And now for something completely different.

Sunday comics.

Tits from space.

In Ontario, public toplessness (i.e., for women) was legalized in 1996 with the case against Guelph student Gwen Jacobs, who successfully argued that her walking down the street without a shirt did not in itself constitute a sexual or "indecent" act. This legislation has since become an important backbone to related matters large and small, such as a mother's right to breastfeed in public and nudist/naturist events such as the World Naked Bike Ride. The Topfree Equal Rights Association helps women in Canada and the United States who encounter difficulty going without tops in public places and serves as an educational resource on this issue to the public. Arguably, events such as SlutWalk and even the Dyke March during Pride festivities also reinforce a woman's right to do what my former partner, Diva, would call "taking (her) tits out for a walk."

But that hasn't stopped certain, localized places and events from, well, getting their tits in an uproar about tits being in public. Recently, organizers of a Toronto beer festival insisted that Jeanette Martin replace her top after removing it only to reveal a black lace bra on a hot summer day. In the past, representatives of the city of Oshawa had expressed its willingness to ignore the provincial legality concerning toplessness should any such shenanigans take place in their community. As if a local bylaw could supercede a provincial ruling.

Enter the Raelians. A spiritual association established by French auto racing journalist Claude Vorilhon in the early 1970s, Raelians believe that life on earth was created by extraterrestrials. They advocate world peace, human cloning, genetically modified organisms (the GMOs in your produce aisle), the idea that only persons of high IQ should govern world affairs, and that divine supercomputers record and process the DNA of the global human population.

And because they're also militantly sex-positive (so much so that sometimes they get into trouble for trying to supply condoms on Catholic school properties), they're also the people behind the international Go Topless Day event. Through this event, the Raelians and their supporters hope to make August 28 "National Go Topless Day" in Canada (the 20th in France and the 21st for the United States). So, tomorrow, organizers had planned to converge on Ashbridge's Bay Park in Toronto and filed for a permit with the city for same. And were denied.

"We're women who just want to be equal with men," responded Sylvie Chabot, the event organizer, in today's Toronto Star. Citing that when asked by parks representatives if "women participants will be topless" via email, Chabot retorted that such a "question is discriminatory (and) it (would be) like asking, 'Will black people partcipate'."

City officials have not detailed as to the reason for their decision other than to state that "the nature of the event" was "ascertained," and have so far refused to elaborate. There is no specific prohibition concerning toplessness in city regulations on acceptable conduct in public parks.

However, some sources have suggested that Go Topless events are employed as recruiting opportunities for the Raelian faith group. And, given that Go Topless events at least associatively link toplessness with the Raelian advocacy for sexual freedom, it's also conceivable that the perception of a pro-sexual element could be undermining its stated intention to simply promote gender equality. That the Toronto swinger's club Oasis Aqua Lounge recently stated support of the event through Twitter might contribute to that possibility. Nudist/naturist sites and events often are largely family-oriented affairs, and as such commonly seek to disassociate themselves from a sexual undertone.

Not to be deterred, Go Topless Day organizers have since stated that they intend to hold their demonstration anyway, but adjacent to, rather than in, Ashbridge's Bay. It's going to be an interesting weekend.

Toronto Leather Pride 2011.

Colours of Toronto Leather Pride 2011.

Couples of Toronto Leather Pride 2011.

Sunday comics.

Enjoying the blog?

Then nominate Urban Roguery
as among the Sexiest Blogs of 2011!

Tabletalk.

Hey. Good to see you. Come on in.

I'm just out on the deck here, at the barbecue. Gorgeous night, huh?

There's beer in the fridge, but help yourself to the bottle on the counter. Glasses are in the cabinet there. It's a really robust 2009 Tilia Malbec. Argentina. The new girlfriend picked it out for dinner last night, and I'm turned on by it.

You want cheese on your burger? Cheddar or provolone?

The new girlfriend?

Yeah. No, I haven't written about her yet, but she's fucking cool. And the really ironic part? She's mulâtresse. Actually, she dislikes that word and identifies as black, although I have to admit that the biracial thing is hot for me. And it blows my mind since it was just a short while ago that I was yearning at the stars, Aphrodite, for a black lover again. It's been since Pamela.

Those smell good. ...Hey, about your last post. Can I ask you something?

Go for it. Yeah, they do.

Alright, like, I know it's just a blog and all, but really, what were you thinking? I mean, you were pretty harsh there.

