And now for something completely different.

Wir sprechen verschiedene Sprachen.

The apparent, simple truth is that once I began sharing August's experience with Cupcakes, she and I needed to have a time-out to do some debating, listening, sharing. This is healthy.

Suffice to say this: after what seemed (and, to be fair, to both of us) to be a really nice start, a lot of miscommunication and misunderstanding followed. I did something that, to me, was a no-brainer that inadvertently rattled her cage, and she said something unrelated that, to her, was a no-brainer that inadvertently rattled mine. Oops.

We discovered that we differed on some pretty basic and important personal paradigms. Somehow, perhaps in our shared interest in primary relationships, we simply didn't have enough Talking Time (or, more likely, Time for Talking Time) to really dig under our skin and learn one another. As a result, perhaps some mutual assumptions about each other were made. Oops.

But it became clear that we simply speak different languages.

Later, thanks to all this poor communication, we seemed to view one another with slightly skewed lenses. Unfortunately, a little interpersonal drama resulted over a few days. Oops again.

We talked. We gave ourselves a time-out. We talked more, and we listened. And we've agreed that we're better off as friends, and this also is ok.

No more oopses.

That being said:

Here, I'm a writer writing a blog about sexuality, relationships, and the occasional playful (or not) tweak about the dynamics of dating and social structures. When I'm not writing to get us off or be playful or make a point about something, I try to do this as honestly as possible while also maintaining a certain sense of decorum. (Yes, Virginia, decorum, even as I tell people about how much you like to call me Daddy when I pull your hair as I fuck you from behind.) This blog is a personal, ideally sensual endeavor, and many are the people who may be written about here whom I care for and love, in varying degrees, and in almost all circumstances I make my best effort to share with respect and levels of appreciation.

That doesn't mean that I won't write something that stings if I believe that, in doing so, I'm trying to make a point of reference that others (hopefully, and yes, including me) can learn and benefit from. But you get the idea.*

There was a moment when things could have gone either way between myself and a certain pastry I know. I may not be licking her icing again anytime soon, but for the time being, it's entirely possible that I may share future references to her after we attend this or that or somethingorother as friends. Which is how we planned on starting out as anyway. Who knows.

Cupcakes? I'm glad we talked. Kisses.



* Oh. With the possible exception of my ex-wife. Sorry folks, but I've earned that one. Heidi? Burn in hell. Kisses.

Talkin' dirty.

Lately, I've been thoroughly enjoying actually meeting some of you who read this blog. It's been a delicious, surreal treat.

Why delicious? Well, at least one of you makes these awesome breakfast treats out of your trendy bakery.

Why surreal? Well, it's an interesting experience to be shaking hands with someone, just meeting for the first time, and knowing that this other person's head may be swimming about everything you've written about, oh, you know, getting your cock sucked.

And the thought that maybe, just maybe, they got off on it as they relaxed at their computer. Or that it inspired something scandalous with their partner that same evening. Mmm.

But attending last evening's first gathering of the Toronto Erotica Writers/Readers Meetup broke new ground for me. In addition to schmoozing with accomplished local eroticists like Myna Wallin and D.C. McMillen, it felt like coming home again when I read some recent work before the microphone. In another life, I used to produce a radio broadcast and did some professional storytelling, so felt like all the planets were nicely aligned again.

Part of the purpose behind this blog was to keep my writing machine oiled. It's time to move forward and to expand into other modes of publishing and expression.

Thank you, Kara for pushing me toward Cleis last year. I owe you. Thank you, Ami, for just occasionally asking me 'how all the writing is going.' Thank you, Cupcakes, as a matter of fact, for, in a bizarre way, teaching me more about the difference between writing from the heart and simply "airing dirty laundry." And thank you, Rose Red and Kerdra and Maeva for becoming the supportive and intelligent new friends that you are.

The circumstantial cuckold.

The scene: Two male co-workers in the office's break room.

Guy 1: "No fucking way."

Guy 2: "Yeah, seriously. It's all over, he's told the kids, the kids are freaking out, and he's on the fucking couch while..."

Guy 1: "While she's..."

Guy 2: "...while she's already fucking another dude in their bedroom. He's on the goddamn couch! Can you believe that shit?"

Guy 1: "No fucking way."

Bedtime stories.

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My foolish sweet tooth.

Once again, I didn't follow my instincts.

She was a reader of the blog, a sexblogger herself, and found me through a fetish networking site. She was going through a breakup at the time and had moved nearby from another city to the west, and she approached me to see if I'd be willing to escort her around the Toronto fetish scene. It sounded like fun, and I've come to really enjoy meeting blogreaders lately. She wanted an opportunity to make new friends, start over, and move beyond whatever it was that her previous Top partner had apparently stung her with. She was missing "kinky submissive goodness."

