Urban Roguery

Pardon me as I go wash the sheets.

2011-12-18T13:24:00.003-05:00

There's a wide variety of tea in the kitchen, and I just brought in some croissants from this excellent patisserie on Queen Street. Please, by all means, help yourself. And don't let the cats bother you... neither of them bite. Relax, make yourself at home.

But I'm going to take a little hiatus now, and this may be just as well since posts have been irregular at best. Other writing projects are demanding my attention and I may be rethinking the entire approach to this naughty blog as well.

I enjoy hearing from you. Feel free to email me to share your thoughts, let me know how you're doing, what you've been enjoying in your visits here. But it's time for this blog to take a breather until at least into the new year.

Kisses.

And now for something completely different.

2011-11-30T15:00:00.000-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving, America.

2011-11-24T12:00:00.001-05:00

Well, lookee here.

2011-11-20T18:01:00.006-05:00

Sometimes, one of the more amusing parts of temporarily relying on an internet cafe to get one's online tasks accomplished is accidentally finding interesting things that other people may have left on a puter that I'm renting.

Like these images, for example. So, hey, I thought I'd post them. Why? Because it amused me to. So there.

Thanks, Mac.

2011-11-15T12:47:00.004-05:00

Hey. Remember me?

Yeah, I've been wondering where I've been too.

Truth is, it's been tough to keep the blog updated lately, partially because I have yet to replace my home puter. But here's just a little heads-up to share that that may be amended very soon now.

Stay tuned!

Sunday comics.

2011-11-06T11:00:00.002-05:00

Thank you, Edeltraud and Charles.

2011-11-05T16:15:00.005-04:00

Translated into more than twenty languages and remaining on the New York Times best-seller list for more than ten years, Dr. Alex Comfort's The Joy of Sex set a new standard for sexual awareness when it was first published in 1972.

But as the BBC recently reported in an interview with artist Chris Foss, finding models for the now-famous illustrations was quite the task to accomplish.

"We were a bit nervous when we took this on," Foss tells the BBC. "The publisher had to write a contract which confirmed that they would pay our defence if some old fart decided to make an issue out of it."

Add to that the fact that prospective models were challenging to work with, eventually leaving Comfort and the publishing team in frustration... until the edition's colour illustrator, Charles Raymond, and his German wife volunteered to help out. Hurriedly posing for a series of photographs as they lovingly boinked, Foss would later select choice images to redraw for the coming book. Illustrations, rather than photographs, wouldn't break the then-current English obscenity laws. And the end result was a series of erotic art pieces that, arguably, have been among the first, most informative, and iconic sexual works of its time.

"They are obviously having a relationship. You can just tell by the way her body lies. I think the fact that they were in love had something to do with it," Ross says.

But current and future editions of the seminal work (nyuk nyuk) are likely to feature other couples in its illustrations, or even colour photographs, which are more commonplace in contemporary sexual instruction texts. Charles, with his beard and long hair, and Edeltraud, with her oh-so-European underarms are, apparently, too... what, exactly?... for current book buyers.

Harumph, says I.

"The bearded man was an icon, but he was a '70s icon," opines relationship psychologist Susan Quilliam, who added more of a female perspective on sexuality in in the 2008 edition. She has since "reinvented" the classic book with her own New Joy of Sex.

So it seems to me that a moment of appreciation is due for the loving couple who showed us so much back in the day. Thank you, Edeltraud and Charles. You guys were, and remain, gorgeous.

Flute.

2011-11-05T15:04:00.004-04:00

His name was Alex.

Happy Halloween from Urban Roguery.

2011-10-31T16:00:00.005-04:00

And now for something completely different.

2011-10-31T15:00:00.003-04:00

Urban Roguery: Six years of shameless decadence.

2011-10-30T17:30:00.017-04:00

With this year's Halloween, I'm pleased to say that I've been enjoying sharing with you for six years now. Happy anniversary.

As some longterm readers know, this blog has gone through a few shifts and changes. Starting as a way for me to reconnect with my kinkself while involved with The Grrl, when that relationship ended it became a means for me to simply express and share and playfully record some of my experiences. Perhaps I was exploring some latent exhibitionism.

In time, the blog would also become a valve for me as a writer. Committing to it has enabled me to steer more attention toward my written work in general, and this in turn has led to some very nice successes in the last year. Being accepted into publication through Cleis Press was a big milestone for me, and the networking that I've been enjoying since then (hi Jon, Kendra, Meava, Rose Red and others) warms me deeply.

On these anniversaries, it's been my habit and pleasure to share a little update with you about some of the people you've been reading about. So here goes.

~ It frustrates me a little to say that while Ami and I remain excellent friends, we've hardly seen one another over the last two or so months, mostly because her work keeps her out of my area. As with several other partners, we live in different cities. She took me out to dinner for my birthday though, which was nice. Recent plans to meet over coffee didn't work out however, and part of me is concerned that we may drift apart, especially since the nature of relationship she seems to want is far closer to a friends-with-benefits thing than an affair. She doesn't respond passionately to saucy textmessages, and I try to not overthink that. Up until late this summer, I did do a lot of overthinking when it came to Ami.

But her two-year old nephew, who phones me to leave voicemail messages saying "I'm leaving you a message" totally cracks me up.

~ After more than a year since we'd last seen another, I ran into Molly at this year's Toronto Leather Pride event. She was with her new (open relationship) partner, a dapper young fellow with conservative looks despite the Satanism pendant that he wore. (Yeah.) We shared pints together and caught up on old times.

In the last year she's become quite the mover 'n shaker with one of this city's polyamory social networks, coordinating events and generally representing. Not long after seeing each other again, she literally invited herself over to my pad for dinner, and a... shall we say... very wet evening followed. The next day, we found ourselves attending an intimacy and communication workshop together that was really enjoyable.