Mm. I love it when the flame embraces the meat like that, you know? Won't be long now. Yeah, I've been thinking about that, actually. Over the last day or two, I've had some interesting responses to it on the blog, in my personal email box, and even on FetLife. They run the spectrum.

Not everyone who reads the blog might be in the know as far as kink ideas are concerned. You said before that most of your readers seem to be women, and if someone found your blog for the first time and read that post, dude, you'd probably come off... well...

As an arrogant, misogynistic jerk airing personal dirty laundry in a public forum?

Well, kinda, yeah. They look done. You gonna toast the buns?

Already did. Yeah, that occured to me. But I'm hoping the context comes through.

Context?

Here you go. More wine? Just nudge her off of your seat there, she won't bite. Whoah, these look awesome.

Hell yeah.

So, yeah. I realize that that post was pretty volatile, but I was trying to make some important points. Normally, no, I wouldn't use the blog as a platform to target someone on some nasty personal level. I mean, sure, I've made the occasional snippy remark about my ex-wife, but even that's extremely rare and brief, and always, I hope, reflecting a bigger picture. And I've earned it. But to cite someone broadly like that? Not something I'd normally do.

So why do it to Little Ginger?

Well, for one thing, she kinda walked right into it. I mean, I was already wanting to draft some posts with my thoughts about the power dynamics behind topping anyway, but when she started targeting me with this weird nonsense, it just seemed like the perfect springboard to make an example with. I can be a little snarky anyway, but the writer in me just saw this delicious opportunity to use her actions as backdrop to illustrate that, for one thing, respecting Tops and Dominants is a pretty paramount feature to power exchange play. At least in my view. For me, the post really had less to do with her than it had to do with making that point. She became the perfect example of what not to do, and I ran with it. And it's not like she's going to be hurt by the post anyway, since, duh, her moniker is a pseudonym.

But don't you think a certain amount of detachment would have made a stronger point? Could I have the steak sauce? Christ, these burgers are great.

A friend actually suggested that very thing to me, and yeah, after more thought, I think maybe that's true. Being more objective does add to a strong argument, I agree. But, you know, at the same time... well, it's not like she didn't deserve some kind of punishment too, you know? It wasn't the main intent, no, but it's not like it was entirely accidental, either. Just not as much as perhaps some readers might have thought. Especially those who emailed me to say that I'm an ass.

Maybe some of those people were offended because they're SAMs too.

Sure, maybe. And SAMs generally dislike it when the jig is up for them and they've been called on their shit.

So, do you think then that any bratty sub is a SAM?

Oh, hell no. SAMs aren't just brats: they actively ruin a playsession or a scene because they're deliberately manipulative and personally hurtful. A bratty sub might totally enjoy whimpering and refusing to comply with instructions or do other things to play up the role, and I can easily see how a Top in that playspace could have scads of fun with it. But even in that kind of scene, it's still about the bratty sub's submission, eventually anyway, to the Top's playful "wrath." Being naughty to acquire "punishment" can be awesome fun. But SAMs are much more destructive: they say and do things that deliberately, consciously attempt to incite a Dominant into stronger and stronger retributive responses, and they'll do it with chiding, shaming, disrespectful remarks and taunts. That's just hurtful and sexually impolite. It would be like a man saying something shaming to his BBW partner about her bodytype when in the very middle of deep lovemaking, or a woman making a rude comment about her man's cock size in the same situation. It's just not something good, healthy, caring lovers would do. SAMs deflect their own inner demons by playing this you-can't-catch-me mindgame which is inherently unwinnable by a reactionary Dominant.

Why so?

Because it ruins the sense of power exchange. There is no power exchange: it becomes a battle of wills. A reactionary Dominant feels the need to stand ground, and so the matter just gets bigger and bigger. And most importantly, it becomes unfun.

At least for the Top. Is that like "topping from the bottom"?

Can be, I think.

So, what "context" was that last post written from? Or are you really an arrogant, misogynistic jerk?

I think the blog demonstrates pretty clearly that I'm anything but. Then again, that post...

Oh, c'mon. "Cuntswipe?"

