow. Clockwise, counterclockwise. Hard, soft, hard, fast, clockwise, soft, counterclockwise, wetter, firmer. A probe within, just so slightly.

Slow. Very slow. Firmer. Clockwise. A few gentle pats. Another probe, feeling the new wetness, a finger trailing it upward. Clockwise, soft, softer, hard, harder, harder still, faster, even faster, spinning, my left hand caressing as she rests her head on my chest, firmer, wetter, spinning.

My hand is a swirling blur under the duvet, but the actual pressure against her flesh is moderate. I'm jilling her. She's going to cum in my hand.

And in another few moments, as she rested herself against me in the dark, the summer breeze whispering through the window, Ami let out two... three... four quick and deep gasps in succession. I felt her wetness against my gradually-slowing fingers. I felt her tense up upon me, hold herself so still, shake, quake, and soon drop her weight against the bed and my broad chest.

She had cum.

I slowed my fingers down, but not exactly right away.

She kissed me deeply, moaning into my mouth.

We fell asleep.

Big girls, big love.

The scene: Another bar.
Three elegant, resplendently dressed BBWs, two brunettes and a blonde, are relaxing in the back room of a charming Cabbagetown pub. They lounge on overstuffed loveseats. They dish.

BBW 1: "So, he's like, 'No, really, I have problems with it.'"

BBW 2: "Problems?"

BBW 1: "Yeah. He gets all sheepish and, like, he says, 'Well, it's ten inches, and most girls can't handle it.'"

BBW 3: "Ten inches?"

BBW 1: "Yeah, so then he asks if I wanna see it, and I'm, like, 'Fuck yeah, I wanna see it!' and I gotta tell you, this guy was massive..."

BBW 2: "Wow..."

BBW 1: "...and thick like this, like a Coke can, and I'm like, 'Uh, no way is that thing going inside me!'..."

BBW 3: "...and, you know, it's not like it gets all hard in the same way, you know?..."

BBW 2: "Well, anything more than eight inches is kinda a waste anyway."

BBW 1: "But still, bigger just feels better, right? It just does. I mean, yeah, I once knew a guy who didn't have a particularly impressive penis, and he was one of the best lovers I ever had because of his attitude, his personality, his style, but still."

BBW 2: "Yeah."

BBW 1: "...Yeah, but big dicks don't get as hard. Especially for the ass. Like, if I'm gonna get it in the ass, it's gotta be really hard, you know?"

BBW 2: "Yeah."

Ami.

"Hello, buddy," she said, talking to my semi-hard cock.

She stretched herself out on the futon, raised her head as I stood beside it, and took me into her mouth. My shower could wait.

Oddly, that moment was somewhat foreshadowed by the flirty dating-site messages we had been exchanging back in March. In them, sometimes I visually 'put her' in the position of being in my bedroom, seeing me with a towel around my waist that would... oopsie... drop to the floor. She was amused, we would chat more, and eventually began to date. Or something.

Ami is a bit of a departure for me. There's much that we simply don't have in common, and frankly I thought our first date was something of a wash-out at the time... until, after a walk through Chinatown, she turned to kiss me.

It was a nice kiss. The kind that awakened my then-largely-unused cock straining hard in my jeans after only a few moments. The kind of kiss that, after dealing with so much angst in the previous months, felt Really Fucking Good.

And it's with a little bit of surprise when I say that things just seemed to gradually happen from there.

Ami is an ever-positive, in-many-ways-innocent, articulate, curvy brunette mid30s grad student with a penchant for bicycles, couch surfing, and sumptuous breakfasts. She is, hands down, one of the gentlest souls I have ever known. It actually surprises me that, given all of her intelligence, straightfoward confidence, and disarming sense of total kindness, that her dating life hasn't been more vibrant.

That's also a nice way of sharing that her sexual experiences have been very limited. Granted, that sometimes means that my own sharings with her may not always be, shall we say, as receptively mindblowing as some other past experiences I've had, it's still totally true that I have a personal thang for corrupting the innocent.