~ The Tomboy is in a world of bliss, and she deserves every moment of it. She dropped the unemployed dude who was sucking the marrow out of her existence, traded him for a successful military history writer and consultant, and is totally gaga over her new Harley and the long roadtrips that she's been enjoying with it. She recently hosted a paintball competition for her son's birthday party, which I'm sad to say I had to miss. Similarly to Molly, she's become quite the mover 'n shaker in her region's kink community, also coordinating events and the like and making a nice name for herself.

We don't get to stay in touch as much as I would ideally like, but I think that's mostly because we're in different cities and have crazed lives. Still, I regard her as among my bestest friends now, and feel privileged to have her always-beaming, always-conspiring self in my world. She fucking rocks.

~ While Cupcakes and I reached a detente and decided that we could remain friends, to date we really haven't communicated much and have not acted on ideas to get together socially. For my part, my experience there either reminded or taught me about a few important things that I desire, and do not desire, in an affair or relationship, and I suppose that feeling is respectfully mutual. And that's ok.

Cupcakes reminded me, in a roundabout way, of the many differences between living an (honest) polyamorous life and living a (dishonest) monogamous one. She reminded me that its entirely different paradigms to, say, be open and straightforward about having or wanting multiple partners with whom love (not just sex) can be expressed freely and joyfully, and being involved monogamously with one person while having otherwise hidden partnerships from that person. She reminded me about the power of choice, and the repurcussions about choice. And she reminded me about the importance of integrity.

Still, Cupcakes desires, and deserves, happiness. My wish for her is that she can have it without someone else inadvertently being stung.

~ Diva began marketing sextoys as part of Athena's Home Novelties, and I can confidently attest that she's aptly skilled to do so. Back in the day, she did this when we were together with another company, Undercoverwear, hosting parties in our home.

She isn't single anymore, although I know nothing about her new partner. She was, however, recently in a nasty motorcycle accident that left her foot broken as the (drunk) driver who sideswiped her sped from the scene. The tough, kickass woman that she is, she managed to retain control of her bike and stop safely, despite the agony. Her bike was totaled, the driver remains uncaught, but she's alive and healing.

~ I ran into Dean at an open spiritual service, and many hugs followed. She's engaged to a mutual friend now, and I think this is awesome. She's also been increasingly more active in the northern Ontario kink community, which I also think is awesome. I'm really pleased that she's happy.

~ I'm somewhat chagrined about the way things seem to have been developing with Kara in recent months. In the last year, we had talked about the possibility of seeing one another for occasional kinkplay, but that idea would later get shot down. Talks about possibly meeting as-friends for dinner have yet to transpire into anything real, but that might just be because our schedules are so loopy. Maybe it's because she's with a new partner, maybe it's because I still owe her money from when she saved my ass during my still-too-recent year from hell, maybe it's because way back when she told me that she was the type to often end relationships quickly and firmly, but she seems to be drifting deeper and deeper into a non-communicative past. It does sting.

As a friend, I miss her. I miss her extraordinary kids. I finally, recently learned that I should stop textmessaging her to simply say that I miss her company because, well, she doesn't respond.

~ The Feline could be doing better. She continues to pursue her reiki work and animal activist interests, but she also keeps connecting with men who seem to value her only for her (admittedly, outstanding) oral skills and little more. Tragically, she lost two of her beloved cats in the last year, and that's affected her gravely. I worry about her.

~ Unexpectedly, I saw Morgan while working recently, and it was a treat. We talked about getting together "at our haunt" over a meal to catch up, though to date we haven't set up anything. I should amend this.

~ Ever true to form, my ex-wife Heidi remains a moral road accident. In the past, she worked hard to drive wedges between myself and some of our mutual friends and continues to lie to and leapfrog between the men in her life. I understand that she continues to battle her breast cancer, for which she continues to nevertheless have my support and encouragement, though I have no idea how or whether this has affected her pursuits as a boxer.

I continue to faintly hope that one day she'll wake up to the profound, lifelong damage she causes people and that we can begin again as friends with history. I'm not holding my breath though. To do that, she'd first have to find the courage to admit where she's gone wrong, own up to the nuclear fallout that that admission would bring to her, and grow the fuck up into an actual healthy human being. Meanwhile, whatthefuckever.

~ Several past partners have completely dropped off the face of the earth to me.

First and foremost: The Grrl has a whole new life, new cats, and as I understand it, a new partner whom she loves very much. She's back in an excellent and trendy part of the New Jersey/Pennsylvania region, where she continues to make art, pursue her reiki practice, connect with social justice and intentional community causes, attend hardcore concerts, and live life as best as her fibromyalgic limitations permit. She recently became an aunt. She was briefly hospitalized over the summer over a neck injury which required a brace, but she pulled through. She loves to travel, and sometimes I wonder if she ever passes through my area without my knowledge.

I miss her. I wish we could rebuild things to a better friendship, but it is what it is. It's stupid and it's sad.

Shayne, oh Shayne. Sometimes it's hard for me to believe that I haven't seen her in more than two years now and how much of an impression my affair with her has left on me. Yet, despite once-upon-a-time protestations that it would never happen, she chose to burn the bridge toward just friendship. I continue to completely not comprehend, much less simply know, her reasons why.

To my knowledge, she's thoroughly happy, which I'm glad for. She and her once-new man are married now and her glorious son is about two years old by now, I think. She's developed a wonderfully beautiful Tumblr account dedicated to him, filled with supportive, nurturing, lesson-teaching messages and images for him to read and enjoy for when he's older. I suspect that she, with all of her charm and creativity and warmth and insightful spark, is an extraordinarily incredible mother. Knowing her as I do, I'd wish to have her as my mother, were I an infant again.