Ha! Yeah, I have no idea where that came from. Not a word I've ever used before. Although, the new girlfriend I mentioned did tell me that she thought that was hysterical. But remember: that post was written in the context of a pissed-off Top actively in scene mode. I tried to indicate that by noting how my approach to Ginger changed when I figured her SAMmishness, and when I included the now-we're-in-scene warning label. I think I may write a post or two to help clarify things as well. Oh, hell, we're almost out of wine.

And the real violence you mentioned? You said your past BDSM mentors would wipe the walls with her, and that physical assaults could have happened.

I like to believe that the vasy majority of kinksters in the world are safe, sane, consensual-minded people, and I certainly count myself as among them. No, I certainly don't condone something like genuine physical assault. But, the fact of the matter is, SAMs push buttons on some people and sometimes, unfortunately, unpleasant results can and could happen. Now, that doesn't mean it's right or healthy or advisable or good, but it's one reason why fetish educator Laura Goodwin has even suggested that mortal injury can be a risk factor in those circumstances. Tops protect their territory; it's part of the whole point.

Have I witnessed genuine violence in such a situation? Yes. I've seen people slapped, backhanded, when something Really Ugly happened during a playparty or in a fetish club. People can be dramatic sometimes. People don't always think clearly.

I think it's important to remember that power exchange play, dominance and submission play, is about roles. Masks. It's supposed to be a game, like a grown-up version of "Cowboys And Indians" or "Cops And Robbers" or some sexually kinkified version of "House." Oh, it can get deeply serious, but there's something to be said, I think, relating those childhood roleplay scenarios to the naughty adult potentials.

So that also means that the game can, and often has, definite start and endpoints. Me, I'm a big stickler for ritual and protocol and symbols, so I use real and concrete ways to illustrate the parameters of a scene. It might be the gear I'm wearing: if that leather band is still on my left wrist, I'm still in Top mode, and if that collar is still around your pretty neck, we're still Playing. It might be a handsome candle that's burning: as long as it hasn't been blown out, the game continues. That sort of imagery allows players to sink deeply, and safely, into the skewed-but-scandalously-fun role dynamics happening during the scene. It also means that when the scene is over, we're equal partners again.

But it's all about roles, personas, roleplay. And people choose their roles, and how deeply or consistently they want to take them, based on their fantasies and experiences and what they want to achieve and/or release through the process. It's kind of like ancient ritual theater in that way; it's cthonic.

And that's also why there's a sense, at least a subtle one, of violence to Topping. In life, certainly no, I'd never dream of laying a hand on anyone. Well, not usually anyway. But to some extent, can't it be argued that a fundamental part of the mythology behind this whole Topping thing is the image, the hint, the whisper of a chance that he or she could fuck you up? Isn't that part of the playful element of danger to it all? And, for that matter, wouldn't any self-respecting Top possess some amount of arrogance? Now, that doesn't mean that I really believe that women can or should be threatened or treated with sexist disrespect... but it might mean that, during a pre-negotiated, limited, consensual, limits-respecting scene between trusting partners who know what they are doing is a game, a roleplay, yeah, I just might call you some nasty name when you've "transgressed" and "require punishment."

So, are you saying that taking on any role means you're basically faking it?

No, I don't think so. It depends and what you want out of it, no? Sometimes people wear one role because their daily lives are so entrenched with its opposite: the submissive male who, during the day, is a barking corporate CEO for example, and who seeks release from the stress of responsibility. Or, the other way around, someone with real authority in the daily lives who enjoys that authority so much that they carry it into their sexplay. And then, there are people for whom the roles are entirely and happily fluid, and can wield a riding crop just as quickly and easily as receive the strokes of one. Those sorts of kinksters, it seems to me, are more interested in the shared physical sensations of the toys than in delving into the theatric psychodrama of the power exchanging. But that's just me. In any event, it's all good.

What about 24/7 kinksters? And Ginger's remark about "true Doms"?

For me, trying to be in Topspace 24/7 would be a huge amount of work. Besides, I adore knowing that my intimate partners are, in daily life, my equals: I expect her to have her own pursuits, goals, and interests outside of me. I think doing extended play over a few days would be a blast, but then there are times when I don't feel like making all the decisions too. And, again, that's me.

And this whole "true Dom" stuff is, as far as I'm concerned, hurtful, splitting nonsense. I'm certain that even the haughtiest, slickest, most deliciously ominous professional dominatrix with a walk-in closet full of PVC and leatherwear has her days when she just wants to kick back and catch Sex In The City reruns over a tub of ice cream.