Me, I expected that we'd make platonic good friends, and having her on my arm would give me an excuse to go to all those local fetnights that I've allowed other elements in my world to keep me from lately. Win-win.

For eight months, off and on, we chatted through the fetish networking site. She was full of compliments about my writing, and eventually the flirting began. It became more personal. I already knew that she had also connected with a new Top Daddy, and since both my being largely poly and the fact that she hadn't really become Serious on my radar yet, I had no issue with that and told her so. After all, if nothing clikked, there was no reason why we couldn't stick with the original plan and just be buds exploring the local vibe, right? Sure. We set up a date for drinks.

Over a perfectly pleasant Indian meal, we discussed ourselves, our desires, mutual interests... the usual on-a-date thing. We talked about her past experiences amid the fetscene in her previous city, and she bemoaned the drama in her post-breakup experience there.

(Oh, the irony. ...But I digress.)

Gradually, our datetalk seemed to shift from comrades-in-kinkdom-looking-to-attend-stuff-together to potentialities-in-seeking-primary-partnership-in-life. Was she asking me if I was interested in pursuing a partnership with her? I rolled with it, enjoying myself.

Cupcakes is an early30s mulatto brunette BBW with a passion for shoes but yet, curiously, is also hugely podophobic. (I would later tease her that the worst BDSM punishment I could ever put her through would be to blindfold and restrain her as a circle of men and women gently touched her body with their bare feet.) I was initially intrigued with her background in French literature, her mixed race status, her desire to submit.

And, yes, it's true: the possibility that maybe there might be something here beyond dating, beyond even fucking, appealed to me. I do enjoy being single. But it's also not been since Kara since I had the compatible opportunity for More. Cupcakes appealed to that sweet tooth.

While we were relaxing on the couch in her small apartment, I was looking into her dark eyes when I moved closer for the first kiss. Her lips responded lightly, and as I brought my hands upward to her head and nipped at her ear, she began to slowly melt under me.

I enjoyed the texture of her tight, small, black curls as I held her head and nibbled upon her neck. Her gasps were moist in my ear. Her groans were soft as I tugged her hair from behind. Her nipples began to harden under her lacy top, and when her round, firm breasts were revealed to me, they were capped attentively.

When I found myself kneeling on the floor before her couch, tugging her jeans down to reveal the equally lacy black panties under them, my cock was straining inside my jeans. I removed my shirt, parted her thick legs, and began to taste her. The panties were tugged aside, and I nipped at her thigh as a very lightly sparsed mound opened itself up before me. I swabbed her with my tongue. She gasped and cooed appreciatively.

After a short while, I was eager to see her ass. Turning her down and around, she rested her knees to the floor and bent comfortably with her tummy on the couch. I tugged the panties down and off an ankle, and knelt back as I enjoyed the sight her her womanly round derriere. Opening her up, I continued to taste her from behind, but soon switched to lay down on the floor itself with her thighs to the sides of my head, holding her hips gently as I lowered her pouty cunny toward my mouth. She was warm and rich and definitely moist, and her scent soaked my light beard and lips as she gently rode me.

Soon, I knelt up. I caressed her broad back, massaging her shoulders as she whimpered into the cushions. I moistened and began sliding my fingers inside her, probing her Gspot as I fucked her with my hands. My fingers teased, slid, twisted, cupped, fucked. When she finally came, I was stroking ribbed flesh within her body as she shuddered and quaked beautifully.

I stood and stepped to her bedside table, where a small stack of condoms already awaited me. Selecting one, I tore the package open with my teeth and continued to watch her, on hands and knees over the couch, as I rolled it down the length of me. I brought my knees to the carpet, held the base of my cock with my fist, and slowly guided it inside her thick body. She looked at me from over her shoulder, her mouth open, her breathing heavy. I ran my nails along her spine. I massaged her shoulders more as I started thrusting inside her. I gripped her wide hips and pumped, feeling her phat ass against me. When I started to grip her coiled hair and tug her head backward slightly, she cried out and shook once more.

I brought my pace down, smiled, stood up, and peeled the latex from my cock. She was still shaking gently and panting into the cushions when I reached for the wineglass on the floor and drained it.

Bringing ourselves up to the couch again, I coiled my arm around her waist and lay her across my lap. Her arms and head lay on the armrest of the couch as she realized what was about to come. She had already confessed to me that among her needs was to be spanked regularly, for "maintenance," so I saw no reason to let a fair opportunity like this go to waste.