I miss being available to her for counsel and companionship. There was a time when I would have loved to have her and her husband as guests in my home.

I miss her. I wish we could rebuild things to a better friendship, but it is what it is. It's stupid and it's sad.

The Tornado is probably still skimming the surface of life, struggling with her issues, and I hope she gets the assistance that I truly believe she needs. I'm reminded of her when I use the French coffee press she left at my pad.

Little Ginger moved to Saskatchewan, where apparently she's found work connected with the local government. She's deleted the dating profile that I first encountered her through.

The Raven is still single and continues her work in coordinating an alternative school and is engaged in grassroots efforts to halt climate change.

The Valkyrie has been exploring some kink-related dating sites, but to my knowledge she remains single despite connecting with a Daddy Top at some point.

Some slightly-related updates:

~ In a bizarre way, Hannah has re-entered the periphery of my world after more than two years. It turns out that the number of mutual friends we have has been increasing exponentially over the last few weeks, and I saw her at a recent hot tub party hosted in the Ontario boonies over the summer.

Because there's been some unusual skittishness from her since we last saw one another (quite by happenstance on the street), I had already sent her a friendly, polite note to let her know that we might run into eachy other again, and that I intended to respect whatever boundaries she might have. (I had previously expressed my interest in possibly dating her again, you see, and she turned me down in a perfectly relaxed and cordial way.)

But throughout these past few years, I never completely understood what the problem was. For me, there remained an unexplained vacuum, something that clearly bugged her and even seemed to stand in the way of us being friends. It was just too weird for me to ignore it indefinitely, and if we were going to be rubbing elbows among mutual friends, I needed some semblance of mental closure. At a comfortable and opportune time during the party, I asked her what was what. It turns out that I apparently strongly remind her of another man who, for whatever reason I didn't dare ask, was a Bad Scene.

Ok, yeah, that disappoints me. I'm me, and as a person, I like her enough to desire friendship... but what can ya do.

We saw one another again within the last few days at a Halloween party. She was with a partner, a gentleman dressed nicely in Top fetwear. Her costume, a wood nymph, won first prize. She seemed a little more comfortable in my presence this time, actually responded favourably to a cordial Facebook friend-request, but I may continue to give her polite distance.

~ Remember how I've shared about the Women Downstairs? Serene has begun recreating herself with a hardcore weightloss regimen, and she's looking outstanding. Not too long ago, she stopped me to share that she recently enjoyed attending an all-lesbian bondage party where she was soundly fisted while hanging in a restraint swing. And all I wanted was to borrow a cup of sugar.

Lacey eventually moved from sharing space with her to another part of the house once things between her and her Airline Attendant became more serious. They married this year, they're ridiculously happy, and have begun growing tomatoes in the backyard. Replacing Lacey as Serene's housemate is the Elf, an incredibly lithe shorthaired blonde whom (I have on good authority) has a thing for big black cock.

~ And speaking of airline attendants, Tari and I briefly talked about the possibility of reconnecting if her job ever brought her to my area, but to date that hasn't occured. We remain close friends despite not having seen each other in years.

~ I never had the opportunity to date Rollergirl, and as far as I know, she eventually reconnected with Mr. Lucky, which is something she wanted all along anyway. In fact, despite the occasional correspondence through Facebook, we have yet to even actually, physically meet.

~ Life circumstances prevented me from coordinating a private spanking party event at my pad this past summer. But I'm determined.

~ I've mentioned at least two male friends on the blog.

Bodybuilder eventually forgave his wife for her unmonogamous infidelities and reconnected with her. He's been enjoying successes in his career field and seems to be happy.

Flute, mentioned in a recent post, has been dead now for perhaps three years. We had the kind of friendship that seemed to come into play whenever there was crisis in our lives concerning the women we loved, with the Fates directing us to one another when one or both of us was having a hard time. He seemed to know when I was stinging, and he'd call. I'd seem to know when he was stinging, and I'd call.

Then one day I got the sense he was stinging, and I didn't call. Life, maybe. Work, probably. I'll get around to it. In a minute.

And then I got word that he chose to end his life. It was over a woman. Again.

Halloween, called Samhain by some, is about a lot of things. For some people, it's about dressing the kids in Batman costumes and dishing out Reeses' Peanut Butter Cups. For others, it's about going to fetish balls and dressing to the nines. For still others, it's about reconnecting and remembering those we have loved who have taken a journey ahead of us.

Flute will be among those I'll be remembering this Halloween, this Samhain. He was a good, loving man and, like so many men who have trouble handling radical change in the face of lost and unrequited love, did not deserve the pain he had to work through and that led to his unfortunate choice.

Thanks for listening. And thanks for reading this blog.

Just a friendly note to the spammers.

2011-10-24T11:06:00.002-04:00

Coming up for air.

2011-10-18T13:45:00.007-04:00

I know. I know. Apart from some straightforward images (as enjoyable as they are) and public notebook quips (all conversations guaranteed overheard), I've hardly blogged at all lately.

But believe me when I tell you that that isn't because things have been quiet over here at Rogue Enterprises, International. Oh no, baby.

So I'm taking this brief moment to come up for air and share with you that these last two or three weeks have been extraordinary, and so far they're capping what became one of the most sensually outstanding summers I've enjoyed in a long time. God knows how long it's going to take me to share it all with you, but I'm going to enjoy trying.

I've already shared the most recent experiences with my amazing friend and occasional partner, the Tomboy, and when it was good over a few inspired days, with Cupcakes. I have yet the share the sordid, delicious details involving two surprises: a never-saw-it-coming re-meeting tryst with Molly again, and encountering a deliciously charming, cosmopolitan, and elegant former hippie, Rose Red, who came to me through (to my pleasant surprise) reading this blog. Glorious and extraordinary lovers, excellent people, all. Yum!