That her vibe and looks often leave me mistaking her for a woman ten years younger than what she is doesn't hurt.

Her slightly Rubenesque form features a very friendly pair of 38Ds, and after partnering with so many tomboys in my life (God love 'em all), Ami has given me a new appreciation for bigger tits. Hers fit perfectly in my grasp, and when I'm clutching them from behind her and gently giving them the massaging squeezes that she adores so much, her flesh only just barely peeks out from between my strong, outstretched fingers. And how she does love to have her breasts squeezed this way, especially if I'm nibbling at the nape of her neck or gently chewing on her ear.

Her tummy paunch is a cute and enjoyable palmful when we're spooning to sleep. She tells me that her massage therapist criticizes her bottom, but I keep saying that's nonsense. And, in a way that makes perfect sense in my brain when I think of her relative innocence, she sports a completely natural, completely carefree garden of coarse, dark fur that feels totally glorious to me when I'm gently rubbing my cheeks against her just before I begin to taste her essence.

And I've been tasting her essence frequently. In fact, I think my giving her head is the most frequent play activity that we've been doing. She is definitely not complaining.

During one of first dates, as we cooked together in my kitchen, random kisses quickly turned into a fun quickie session that eventually had her bent over one of my kitchen barstools. Her strong legs were sumptuously splayed apart as she bent over and across the seat of the stool, her lovely round ass before me. She had no choice but to gaze forward into the sunshine that brightened the deck as I squatted behind her and opened her up like a book.

I've written before about how one of my favourite activities is to discover, learn, study, enjoy the sight of my partner's anus. To me, there's a total intimacy in the sight of how she's crinkled, coloured, shaped there. Like fingerprints, like labia, the shape and contours of my lover's asshole are unique to her, and I enjoy the forbidden pleasure of learning hers.

And when I first gazed upon Ami's and began to give her light caresses there on this occasion in my kitchen, she bent over a stool, I immediately subconsciously knew that she had never been in such a position before. In such a vulnerable position before. And that, when I began to gently rim her, the gentle gasps for breath that I was hearing were very likely being accompanied by widened eyes that I could not see.

I liked that.

And so I slid my fingers inside her drenched, furry pussy and made her cum as I stood behind her and gently stroked my cock with my other hand.



But whether or not things with Ami are "relationship material" has been unclear. What were we doing? What were our parameters? Where did we want this to go? I've certainly enjoyed her company, and continue to, but for quite some time I didn't have my finger on the pulse. (G-spot yes, pulse no.) Our thang lacked clarity. Are we just-dating? Are we FWBs? Is she interested in romance? If I tell her that I lower-case-L love her, is she going to freak out or suddenly get distant? That kind of ambiguity makes me insane.

Ami, who commutes to and from the city frequently, has nurtured a slightly gypsy-ish grad student lifestyle. She housesits for the friend who's currently in Paris. She crashes on another friend's couch because it's close to campus. And recently she started spending enough time at my pad that it became a no-brainer for me to give her a set of keys and empty some drawers so she could move an amount of her stuff in my place and stay whenever she wanted to.

Ain't I cool? God, I frighten myself. cough

But her teaching and study schedule is intense. Despite a hot beginning, we've only rarely been able to spend "quality time" together lately. We'll share the same bed, but time and energy for fucking comes and goes. Eventually, I started to ask myself what it was that I was doing here, what it was that she was looking for, and it started to piss me off. Critical mass was approaching, and with a gentle nudge, I made sure she knew that a Conversation was soon becoming necessary. I needed to know where she stood, where she wanted to stand, and that she knew the same in return.

A relaxed sushi picnic in the park later and I had the clarity I needed. And, thus far, it seems that Ami and I are definitely in the friends-with-benefits camp. I sought clarity, and I certainly got it:

"Basically," she said to me after she listened to my mind, "I decided to get involved with you because I sensed that you'd be good in bed."

blink Oh.

Um. Ok.

I can handle that. Sure.

We finished our homemade miso soup in the park and went back to my place.

Love letters from Hell.