Ooo ice cream. Have any for dessert?

The word of the manor lord.

I swear. I was minding my own business, when all of a sudden...

"Awwwwww how can one be a dom without dominating someone? Bring it on... Ur about as dominent (sic) as a baby boomer with a golden spoon in it's (sic) mouth..."

Oh, for the love of God.

(And, for starters, I'm first-wave Gen-X, not a Boomer, thank you very much.)

Remember Little Ginger? Probably not. The naked truth is that she was barely a blip in my dating life.

Short recap: A late20s curvy redhead in the campus security biz with Toronto police aspirations and supposedly submissive interests. We connected through a dating site. She plied me with praise and longing. I wasn't entirely convinced, cynic that I am, but I took her out for a relaxed night of pub food and improv comedy anyway. As a date, it was actually really fun. Yet after some more banter she decided that she couldn't pursue anything further.

"I'm just a little girl who came in her pants too soon," she would tell me. Fine, I shrugged. It would have been nice to turn her sassypants over my knee, but no big deal. Little did I know how much she would genuinely deserve to have those sassypants over that knee after all.

So, this post is also something of a rant.

(Side note: Hey, Maeva? Remember when I told you that normally I wouldn't get all pissy about a partner/almost-partner on the blog? Well, this'll be one of the exceptions.)

"Maybe I just have to stop being friends with you. Your statuses are always 'I am enjoying this, with this, while doing this' and it is the most decedent (sic) thing in the world!!! They don't really inspire common ground, insite (sic) discussion, or encourage rapport. It actually makes me think of a Marie Antoinette, or like a lusty lord partaking in only the finest of his land."



Hrm. A 'lusty lord partaking in only the finest of his land.' Yes. Yes, I can handle that.

Bring me my cognac, wench.

But let me explain.

After my one date with Little Ginger, months ago, we became Facebook friends. Like so many others with Facebook friends, we stayed in touch on occasion at best, and when we did, it was usually me trying to make some kind of supportive remark when she would rant about whateverthehell she felt like negatively ranting about.

I "liked" her photos. I gave her life-goal advice when she asked for it. I was, in short, a perfectly nice and mentorship-minded kinda guy. She would eventually move to Saskatchewan (God knows why), and I figured our "friendship" would simply remain a cordial if distant one. Fine.

Now, about my Facebook: I have two. One reflecting this blog (which I may or may not continue), and my "real life" me. Some of you (and don't you feel special?) are Friends with me on both. On that profile, I rarely-if-ever cite anything related to this blog, and seem to use my "status update" thang to be inquisitive, reflective, seditious, satirical, meditative, sarcastic, or... God help us... positive. Little Ginger is right: many of my status updates there reflect moments of joy, decadence, and pleasure.

Why? Because, in my view, life can rob us of those moments in an instant if we allow it too. Call me an avatar to Dionysus, but I sincerely believe that hedonism is a life pursuit in any way we can make it. I sincerely believe that there is no strife, no struggle, no strain that can't be transcended to save our own emotional and mental health with the right application of good food, good drink, or a good screw. I'm a sybarite.

Am I enjoying a great wine after a hard day at work? Status update. Jesus, those ribs on my barbecue were amazing. Status update. Ami gives me a lime macaroon that, just the previous morning, was still in a bake shop located in Paris? Status update, baby.



Little Ginger, it would seem, really disliked it when I made these status updates that were, shall we say, pleasant. Go figure. And so, completely out of the blue, she began spamming my Facebook wall and filling my inbox with these offensive little tirades. Now, why the hell would she do that?

Little Ginger: "Maybe I'm just being a hater, or cynical... Probably I am. But I am also an aggressive douche and I don't know why I have to be nice all the time and ur statuses whenever I read them make me want to punch you."

blink
blink blink

Me: "I don't understand this sudden, unexplained, unnecessary, unprovoked, undeserved hostility from you."

What the fuck is she talking about?

Me: We went our separate ways, fine. The truth is that you barely know a thing about me and you decided to cut and run before you ever had the chance. Now, that's your choice. But I still don't understand why you're suddenly behaving like a morose little churl..."

Skip ahead, skip ahead, skip ahead. I keep trying to figure out where all this is coming from, what the problem is. But, gradually, I realize that I'm simply wasting energy. And then, rather than actually respond to my very-confused, very-real questions, she flanks me and drops the above-noted shell about my being a Top.