Also keeping me smiling is having encountered and begun enjoying the company of the people behind the Ontario branch of the Human Awareness Institute. Along with several other body-positive associations that you'll see listed on the "Sexual Wellbeing" column to the right, HAI has begun to deeply intrigue me. It isn't only very rarely that I choose to plug some organization or enterprise, but having begun experiencing what these people have to say has definitely raised my spirits.

Briefly, the Human Awareness Institute facilitates a series of workshops that, in my view, can be incredibly relevant for couples and singles of any preference who are looking to expand upon their relationship communication skills and individual self-awareness. I encountered them following an introductory workshop presented at a Unitarian Universalist church (not that HAI is religious in any way), and later participated in a weekend camping retreat event they've developed. As one who is drawn to sensual expression and relationships dynamics issues in general, it was a no-brainer for me to take a closer look at their platform and process, and I'm very pleased to have done so. Heartily recommended.

And then there are the more private hot tub and sauna parties that I've been enjoying lately with other new friends. Life is grand, sensually grand.

Do I sound boastful? Not trying to. Just enjoying Her gifts.

Through various people, I've been enjoying more discourse about subjects relevant to polyamory, and I suspect they'll make for excellent thought and reading here in due time. A few sexuality-related news items have been hitting the papers in my region that I also think deserve some attention.

Halloween is coming. There's a wide variety of sex-positive and fetish-related events happening here in Toronto, and I'm still deciding where I'll be. But one thing I know I'll be doing is making my 2011 blog anniversary post, where I enjoy sharing updates with you about the people you've been reading about over the last year.

But, in time, soon, there is someone else I would really enjoy introducing you to. She's a mid30s shorthaired actor who has to be among the most sensual and breathtaking creatures I have ever known, and she has me completely smitten.

And I may well be falling in real love again. Yeah.

Her name is Dorian.

Flirting for it.

2011-10-18T12:49:00.004-04:00

The scene: She's a dusky blonde in 70s style torn jeans. She's boarding a streetcar, and she has a young mulatto boy in tow. He's a black dude who is passing by on the street. Both are in a hurry and going in opposite directions.

Blonde: Hey!

Dude: Oh, hey!

Blonde: Haven't seen you in a while!

Dude: (laughs) Uh, yeah.

Boy: Mommy, can we sit here?

Blonde: Wow, yeah, you should call me! Really... I miss it. You still have my number?

Dude: Hell yeah!

Blonde: Alright then!

The women of True Blood.

2011-10-15T15:00:00.001-04:00

Happy Thanksgiving, Canada.

2011-10-10T13:50:00.002-04:00

Hardware.

2011-10-06T15:00:00.000-04:00

The scene: Another office break room. Renovations are underway in another part of the building. A female maintenance worker is seated at a table with her meal as a male carpenter walks nearby. He's carrying a cordless drill.

Maintenance Worker: (laughing) "Whoah, hey, that's a big fucking tool you got there, buddy!"

Carpenter: (stops in his tracks beside her) "Hmm... uh, yeah!"

Maintenance Worker: "I like the way you handle it."

Carpenter: (laughs) "And it goes forward and back!"

Maintenance Worker: "Ooo!"

Panties and petroleum.

2011-10-04T06:45:00.000-04:00

At the King Street border between the pretentious, yuppie, upstart Liberty Village and the historic, downtrodden, depressed Parkdale 'hoods of Toronto stands a high-walled, gated, ominous compound. It's the city's Road Operations and Transportation Services building, where the heavy machinery and working vehicles that maintain the city's streets are kept. Inside, boiler room dispatch offices respond to emergency calls regarding flooding, fallen trees, and other city problems.

My current work routine takes me past this building several times a day. And every single time, I'm reminded of the Grrl. It isn't just because the West Queen West pad that we shared is only a few blocks away; that happened later. It's because of the dark evening when we were inside that compound together and where I first saw her (mostly) bare body.

Flute was a friend of mine. A sometime handyman and fulltime freespirit, he played a charming First Nations flute when he wasn't helping someone put up drywall. He worked inside this compound at the time, handling dispatch calls to ferry emergency repair vehicles to Toronto homeowners who were freaking out over this thing or another. And he had access to city vehicles.

My situation was different then. I didn't own a car at the time. For reasons that escape me, I was unable to pick the Grrl up from the airport, and Flute was more than happy to offer me a ride with a van that he was using regularly. He and I had a bond about the women in our lives, and he was totally cool with helping me out when it came to Someone Important Coming To Visit.

It was the first time she had come to Canada, the first time we would be together. After our first meeting, we were touch-and-go for a while as she mediated matters with a previous partner. By the time we were planning her visit, she had left that boyfriend and I was excited to pieces about the all-clear signal.

I remember watching her stroll down the walkway at the airport. The roses I gave her. Our first, real kiss. Taking her and her luggage to That Van.

That Van was not exactly a chartered limousine. A bluecollar working vehicle, it was an awful shade of sky blue with countless scuffs and dents and marks and stains. The interior was packed with plumbing and electrical equipment, used rags, safety gear, hardhats. Flute was a smoker, so on the grimy dash was a mayhem of crushed Du Maurier boxes and snubbed filters along with the old Pepsi cans and dozens of torn road maps, fuel receipts, work orders, and the like. Both the seats and flooring were stained and worn. A side mirror was cracked. Rust bordered the double panel doors on the side. And throughout it all, the lingering, dense odor of old oil, gasoline, kerosine. It was a scent that was so deep that it almost had a texture, as if you could feel it entering into the pores on your face if you found yourself around it for too long.

Romantic, no?

I loaded the Grrl's luggage into a reasonably clean spot in the back, she found some acceptable space on the rear benchseat, and the three of us laughed as we pulled away from the airport.