Where do I begin?

I've been ruminating on how to proceed with this post for some weeks now. I've asked myself if it was worth writing about This at all, whether or not I just wanted to Let It Slide and Leave It Be and pick up the reins of this blog from the here, the now, the this moment. After all, This isn't entirely hot 'n sexy reading material, so is it counterproductive to include This in the blog?

No, I've reasoned. Because it's sexual elements are present, they've affected me some, and more to the point, it's truthful. In addition to everything else, this blog has been and is about the truthful. And, very probably, I want this off my chest before I keep going with whatever future post I choose to share here. The earth sign in me, the writer in me, just won't let all This get ignored.

Fine, then.

My world fell apart around this time last year, and longtime readers of the blog would certainly have noticed how things around here became really inconsistent. Preplanned photo essays keep some momentum going (I hope), but beyond that, all of my energies had to be devoted elsewhere for a time. I remarked on it all recently, but even that hasn't satisfied the need in my chest to expunge all this by writing about it. So consider this post an act of exorcism, if you will.

I have never discussed the nature of my real-life employment on this blog. Suffice to say that the work I do is very intense, and often can be an unhealthy psychological environment. This time last year, and for various reasons that are entirely off-topic for a sexblog, I found myself taking my employer to court. I did recently win my case, but in the interim between late spring 2010 and late spring 2011, all of my foundations were, shall we say, compromised.

As one might imagine, being suddenly without as-secure work and dealing with its major impact on finances and stability can have a pretty debilitating effect on one's dating life. I did try to stay optimistic. Fortunately for me, I'm a stubbornly adapt-and-overcome kind of guy, and I did find new and creative ways to keep my personal infrastructure going, but that doesn't mean that the radical change in economics didn't cause it's own fallout.

Kara simply couldn't handle it, and it contributed to that breakup. We've remained friends, and while she did confess to me over a just-friends dinner at my place that she missed my own sexual vibe and potentially wanted to be occasional kinkplay partners, as time progresses that looks less and less likely. I'm disappointed, sure, but I'm at peace with this, and completely support the fact that she's with another partner now who (so far) seems to be making her very happy. Kara deserves happy. But from a blog-worthy perspective, that break seemed to mark a weird downward spiral in my dating world between last spring and this one.

Yes, I've already shared with you how I reconnected twice with the Tomboy during this interim, and how awesome its first time was. (Nothing happened during her second visit.) We also continue to remain friends, and while we only rarely get to see one another and she too is with a new partner (fucking goodbye, Mr. Unemployed Yoga Instructor), it seems pretty clear that maintaining a fuckbuddyship is something she's definitely into. I like that.

But there were two other partners whom the Fates decided to steer in my direction during this hellacious time between this spring and last, and now I've resigned myself to share their stories. But don't expect to be getting off on this, because in their own unusual ways, both also seemed to contribute to, rather than alleviate much of, the Issues of last year.



The Tornado


It was some months or so after Kara's departure before I had the desire (or finances) to enjoy a date again. But when it came, it came in the incarnation of an elusive, blonde early30s artist who, in the ridiculously short span of perhaps three weeks, completely shook my foundations. Not entirely in the best of ways.

That she got completely hammered during our first date should have been my warning. But did I listen? Nah. No, I was just happy to be fucking out again and to be introduced to what I thought was a joyful bohemian's world. She had trekked through France, tented throughout Canada (where her last partner dumped her), worked occasionally for art galleries, had owned (and tanked) her own studio. She introduced me to superb cheeses I had never heard of before. She entered my brain, and in the spiraling nonsense of my then-situation, she began to seduce me with visions of life as a blissful, neo-Communist poverty with spirit catchers and roadside guitars and plenty of wine to be had.

I went down on her. I fucked her. For a teeny, short moment as I continued to endure my righteous fight against my evil employer and made ends meet by returning to backbreaking construction work, I almost very seriously started to consider selling the last of my possessions and taking off with her to Europe. After all, as Chuck Palahniuk once wrote, "it's not until you've lost everything that you're free to do anything."