I held her as we had a Time-Out moment to discuss what would be coming next. I gave her her safeword for the evening.

Once she was comfortably settled, my caresses to her bum shifted to gentle pats. Gradually, pats become slaps. Slaps became strikes. Upon one asscheek, then the other, I alternated and changed where I brought my palm to her submitting body. But knowing that she already had experience and desire in this kind of play, I didn't linger on gentility for very long. Soon, my palm was noisily striking across her seam in crisp, short strokes, and I smiled to myself as I felt it across my fingers. It had been a while.

She began to shudder again, and so my grip around her waist tightened as my other arm continued to alternate the intensity of my strikes. But this time, it wasn't an orgasm that was swelling up inside her, but tears. When the sniffling little thing was reduced to soft sobs, I gradually came to a stop.

The energy shifted. My first thought was that, like other subbies I've enjoyed back in the day at the BDSM clubs, she was of the kind to desire this sort of release. But, no. A nerve had been struck, she had been brought to a place she didn't necessarily want, and so the only thing left to do was to hold her and caress her and try to help her feel safe. Listening. Confirming the thought that, ok, this didn't go right. More listening.

This happens sometimes. And, in my experience, a healthy Top endeavors to handle it as gently as possible, as nurturingly as possible, especially with a new partner.

The silly tart hadn't used her safeword, and this elicited a strong but nurturing response from me. Lesson learned. "I need to trust that you'll alert Me when you've gone into an uncomfortable place, because I may be thinking that you're otherwise enjoying everything that's happening. I observe, I see, I'll make a call if it doesn't look like fun for you, but that doesn't mean I expect to do without your responses, baby."

Cuddles. Relaxation. Wine. Talking. Soon, we were discussing more about our shared interest in having Primary Partnership in our lives, and we each opened up about our respective backgrounds. The time went by enjoyably.

I would be spending the night. Her luxurious bed awaited us, and I smirked as I saw the Hitachi wand still tussled amongst burgundy sheets. Stripping, we slid under the duvet together and held one another.

She wanted me to read to her.

But that's another story.

And to my even later surprise, this otherwise lovely "night out for drinks" wouldn't become what it seemed like it could have been.

And that's another story too.

Sunday comics.

Women at the barbecue.

Goooood morning.

You know you're going to be in for an interesting week when, as you walk down your driveway on an early Monday morning, you're greeted by a pair of teeny black panties right in your path.

Where I was.

I'm sharing this only because, in some way, it's bizarrely topical.

I enjoy Toronto. I enjoyed Boston. I enjoyed going to university in New Brunswick, a neat little burg in New Jersey. But in my heart and spirit I am and will always remain a New Yorker.

I have family members who came treacherously close to losing their lives ten years ago today, and it was only by a stroke of luck (or the calling of a Wall Street vendor's hot, salted pretzel) that saved them.

Like my mother did for years after John F. Kennedy was assassinated, many people are reminiscing about where they were at this moment, September 11, 2001, 8:46am. If you're interested, here's my story.

I was still with Heidi, the ex-wife, living in a fine house in bluecollar, rightwing Oshawa, Ontario. I had just recently acquired my Landed Immigration status from the United States, which meant that I finally able to legally work in Canada. While taking steps to finish the last few credits toward my university degree here and pursue some solid work, I sought for and grabbed the first quick piece of steady employment I could get as a short-term cash fix.

I found myself working in nearby Pickering, Ontario, co-managing an adult DVD rental and sextoy sales outlet for a small company called Adult Movie Warehouse. Not exactly the sort of work I would want to make a career out of, but I had experience in the adult field from my youth, working in sextoy outlets in Greenwich Village. And the owner loved me.

I had just opened the store for the day and was piping Howard Stern's radio broadcast. (Yes, yes, I know.) His program had just become syndicated in Toronto, and I was psyched to enjoy his material again after growing up hearing him on WNBC in New York when his career was new.

I was reorganizing adult DVDs in the store aisles when an elderly Asian fellow came in to browse. Stern and his crew had just begun interrupting their usual schtick to bring some news. It was at that very moment that I actually found myself trying to explain to this smiling, elderly Asian man that, very sorry, but no, the kind of porn he was looking for was not only unavailable in our store but was completely illegal in Canada. He grunted his disapproval and walked out as I stood on the floor, blinking a lot over this conversation that never, in all my previous experience in working in sex-positive environments, did I ever expect to actually have to have.

And then my ear tuned closer to Stern's broadcast, and it soon became very clear that this wasn't going to be one of his typically inflammatory shows. In fact, he and his crew actually proved themselves to be outstanding investigative journalists during the next few hours as they scoured the streets and relayed information live on-air.