She was hungry. I already planned on taking her to dinner, but as it turned out, traffic had kept Flute away from his duties longer than he had hoped. It became necessary for him to stop by the Road Operations compound for a short while. The Grrl smiled through the minor inconvenience. We decided to do dinner first, after this detour, and go back to my pad later.

It was growing dark. After we pulled into the compound, Flute secured a gate behind us and parked That Van in a small alley before he dashed into an office for almost an hour.

The Grrl and I relaxed, talked, passed the time. We kissed some more. I was feeling the first stirrings of what would become one of the deepest love affairs of my life.

Practical-minded, the Grrl asked me to fetch a few things from her luggage. Since we were doing dinner first, she decided to change clothes. Here and now. Then and there. In a dirty van that was parked in a narrow alley between two foreboding municipal buildings, on a stained and cruddy backbench. I fumbled a little in the twilight, but found and returned with some fresh pants and a very bohemian sweater.

Still seated, she smiled. Both of the van's center doors were wide open as I then watched her slowly remove the black Tshirt she was wearing to reveal a tight sportsbra. We talked, casually. She kept smiling. She removed her Doc Martens to lower the khaki camoflage pants she had on, leaning back into the seat as she reached for her belt buckle. She kept looking into my eyes, smiling as I listened to the clink of metal clasps, the zing of a lowering zipper. I smiled back as she raised her beautiful, broad ass from the dingy seat and started to wiggle the pants down her legs.

Her radiant, slate eyes. Her thighs. Black thong. Her facing me, her legs open as her knees were level to my eyes as she took the pants from my hand.

The mound between her thighs. The bulge and the faint hint of seam, barely made out in the dark.

She put on the pants. Flute would return shortly after.

Changing into dinner clothes on the stained seat of a workhorse van, and all the while beaming with a wide, toothy smile as she watched me watch her. That's the kind of woman she is, and why it became so easy for me to go crazy over her.

Later, I would learn all about that mound, that bulge, that seam. I would learn all about the way the Grrl's outer labia would flush several shades of red when she got excited, hot, wet, and how that labia would swell like two crescent-shaped pillows. I would learn all about the way the flesh of her cunt would resemble a short-stemmed tulip, as if the flower were simply laid upon her body, the petals ensconcing the tender clitoris that I would enslave myself to for the next several years.

I really miss giving her head. And how she would do me too.

The sex we shared that night was extraordinary. We simply kissed and caressed for longer than I could remember. We smoked some dope, listened to soothing yoga music, and entwined for hours upon hours. I relished in her joy to be taken in her ass, and loved how she moaned deeply as she had me, her eyes crushed tight and her teeth biting her lower lip as she felt my calves to her thighs while I slowly and deeply thrust. She would breathe deeply and groan when I would stop to lay still on top of her back. I remember the soothing, complete pleasure I felt to have my bodyweight on her, holding her, my legs snaked around hers, my fingers massaging her scalp through her short, auburn hair as her opened sphincter gripped the very root of me tightly, snugly, warmly when I filled her with my total all.

Between wine and cannabis and sensuality and beauty, we didn't simply "see God." We became God. Kali and Shiva.

And it began with that moment of seeing her bare legs, her thigh, her underwear in that most unsexy of places. That unsexiest of places that, of late, I pass every day, several times a day.

Wow. That was at least seven or eight years ago.

Yeah. I miss her. Still.

And now for something completely different.

2011-09-30T19:00:00.000-04:00

Wir sprechen verschiedene Sprachen.

2011-09-30T15:15:00.000-04:00

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.

2011-09-29T14:15:00.008-04:00

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.

2011-09-25T12:15:00.001-04:00

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.

2011-09-22T20:30:00.001-04:00

Like a stage, her charmingly elegant bed commanded the room, and I was still smiling over the sight of the assorted sextoys and kinktools when, naked, I slid under the sheets with her. This was going to be a nice night, I thought to myself as she rested her bare back to my chest.

We enjoyed dinner, some wine at her pad, and discussion about intimate truths, desires, possibilities between us. I was liking her. We romped on her couch. She had already cum in my mouth. I had already spanked her bare, oh-just-so-slightly-fawn behind. It was a comfortable, relaxed, sensual energy.

She groaned happily when I began massaging the nape of her neck, her back, her thighs, when she asked me to read my entry in the erotic anthology that I had been recently published in.

"You like bedtime stories, do you?" I smirked. She smiled prettily, her bare shoulder peeking from under the rich, burgundy sheets. Supported by the pillows, we relaxed side-by-side on our chests as I reached for the book.

"I was in my bliss," the story began, and I was. "I could not have imagined a more perfect way to cap last night's happiness."

Written from the perspective of a daring wife, it's a story about sensual discovery, about exploration between two partners in love, about breaking taboos, and about assplay. As I read, it seemed naughtily appropriate to caress Cupcakes' smooth, broad back, my warm hands gradually lowering to massage the base of her spine and, finally, her lovely round ass.

"I bobbed my outstretched palms and fingers on his flesh, feeling his bubble shape and patting him. His ass filled my hands nicely. I slowly drew a finger or two up and along the seam between his cheeks, enjoying how pert he really was. I slowly probed a finger inside father, found his anus and teased it with a fingertip."

I paused and looked at her, a risque idea rippling in my head. I set the book aside for a moment as I sought the lubricant from the table beside her. I moistened the fingers on my left hand, gave her a gentle kiss, and returned to my reading. My wet hand slipped under the covers again, and as I resumed, parted between her asscheeks to press themselves lightly on her backdoor. She sighed and settled her head deeper into her pillow.

"I took a breath and chose to move forward. I chose to press my luck."