Dates always ended at my pad. Sure, fine, that's great. But my second warning should have come when, for one reason or another, she never seemed to want to have dinner in her area of town, or meet up at her place. Hrm. And then she lost that place.

Sure, ok, come on over, you can stay here for awhile, no problem. You say you have a new job at another local art gallery? Hey, that's great. You want to offer what per month, you say? Sure, yeah, right now that little extra cash would be very welcome, yes.

And then, dear reader, all it took was one night. One night. One night before I realized that depth of the mistake I had been making. One night before it became clear that I was being hoodwinked. I had already been asking myself if her constantly-changing stories about her past, her family, her sources of income, her goals, her plans were all as on-the-level as I expected/assumed/trusted (and why wouldn't I?) them to be. But no. As it turned out, whom I thought was the epitome of freespiritedness turned out to be an lying, alcoholic manipulator. (That became evident when she was caught trying to open a bottle of wine that I've kept in storage to age and had already asked her to not drink. All of the other bottles of tastiness had been sucked back by then, you see, and she wanted more.)

Yes. I threw her out. No. It wasn't easy. Yes. I made sure she had somewhere to go to. She was fine. Me, I was embarrassed at myself and learned something valuable.

If I've chosen you, I'll support you, I'll help you out, and sometimes I'll tolerate a lot of nonsense before I speak up. But don't fucking lie to me.

Ever.

Our lives have since moved on. We are not in touch now. I bear no maliciousness toward her, wish her all the safety and tasty cheese in the world, but I'm enjoying not being in touch.


The Feline


Time passed. The Tornado and I did email a little before the ebbs and flows of things eroded the last echoes of contact we had. Eventually, I went back to the drawing board and, despite my continuing legal fight and its impacts, tried to find ways to reserve a few bucks to at least attempt to be social.

At first, I couldn't take the Feline at all seriously. I'm not saying that she sounded too-good-to-be-true, but unlike so many single men who use dating sites, I like to think that I'm sophisticated enough to know that, dude, no, women are not going to toss themselves at you right after a few emails.

Right?

(In writing this, I should make this caveat to the other single dudes out there: really, man, don't expect this to happen. You'll just look like an ass if you assume otherwise.)

Yeah. The Feline tossed herself at me right after a few emails. And phone calls. And textmessages. And our first "date" was me going to her bachelor (that a "studio" to you Americans) apartment. So she could suck my cock.

Yeah.

Reckless, crazy, unsafe, unwise. I know it, you dudes know it, every woman reading this really knows it. And yes, I'm a trustworthy person (I hope), so I'm sure that contributed to her complete sense of ease, and I'm respectful of it and glad for it... but, you know, still.

She's a petite, tattooed, mid30s holistic health practitioner with an even bigger penchant for cats than I have. We talked, laughed, realized that we share a lot of the same spiritual common ground. She found herself asking my counsel on a few topics, and we discussed. From the cluttered coffeetable, she produced a handful of pre-rolled joints, and soon I was basking in a very welcome haze of numbness and blissful misjudgment.

She quickly confessed to having a blowjob fetish, and it wasn't long at all before she was at my pants and moaning quietly as her wet mouth slurped and milked my cock. I was not unhappy. No. Not at all.

Nor was I turned off when she shared how she regularly blew at least one black partner who dropped by from time to time. And works at the same place I was taking to court.

(Yeah. I had visions of her mouth on black cock. And I liked it.)

But, dammit. Call it my own nerves at the time. Call it the weed. Call it the fact that, despite it being absolutely true that petite women are my first preference in a partner's bodytype (yup, miss ya, Kara), the Feline's petiteness was extreme enough that I was actually getting frightened for her. Does she eat? Holy Ravensbruck, Batman. But, in the end, despite her intensity and zeal and the deliciously serendipitous moment of getting blown like this, my body simply wasn't going to let me cum.

And we did hook up one other time afterward. I think I was giving it another shot to see if I was as wierded out as I was afraid I was. And, yeah.