Ohhh..., I realize. That's what this seems to be about. Now I'm annoyed.

Me: "So this is about my approach to kink. You, child, have never had the privilege of my space in that department. You fucked up your chance.

Little Ginger: "I fucked up my chance?"

Yeah. Because you were, as you put it then, 'just a kid who came in her pants too soon' just at the sight of me on our date. Our, remember, first (and only) date. Our, remember, non-kink-related date.

And then I figure it out: Little Ginger is trying to be a SAM. She's just trying to stir up trouble, drama, unnecessary bullshit. Christblood, but I hate SAMs.

And that realization changed everything.



WARNING:
Do you see this black leather bracer
now adorning my left wrist?
Do you see the set of restraint keys
now tinkling at my left hip?
Do you see the black cotton kerchief
swaying from my left rear pocket?
Good.
The remainder of this post is written in Topspeak. Hup to.

So here is why I'm including her stupid little tirade on this blog. Little Ginger had thrown a gauntlet.

Now, again, remember: Little Ginger and I have never Played. She has no clue what I do in a Scene. She is not criticizing from an informed place of experience into what I like, what I do, or how I do it. Apart from a little flirting, we never had a conversation about kink, bondage, or anything even closely related. In fact, I'd be surprised if she had ever been inside a functioning, real dungeon or blackroom or playparty... ...Because if she had, I am certain that someone would have given her some fucking idea of how to (and how not to) behave.

In short, Miss Sassypants here don't know shit.

Kinkster Rule Number One:
Barring the near-unrealistic situation where you are genuinely placed in mortal danger, you treat the Tops, the Dominants, the Mistresses, the Masters, with respect. You shut the hell up, you do it, and you like it.

Does this really need saying?

Why? Not only because They know how to fuck you up. But because They hold the keys to the tools that you will be subjected to, even if representationally. Because They are the ones who are investing time and love and skill and nurturance and protection and affection and patience and money and effort into your sorry subbie ass in order to bring you to the forbidden ecstacies that you motherfucking went to Them for in the first motherfucking place. Because, when you have the privilege of being social and in public around Them, They are the peers to your Top or Dominant or Master or Mistress, and to minimize Them minimizes yours. Because, if for no other reason, acting like a stupid little guttersnipe reflects poorly on you, your training, and your Top's choice in you.

Because it's about discipline. Disrespect a Top, especially your Top, and you disrespect yourself.

Me: "As far I'm concerned, a smartmouthed little snipe (which is the way you're behaving right now) doesn't have the privilege of criticizing someone who've been active on that scene for more than 20 years. You know nothing of what I've done, and continue to do."

Little Ginger: "Domination starts with mental engagement before you even step near the bedroom- you were far too accomidating (sic) to be a true dom. Or maybe with the very submissive women there was not even mental fight- but I guess what men like right? The easy target?.."



A "mental fight." Right. I do this because I like to have "mental fights."

My "targets" aren't "easy." They are sophisticated, educated, articulate, imaginative, freespirited, liberated, emotionally mature, sexually conscious women whom have had the courage to embrace their fantasies and the awareness to do so in safe, sane, consensual ways.

Some of them can even spell.

Me: "I see. So you seem to think that Tops must, I suppose, behave like ignorant, brutish neanderthals. I was "accomodating" because... what? Because on a relaxed, social date, I took you for food and laughs instead of a bruising? Because the communication we've since shared was me being supportive to you?

You so unimpress me. I thought you were more sophisticated than this... If bullies who deride, insult, threaten, abuse women in their daily lives are your vision of Top males, I am confident you'll find your love match in a prison. You'd be wading through dangerous waters if that was your expectation out of a First Date with someone you'd never met before."

There's a long pause before she replies.

Little Ginger: "It's just talking, and mind fucking. I do it all the time. I eat men I just met for breakfast. I would love for one of them to rise to the occation (sic)......"

Me: "If that's seriously what you seek, what you are, then take some advice: It isn't cool. It isn't sexy. You are deluding yourself if you think it makes you attractive or desirable to be around. You have a lot to learn... about yourself, about people, about communication, and as far as I'm concerned, certainly about kink. Rational, intelligent people aren't interested in mindgames. And this is why, and how, yes, you fucked up your chance. Are you really that inexperienced?"

And then she responds with something that's actually almost lucid.