Cupcakes' anus was warm and tight as it clutched my finger. Slowly, I teased her open with smooth, circular strokes, enjoying the feel of her winking muscles. I probed gently, just the tip, and gradually coaxed her body into accepting more and more of my digits. By the time the protagonist in the story had her husband bent over a bathroom sink and was fully penetrating him with her fingers, my index finger was slowly pistoning inside Cupcakes' curvy body. The story was ending.

"I nipped his shoulder gently as I slowly withdrew my fingers and his chest surged forward slightly. His eyes still bore into mine. He was still panting."

I knelt up, my fingers still inside her, and brought my naked cock closer to her mouth. She tilted her head to take me, and as I set the book aside and probed her womanly bottom, she suckled me to hardness. I thrust into her mouth slowly, enjoying the feel of her pouty lips around my cock before I reached to the table again for a another condom. I pulled from her mouth, kissed her, and asked her what she supposed was coming next.

"You're going to fuck my ass, aren't you?" she replied. Her panting increased.

And I did. I set her to her right side, her left knee high and at her chest, as I lubed her further. I caressed her back slowly as I aimed my cockhead to her prepped and ready hole, and cooed with her as I felt it give way to my gradual entry. Once in, I gave her a few moments to get used to the feel of me, all the while tugging her hair in my fist and holding onto her left calf. In another moment, I started to fuck her.

She groaned under me. She gripped the pillow between her fingers. She watched me from over her shoulder, her eyes squinting in an almost angry "You're going to fuck my ass, aren't you" look. Her mouth was silently open as she watched me take her deeply, my hips eventually pounding against her thighs and asscheeks as I took her. Balled into fists, I would rest my hands at either side of her, my torso bent over her body as I pistoned my cock inside her. She was completely enjoying herself, watching me, feeling me, humping her ass backward toward me to take me back. Soon, she started to shake and cry out, those angry eyes shut tight now as she started to cum. Her mouth opened wider, her backward thrusts became faster and harder, and she thrust her face into the pillows when she let out a series of highpitched wails.

I slowed down. I withdrew. I held her. She raised her head with a look of ecstacy and satisfaction and disbelief on her face.

"I... I came," she said, blinking and panting. "That was fucking amazing. I never come that way."

I hadn't. But I wasn't worried about it: that often happens with me when I'm with a new partner, and God knows I was still having tons of fun with her. But Cupcakes was still hungry, and so soon I found myself giving her a little show as I stripped off the condom, cleaned myself up, relaxed on the bed beside her, lubed my fist, and stroked myself as she watched, wide-eyed.

"Yeah... show me how you do it..."

One arm under my head, I smirked as my other fist squeezed, stroked, and pumped my hard cock. Cupcakes leaned up on an elbow and kept her eyes glued to my thickening, reddening dick as my fist sped faster and faster, more and more noisily, as I jacked it for our mutual pleasure. I was groaning, watching her watching me. Her lips went slack and her eyes glazed over as they remained fixed upon my body. My fist became a blur.

"Wow... you do it so fast..."

I kissed her temple and ran my fingers through her short, dark, tightly curled hair as I stroked. One of my personal fetishes gripped me as I gripped myself. Pausing to add more lube to my fist from time to time, I enjoyed the completely randy noise of it squishing between my fingers and my cock as Cupcakes panted quietly. Between the sound of her breath and my stroking, I started to feel the familiar quiver in my sac, the tightness in my abs. I arched my back when I felt the roiling inside me, the pressure building up in my abdomen, and I used my muscles to squeeze those happy tubes inside me tight to rack it up for release. Cupcakes drew herself closer, riveted, and for a moment I wondered if she planned to bring her face near my dick to receive my seed. When I finally let myself go, streams of me burst from my purple cockhead and splashed across my hips, legs, and stomach until I collapsed with my weight fully enshrouded by that exquisite bed of hers. A gentle silence came over the room.

"That was so hot," she whispered into my ear as I felt the waves within me slowly subside.

We cuddled. I stood with a satisfied laugh and had a fast shower. I enjoyed the feel and scent of her body beside me as we shared the rest of the night, the room slightly aglow from the reflected light of the streetlamps outside, the raindrops on the windows shimmering like small jewels. It was very pleasant.

We showered together the next morning, and I scrubbed her back as we talked more about relationship possibilities and how we might manage to work around our work schedules. I left before her, and as I groggily I made my way to my car, I found myself smiling. I had made a new friend, found a new lover, and for a few light moments, enjoyed the idea that perhaps I didn't have to be single anymore. I liked it.

Not long after, we shared some saucy textmessages.

Cupcakes: We certainly had more than a drink, now didn't we?

Me: We certainly did ;)

Cupcakes: Just lying here naked in bed thinking about when you read to me. And more to the point when you fucked my ass ;) More please ;)

Me: I loved the way you looked over your shoulder at me as I took your lovely ass.

Cupcakes: I love how you took my ass. I guess we're even. ;) I'm thinking you should take over parts next time

Me: Mm. Perhaps I'll start with your purdy mouth... ;)

Cupcakes Mmm. That's if I don't jump on your cock first ;)

... But alas.

I really liked Cupcakes. Our first evening together seemed like a delicious start to what, I later began to imagine, could have been a wonderfully saucy experience between two smart, kinky, articulate, adventurous people. I had visions of her on my arm at local fetnights, her bedecked resplendently in corset and hose before feeling my crop, my palms, my cat. I wanted to bring her home for dinner, and then... for dinner. I wanted to speed her away to a pleasant weekend getaway where we might enjoy a shared shameless decadence. It could have been really nice. It could have been delightfully scandalous. It could have, could have, could have. Ah, well.