You see, I can't really "use" a partner. As a bdsm fantasy play, totally yes... but then, we both know we're enjoying the element of use&abuse in a safe, sane, consensual setting. But there was just something about the Feline's condition, both physically and the relative squalidness of her space, that just made me want to stop giving her cock and start giving her vitamins and emotional support for... who knows what.

(Yeah, I can hear some of you guys. Shuttup.)

And that's where we are now: friends. And I like it that way.

(But, ok, sure, if she gains some healthy muscle and healthy opportunities and healthy wellbeing and then still wants some healthy cockage, we'll see...)

I need it to feel healthy, yo. That's just me.




Happily to say, my own circumstances has since vastly improved. As I noted, I won my case against my employer, and in the last month or so I strongly feel back on track with my own goals and the power to have them. This is good.

And now that I've written all This, I feel as though I can progress with this blog without having unspoken truths weighing on me. Yay.

Toward the latter several weeks of my 2010-2011 hell, I met Ami. We don't exactly have what I would call a complete "partnership," but what we do have is a really aware, occasionally-sexual growing friendship. Despite being in her mid30s, she constantly has me thinking that she's ten years younger, and that's both in her energy and in her sexual experience.

But all that is another topic.

Cruising.

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Women on bicycles.

Roomies.

The scene: A bar.
The bespeckled, brunette server is talking from behind the bar with a blonde woman and her date. It becomes clear that the woman actually are friends who live together.

Server: "So, like, did you get woken up recently?"

Blonde: "Your springs are kinda noisy. But, dude, it's ok."

Server: (chuckles) "Yeah."

Blonde: "Did we wake you up last night?"

Server: "No, no. I was dead to the world."

Blonde: "Well, that just means it wasn't very good."

The Guy: "What?"

Server: "True."

Blonde: "True."

The Guy: "Hey!"

Happy Bastille Day!

I swear.

Yes, I will be upgrading the blog soon. It's just been that busy, and it's still challenging to be a reasonably responsible blogger without having consistent puter access.

Can you tell what's on my summer shopping agenda?

Stuff that's happening:
> I'm still reconstructing my world after the past year of ridiculous economic nonsense.
> But in the last year, I've discovered Tumblr, and have had scandalous fun exploring its voyeuristic possibilities.
> Ami, a delightfully cheerful grad student with whom I can't quite figure out if we're just-dating or FWBs or what, is living with me for the summer.
> I'm still completely thrilled to have been published by Cleis and meditating on where to Take It next.
> For me, Pride was relaxing and quiet. I tipsily strolled through Church Street and got hit on a lot by gay bears. Ran into some friends from the local kink scene. No sex shows, no late nights out; just a fine day in the sun.
> I'm still networking to develop a spanking party group in my area.
> I still think about Shayne, and The Grrl, too much. I always seem to do that with The Ones That Got Away. What the fuck is up with that?
> I could use a strong, frosty dacquiri and a strong, thorough blowjob.

That is all. More when the Fates permit.

Wanna play?

It hasn't been since Kara and I were together that I've enjoyed a partner over my knee. That's more than a year. I really owe it to myself to do something about that.

So, thanks to some of my area's FetLife groups, I've begun networking to find some relaxed, safe/sane/consensual friends who'd enjoy coming to my pad for spanking and barbecue parties this summer. If it works, should be fun.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

Sunday comics.

Happy Canada Day.

Sweet.

Last year, I teased you-all with some naughty foreshadowing about some erotica I had submitted for print publication. I'm really pleased to share now that the resulting book, Sweet Confessions, edited by none other than Violet Blue through Cleis Press, is now available through Amazon, Cleis, and very probably your local erotica shoppe.





My piece, a short story entitled "Bad Influences," shares space with the work of other exquisite eroticists like Heidi Champa, Andrea Dale, K.D. Grace, the extraordinary Rachel Kramer Bussel and more.

I'd seriously enjoy receiving feedback from blog readers who have read this exquisite anthology, which is ideally suited for loving couples looking to enjoy some hot reads together.