I spent the rest of that shift mostly alone in that adult DVD store, standing behind the counter with my eyes wide open as I listened to all the details about what was happening Back Home.

Happy birthday, Diva.

It's almost hard to believe.

It's been more than 25 years since the day we met at that renaissance festival, when you mounted me on the wooden floorboards of the rustic cabin I sold art from out of, and more than 15 years since we parted on a winter's afternoon. I can't imagine how many lovers have passed through each of us since then, but I have never forgotten the paths we had tread and the amazing experiences we shared during those ribald, faerie days.

Our Us was, and in many ways remains, a foundation stone for so many things in my life now. So much has grown and developed from things that we shared, explored, initiated with one another.

I still remember when you surprised me, having driven from Boston to New York, just to see me when I was working at the BDSM club. I still remember the incoming tide as we spoke over lit candles and offerings of wine. I still remember feeling so proud, so very proud, as I watched you dance around the silver pole. The waterbed. The painted stones. The blonde boy I shared you with in Maryland. Coupling with you on the snowbank, or beside the lake, as our friends circled 'round a fire.

Often, in retrospect, I think the quality of our sex life was at least one primary thing that kept us together for as long as we were. At the time, I was completely convinced that we'd be together forever... but then, I wasn't even in my 20s when we met, and there was so much yet for me to learn.

Losing you was as much an important part of my growth as a man, a lover, a person, as was discovering you. I have, and always will, love and treasure you.

Butt of course.

I planned on greeting her with barbecued steaks during the previous night, but her ride from eastern Ontario was so grueling for her that they turned into a grilled steak and egg breakfast that morning. We hadn't seen one another for a few months, and Nothing Happened during her last visit, so since she was passing through town again she enjoyed telling me that we had some unfinished business.

Since our breakup some years ago, the Tomboy and I have developed a really nice, relaxed friends-with-benefitship. We relate completely as poly people and kinkster Tops, and she has this way of dragging me to motorcycle rides or deepearth caving events or scuba sessions and other stuff that really is quite the awesome.

And yes: there is the occasional moment when I regret having broken up with her. I like to think that that's pretty good praise.

The previous night, we caught up. She told me all about her new dude, a subbie kinkster who's made quite the name for himself in the academic military history world and who recently returned from a tour in Afganistan. She beamed about the new Harley that I heard her roar into my driveway with. We talked about her presence on this blog and how she enjoyed it. She languished on the futon and read the erotic anthology that I've recently been published in. We slept, spooning. Cats awakening us with the sun. I was up earlier, so I fed the furrybeasts so she could sleep late. Her blearily wandering out of bed in one of my tshirts, her lengthening hair wayward and tussled. The steak and eggs on the deck. Showers.

I'm sipping tea on the parlour futon when she's bent over and rifling through her backpacks and travel bags to fetch some bike event swag that she wants to show me. She's wearing camoflage panties now and I'm enjoying the sight of her strong thighs and round ass in them. I'm smiling.

"So," I find myself spontaneously asking, straightfowardly, casually, the mug to my lips, "wanna fuck?"

She's still bent over, an event patch in her hand, when she looks at me from over her shoulder with a saucy smile.

"Yeah. We can do that."



She takes my hand as we stroll back into the bedroom. She's already straightened the sheets and giggles as she nudges the cats out of our way. She takes off the tshirt, revealing her large breasts for me as I step out of my clothes. She's smiling at me. She loves to be nude. A slow breeze is cascading in the room, the ceiling fan humming quietly. Naked, I slide next to her and she rests her head to my chest as I sit beside her, cradling her lower back in my arm.

Her kisses deepen as I begin caressing her legs, holding her impressive tits in my palm and squeezing them gently. I've relearned a whole new appreciation for enjoying breasts this summer, and I've been totally getting off on how appreciated a sensual, firm session of titmassage can be. The Tomboy isn't an exception.

But as her tongue slowly slides across my lips and her panting deepens in her chest, soon I find my fingers inching under the waistband of those camoflage panties. Half sitting, half languishing beside me, she opens her powerful legs wide when she feels my whole hand firmly cupping, and simply holding, her covered mound. I can feel her growing heat. I can feel her pillowy outer labia. She's reached to me and is slowly stroking, petting, squeezing my hardening cock.

I love it when she does that. I love it that she's unabashed about holding me, wanting to hold me, unintimidated about just going ahead and reaching out and holding me. My cock twitches and stiffens more as I think about her brazenness even as I'm feeling her brazenness. Her moan is stifled in her throat with our making out, and that hardens me even more.