Little Ginger: "I am not talking mind games, I am talking about handing people a thought which ignites a touch. Put people into a mind state where a look can rise lust, the sound of one breath can make you stiff and the trailing of a finger tip can release you mind into a state or the ultimate submission to pleasure..."



Hrm. I actually can't disagree.

But, for me, I see several vital steps missing.

How would someone like her expect to reach that plateau with a partner without first developing a sense of trust, of communication, of intimacy? Little Ginger, it would seem, expects to be bullied into a dominant/submissive dynamic. And her way of "criticizing" my gentlemanly approach to our date seems to be to taunt me into exacting retribution.

SAMs, at least one of Little Ginger's apparent stripe, can be such a headache.

So, on that, let me take this full circle.

What Little Ginger is doing is asinine. If I were to respond in the way she apparently expected, to get furious and threaten her with divine wrath, that would be playing right into her hands. That would be making an ass of myself. That would be me abdicating my own sense of Topspace self-control, my own Topspace discipline unto myself.

Not that I think that divine wrath is undeserved. Yes, it is true: back in the day, I could easily see someone like this little guttersnipe getting what she justly deserves. Publicly. And yes, the police would have damned likely been called afterward... but that still wouldn't stop the response from happening. My past mentors would have wiped the walls with Little Ginger and used her for community bullwhip practice over Chambord shots afterward.

(Corrine? Buzzy? Linda? Pam? Miss you guys.)

But, you know, the 80s are gone and committing actual physical assault isn't exactly cool anymore.

So. Ginger? I have a better idea.

How about I not backhand you and do something else. Because, you see, all you've done here is demonstrate to Me exactly how unworthy you are of My time. No, I'm not going to spank you or paddle you fiery red or cane you or hogtie you next to a jar of red ants or "rise to the occation" in any way that you would like to expect.

Why? Because, you ignorant little trollop, you're right about at least one thing.

I am the lusty lord who partakes in the finest in His land.

And you, you pretentious little cuntswipe, are far from the finest in My land. Because, yes, My Topspace is about My pleasures, My joyfullness, My taking what I wish from the courageously pliant and seductively beautiful and happily playful sirens and pets and playtoys and stray kittens and bottoms and waifs and curvy belles that cross My path and please Me so. Because my Topspace is about My fun, and they who enjoy My efforts unto them do so for their fun under My company, and because you and your childish little tirades are not fun for Me or for Us. I am too experienced, too sophisticated, too way ahead of you to even see your presence in an otherwise empty room.

So, no. Your peurile attempts at admonishment are ridiculous. I, and those with whom I share My pleasure, are out of your league.

But you will be disciplined.

My pleasure, My discipline for you is this: to light my Gurkha from the smoldering embers of the burning bridge now between us, then to turn My back to you, strolling away with pleasure and decadence and command in my heretic's heart. We grown-ups have more important things to do.

Dismissed.

Go.

Cramped spaces.

the police are searching the police are searching but my outfit lets me pass through them all and it's ok i'm going to be fine i'm not the guy in the tactical uniform that they're looking for anyway it's going to be ok even though yeah i actually do have some real police equipment on me and that guy over there is really looking at me strangely

are you an officer too i can't tell but i hear the knocking at my door the door to my old pad in brooklyn the space is as cramped as it ever was oh the memory the knocking at my door and you're standing there you're standing there with your long flowing dark hair and the uniform that you're wearing

you come close to me and i want to offer you something as i stand before you in the foyer i could offer you some tea i say and then with a slow doward turn of my head i look at you in the eye and add or i could offer you some really good head



to my surprise it's you who comes closer to me and we're falling together toward the floor legs entwined in that small space it's almost like some shared yoga position that we're knotting our limbs into and somehow as i get harder and harder i discover that my thickening cock is bursting free from the black shorts that i'm wearing and it's poking through that hole in the fabric i'm actually quite surprised to discover it there that way and i'm actually kinda embarassed but you don't seem to be minding at all no not at all and i know that because you're arching your back toward me your head lowering somehow impossibly in that cramped position as we entwine our legs in that cramped space at the foyer of my old place back where i grew up



and your head is bobbing on me now i can feel the fucking wet heat of your mouth engulfing my cock jesus christ it feels so fucking good so fucking good it's been so long since it felt this fucking good and i can feel your widened lips massaging my desperate flesh my turgid muscles please baby you have no idea how deep i feel the need for this please suck my cock just like that and then you're taking me deeper and i'm feeling the width of your wet strong tongue slickly gliding up and down the length of my urethra as you extend your tongue from out out your mouth and i can feel my upper head grazing tightly wetly against the roof of your mouth too and jesus christ your wet mouth is so fucking tight and i like it just like that suck it for fuck's sake suck my cock hard and wet and firm and slick and noisy slurp on it for me baby i love holding your head gently so i can feel it moving bobbing on me your long straight dark hair in gently whispering on my thighs i can feel the pressure in the back of my head and my abs are tightening as i thrust into your mouth and then i wake up

Wanna fuck, eh?