As it turned out, the Fates were just teasing me. It was an illusion, a calm before a coming storm. Soon, I would realize that despite my best wishes and intentions, despite efforts toward openness and maturity and understanding, I would find that my trust had been entirely misplaced. I wasn't at all prepared for the downward spiral that still lay ahead, and all in almost record time.

Boy, was I stupid.

My foolish sweet tooth.

2011-09-20T14:15:00.003-04:00

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.

2011-09-18T13:00:00.003-04:00

Women at the barbecue.

2011-09-15T17:00:00.000-04:00

Goooood morning.

2011-09-12T12:14:00.003-04:00

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.

2011-09-11T08:46:00.001-04:00

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.

2011-09-06T21:50:00.004-04:00

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.

2011-09-03T16:30:00.002-04:00

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.

And now for something completely different.

2011-08-31T17:00:00.000-04:00

Sunday comics.

2011-08-28T17:00:00.001-04:00

Tits from space.

2011-08-27T22:10:00.001-04:00

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.

2011-08-15T14:00:00.000-04:00

Colours of Toronto Leather Pride 2011.

2011-08-15T13:55:00.000-04:00

Couples of Toronto Leather Pride 2011.

2011-08-15T13:50:00.000-04:00

Sunday comics.

2011-08-14T14:00:00.000-04:00

Enjoying the blog?

2011-08-12T21:00:00.000-04:00

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

Tabletalk.

2011-08-10T23:45:00.008-04:00

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.

2011-08-08T13:15:00.018-04:00

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.

2011-08-05T08:00:00.001-04:00

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?

2011-08-04T15:34:00.004-04:00

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?

2011-08-02T16:00:00.001-04:00

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.

And now for something completely different.

2011-07-31T17:00:00.002-04:00

Sunday comics.

2011-07-31T13:00:00.000-04:00

Abundance.

2011-07-30T12:33:00.005-04:00

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,

2011-07-28T16:00:00.000-04:00

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.

2011-07-26T20:00:00.005-04:00

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.

2011-07-21T18:00:00.001-04:00

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.

2011-07-19T18:00:00.001-04:00

"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.

2011-07-17T16:00:00.001-04:00

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.

2011-07-16T01:07:00.005-04:00

So I'm cruising along St. Clair with a bellyful of Chinese food and Canadians, and I reach the Dufferin intersection. I'm instantly reminded of Steph, whose house is nearby.

God, I miss her blowjobs. Ok, she didn't have much going in her life and world, but Christ, the woman could suck cock.

I turn south on Dufferin, and when I reach Dupont, I see the stripmall where the McDonald's is. I loathe McDonald's. But, just as instantly, I remember the days when I would pick up Heidi (my lying, lunatic ex-wife) after she danced at the Paradise. Having a lover who is a strip dancer is kinda hot to me. On those nights when I would get her after work, she insisted that we stop at that McDonald's, and as she mowed on her Macs, I often relaxed behind the wheel and thought about her sashaying her big ass to the crowd.

Women on bicycles.

2011-07-15T17:00:00.001-04:00

Roomies.

2011-07-14T22:00:00.002-04:00

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!

2011-07-14T19:31:00.001-04:00

I swear.

2011-07-10T18:03:00.006-04:00

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?

2011-07-03T13:22:00.002-04:00

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.

2011-07-03T13:17:00.002-04:00

Happy Canada Day.

2011-07-01T18:21:00.002-04:00

Sweet.

2011-07-01T17:57:00.008-04:00

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.

And now for something completely different.

2011-06-30T17:00:00.001-04:00

Women at work.

2011-06-15T17:00:00.000-04:00

The doppelganger.

2011-06-14T12:00:00.001-04:00

It's been two years, so I guess she made an impression (he typed with a playfully sarcastic smirk).

I recently spent a day cruising throughout the city, something related to my job, when on the streetcar I saw her.

...Wait. No. But she could have been her sister.

The asymetrically cut, short blonde hair. The huge, dark sunglasses. The slightly zoftig, womanly bod. An apple butt. Her round face. The tattoos. Even the freeflowing print sundress and the way she smiled in my direction as I looked upon her.

And, as a coup de grace, the fact that she was queer. I hadn't noticed her partner, but as she left the streetcar, the sensual kiss that she gave the delightfully geeky, close-cropped brunette with horn-rimmed eyeglasses as they parted for the day.

Her entire image, her entire vibe, was Shayne.

Yeah, it's been two years. And yeah, she's in an entirely different life and world now, and I heartfelt-mean-it when I say, "Hey baby, go you."

Maybe I shouldn't miss her so much. After all, it's also true that had her moments of being utterly arrogant, condescending, closed-minded, and petty. She broke a pretty important promise and, true to form, found a way to justify it to herself to do so. I should probably be pretty pissed.

But, you know, one difference we have is that I'm not really one to amputate a limb just because I found that the ring I was wearing didn't completely work for my ensemble. Part of the intimacy that we shared was how I watched her suffer, deeply, with how she wrestled with her sense of identity, path, and voice in the world. Perhaps it was because of how she suffered and struggled, not despite of it, that I initially began to fall for her. And it would have been idyllic for me to simply remain as a friend and soundingboard for her in her life.

And all these thoughts came rushing back into me this past week when I saw that lookalike on the street, rushing back like a heavy wave that had long been back out to sea.

It makes me smile to feel the tightness in my chest still, to know that to see her virtual sister as a passerby make me stop, gaze, and remember. Like it was yesterday.

Yeah. I love and miss you, Pix. Still. And I'm ok with admitting it. Still. Yeah, yeah, I know I "shouldn't." All that get-over-it (whatever) and go-forward (I have) and giving-you-power (yeah, you wish) crap. Fine. Just call me crazy.

(The return of) Sunday comics.

2011-06-12T11:25:00.000-04:00

Just once.

2011-06-10T13:24:00.009-04:00

Please, God. Just once. Just... once.