I reach into her panties. I'm slowly circling fingertips around her little pebble. She's wet. She's soft. She's hard. And she's collapsing against my chest as I start to jill her in earnestness, my fingers making a rotating tent out of her underwear as they begin to quickly, but gently, spin around and swirl her flesh. I'm using her labia, her own wetness, to massage her clit, and it isn't long before she's starting to shake and shudder and grip my cock tightly as the waves take control of her.

I love to do this.

I give her a few moments to breathe and I enjoy the weight of her back and shoulder against my chest. I'm gripping her hair and breathing in her scent. She's limp and relaxed and languid when I kneel up and, guiding her with a hand at her thigh, roll her over onto her belly.

My eyes are riveted to her bare back and covered ass, and I move to rest my knees at either side of her legs from the edge of the bed. She raises her behind in the air when I start peeling those panties down, and my cock is twitching again as her seam is revealed to me. I firmly grasp her asscheeks, tug her a little higher in the air, reach for the base of my stiff dick and rub my cockhead against her glistening pussy before pushing myself forward and into her body.

She repositions herself comfortably, her hands next to her head and on the pillows. She lets out a long, slow moan.

"Oh, yeah. That's it," she says. "That feels real nice."

Yes, it does. She does. And as the incoming breeze continues to cool us, the quiet in the room allows me to clearly hear her wetness slickly lubing my cock as I gently thrust in and out of her. It's a sound that I adore, and my eyes are closed as I enjoy how she feels, smells, sounds as we take a slow, languid, relaxed, moist, tender between-friends doggystyle fuck on a sunny morning.

Her face is mostly hidden from my view, but when I do see her, her mouth is silently open, her eyes are tightly closed, and she's panting quietly. I'm keeping my torso still, but my hips are thrusting back and forth, pistoning my dick into her juicy pussy in taunting, steady, moderate strokes. I'm withdrawing completely. I'm tapping her clit with my cockhead before returning. When I'm completely in, I'm gripping her hips and cheeks to grind my pelvis as much as I can, giving her as much of my length as I can and staying lostly still before starting the whole process again.

And then, as I was midstroke, she slowly raised and turned her head over her right shoulder to watch me. Her brow was sweating. She bit her lower lip, blinked her dark eyes pensively, and in a very matter-of-fact, casual tone said the most adorable thing. It could have been "what time is it?" or "nice to meet you" or "would you like another cup of tea?" or something equally simple, flat, unassuming. But it wasn't.

"Would it be possible for you to put a finger in my ass?"

My cock was midstroke, and I was just feeling the base of me meet her round butt again when I stopped and burst out laughing. I'm certain that made my dick twitch like hell inside her.

"Um," I managed to say between laughs, "sure."

Still fucking her, I reach into the bedside table drawer and get the lube. She's looking at me and smiling. I smack her ass, stay still again, and moisten my fingers and her tender, winking anus.


Dark, crinkled, the remnants of the tiniest rich brunette hairs. A strong contrast in colour to the rest of her skin. Tomboy has a gorgeous, very fuckable anus.

My forefinger slips in easily, and she groans softly while resting her head on the pillows. She's ass-up and face-down now, and I keep a steady pace with my cock as my finger probes and swirls around her clutching sphincter. She's gripping me. I'm probing deeeper. I'm pistoning my finger twice as fast as I'm pistoning my dick, and she's writhing happily underneath me.

Soon, it becomes too much for me to retain this much self-control. I switch fingers and slide my wet thumb inside her, raising her with it like a hook as my other hand grips her waist strong enough to make my knuckles white. Now it's time to fuck her hard and deep and steady and fast. And faster. And faster still.

For speed, I have her pressed completely to the bed now, and she's grunting my name as my perspiration starts to slicken her bare back almost as much as her happy pussy is slickening my throbbing cock. I'm pounding hard into her now, totally enjoying the sound and feel of her naked ass against my body. I'm getting ready to explode.

When I do, I withdraw. My eyes are focused on her quivering ass now, and I return my thumb to her tiny hole as I stroke my cock from above and behind her. She's reaching underneath to stroke herself as she watches me burst my cum across her upraised, gorgeous butt. Ropes of me mingle with her juice, our sweat, the lube. I'm seeing stars. She's gasping for breath. I collapse to the bed beside her.

We hold each other, enjoying the slickness of so many fluids on our bodies in the August morning heat as our legs intertwine. Cats snooze nearby. The room falls completely silent but for the cicadas rattling their songs outside, the ceiling fan, breathing.

More showers. More steak. More wistful hugs goodbye. More winks from the lesbians downstairs as they see her dressed in her vest and leather chaps. More deep sighs from me as I watch her mount the bike and roar down the driveway again, perhaps until the next time she's in town.