Very nice of the people at SexLife Canada to do a feature profile of yours truly on a recent edition of their site. SLC is an excellent resource for sex-positive news, reviews, information, entertainment and the like that I'm sure you'd enjoy slipping under the covers with.

The tapping at my chamber door... only this and nothing more?

This is a rant.

Can someone fucking please explain this to me?

I see your profile. I drop a friendly note in your direction, you read my profile, and soon we're in this really creative, articulate banter. It's really nice. It's really good. We're relating, we're laughing, we're finding common ground on matters social, political, sexually conscious, and more.

"There's a part of me that wants to simply write a short note saying that I like you too much already," you write.

We arrange a date. We open up even further, Really Talk, and Listen. We discuss everything from social politics to raising children to our relationship war stories to my father the artist to your crazy exes. Just-some-wine on the pub patio turns into late lunch. I'm finding that I'm so distracted by how amazing you are, how truly cosmopolitan you are, how much I'm melting at the sound of your laugh that I actually ask you if you eat meat when we had just ordered a plateful of wings. We enjoy me making fun of myself after that brilliant move.

Late lunch turns into More Real Talking in the park. I am utterly floored with your sharp intelligence, the likes of which I haven't seen in years. You've written textbooks, for chrissakes. You've started your own fucking alternative school! And while the look on your face suggests to me that, ok, my background in kink may not be a place you'd be interested in going, the fact that your first response was to ask deconstructing questions about the why's and wherefore's behind my interests in it really twisted my brain in terrific directions.

Up comes the First Kiss.

"I so want to jump your bones right now," you say. The Second Kiss follows. But we've been out for much longer than either of us anticipated. Life beckons.

I suggest we leave something to look forward to. Your face tells me this was a Good Reply. You get on your bicycle, and I totally enjoy the sight of your round, pert behind under the sundress you're wearing as your leg swings over the frame and you settle on the seat. I have no doubt that it would smack firmly against my pelvis as I took you, hard and deep, from behind.

As much as I enjoyed your hair, as long and dense as the mane on a Peruvian paso. And this from a guy who fetishes shorthaired women. With your thick eyebrows, the black whispers at the nape of your neck, your hair told me what feral treats I might find under your navel, and in the back of my mind I imagined having opportunity to press my face against a rich, musky forest before curling my tongue around the round, red, thrumming, tender marble that I want you to have responding to me.

As you rode away, I realized that I had already become completely smitten with The Raven. That doesn't happen often.

...And then it had to come screeching to a halt.

Ok, you did say that you'd be away for a while. Fine. Ok, you did say that you've had some really, really bad "relationships" and you'd need to take your time. "I had trouble getting close to my cats," you said.

But, call me crazy, I didn't expect that meant you'd want to completely avoid contact after our date. No calling, no texting, maybe some emailing. ...Huh?

"Less is definitely more," you said.

Ok. So, I'm very much the support-my-partner type. Ok. So, yeah, if you Really Need This, I'm willing to help out. Uh, sure.

But, I gotta say this: there's a part of me that's wondering: what the fuck. You tell me that I'm the first guy you're interested in having a second date with after your last ten dates with dudes. Great, awesome, thank you, love to know it. But... was I wrong to tell you that, yeah, just maybe, I'd become smitten with you? I mean, isn't that, in the big picture, the desired goal? Is it possible that I somehow pushed you away because I decided that I Really Fucking Like You?

So, yeah, I'd still enjoy seeing you again. But, you know, it really sucked to have to suppress all that keen excitement that I was feeling the next day. Yeah, I am supportive, I'm doing it, but somehow that just didn't seem fucking fair.

Sometimes I think I'm too patient for my own good. I just don't get it. This one, I really just don't get.