Just once, I want to see some politician stand before a crowd of exquisitely-groomed, jostling, shutter-snapping media hounds, tap a finger into a microphone, adjust his tie, and not blink as he says something like this:

"There's been a lot of interest lately concerning some photographs that have recently appeared over the internet. I'm here before you this afternoon to clarify my position, and it is my intention to complete this matter with today's press conference.

"We live in a world where electronic devices of all kinds have become a staple for all levels of communication. People from all walks of life, in every profession, from every social class use such devices for reasons related to business and elements within our personal lives. Of course, most professional people endeavor to keep communications related to business and personal matters apart from one another out of professional courtesy and social protocol. But in a free society, we would certainly not expect an individual to use different, separate devices for different levels of communication.

"As an elected official, as a professional, I certainly share that endeavor to discretion. I expect that most, if not all, of you do as well.

"However, this does not mean, and again I am certain that most people will agree, that elected or other professional people are thereby expected to refrain entirely from non-business-related communications, or activities in one's personal life, by rule of their professional roles.

"Yes. I used my device to take a picture of my dick. Yes. I forwarded that picture to someone that I was pursuing in my personal life.

"Now... so what?

"What possible relevance or relationship would such a thing have to my successful service as your representative? Do the people of the great state of [insert name] truly believe or expect that their representatives live the lives of celibate monks? Certainly not."

The shutters click, the jostling becomes more aggressive. An audible gasp. A blonde reporter from a conservative media conglomerate widens both her mouth and eyes. She stares at the politician and blurts into her padded microphone.

"But sir! Don't you believe that the voting public has a right to know about your infidelities? Don't you agree that such infidelity can only demonstrate that an official such as yourself can't be trusted to ensure what's best for society?"

Almost imperceptively, the throng leans slightly forward. The politician sips water from a crystal tumbler. He pauses, and points a finger in the reporter's direction.

"You're crazy," he replies.

"If, and again I say "if," my actions constitute an infidelity, that is a family matter between my spouse and myself. It is high time for Americans to acknowledge that personal relationships are not homogenous, that not every family in this country is necessarily monogamous and heterosexual.

"Now, I will say that in my case, it may be, and yes, there may also be matters to be discussed between myself and my wife. But I will stress that such things are not the privy of the media or the general public and, in my case, will not be the subject of discussion in further press conferences.

"Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau once said that the "state has no place in the bedrooms of the nation," and I believe that it is high time that Americans took that advice to heart not only for its citizens, but for those who tirelessly serve within its ranks. Further, I will add that if the people of the great state of [insert name] disagree, that they will judge me based on this private matter rather than my consistent service record to create jobs, protect the environment, and general improve life for everyone whom I'm privileged to represent, then they don't deserve me as their elected official.

"Thank you. This subject is closed. Can we all grow up now and proceed to relevant issues concerning our government?"

But no.

A word from the management of UrbanRoguery, Ltd.

2011-06-04T14:15:00.004-04:00

I know. I know. It's been a while.

To longterm, avid readers of the blog, I do apologize.

I write to you from an internet cafe at the intersection of Dufferin and Bloor in the heart of Toronto. I've been tinkering on my alter ego's Facebook, OkCupid, and catching up on other email as I drain my cup from the Tim Horton's around the corner. It's quiet in here. I'm one of seven people, all tapping quietly as they do whatever it is they're doing. The blonde wearing headphones and holding her chin in her fist as she scrolls on some Tumblr. The longhaired brunette, bent over the keyboard in a way that would make a chiropractor wince, working on some paper for some class at whatever university she's attending.

For some time now, the blog has been nothing but themed nudes, and as much as I (and you, let's face it) enjoy such things, I really hadn't intended for this to just become about a series of nekkid pics. They were all pre-programmed, you see, in case I had long stints of silence on the blog for whatever reason.

And, uh, there's been a really long stint.

Add to the fact that I've had consistent problems with puters for way too long now, but my Real Life world went into utter chaos for over a year. Long story, and no, I'm not going to trouble you with details. Let's just say that the recession kicked my ass for a while, and after a legal battle with some people who thought they could pull one over on me, I'm just beginning to claw my way out of the bog I found myself in.

This is good.

But it also played hell on my dating life. Hard to show someone a good time when you're worried about making the rent. Not that I suddently became a Benedictine monk or anything; there were still some interesting experiences and delicious (and not so delicious) trysts... and I'm sure I'll get to all that in time.

But I wanted you guys to know that I'm still alive and hope to contributing more to the blog soon now. And hopefully with some snazzy new computer that I may actually be able to afford to get now that my world seems to be returning to some semblance of normal.

Hi again. I've missed you too.

Women and their rides.

2011-04-15T15:00:00.002-04:00

And now for something completely different.

2011-03-31T16:00:00.000-04:00

Women in the bath.

2011-03-15T15:00:00.002-04:00

And now for something completely different.

2011-02-28T16:00:00.000-05:00

with thanx to Boots

Women with cameras.

2011-02-15T15:00:00.003-05:00

And now for something completely different.

2011-01-31T17:00:00.001-05:00

Oh, those wacky Chinese.

2011-01-27T19:55:00.004-05:00

In 2007, sociologist James Farrer attended the
International Conference on Chinese Sexual Culture, where he learned that the keeping of paid mistresses has become common practice for the nation's growing numbers of male, economic elite. This has caused profound distress among the bean-counters in the strict, Communist nation where monogamy has had such a long-standing tradition that even the slightest hint of desire or interest between unmarried adults can result in a lifetime of community blackballing.

This status quo was sublimely illustrated in film director Zhang Yimou's romantic tragedy Ju Dou, where the male protagonist is forced to raise his son as his brother rather than see his family's cloth-dying business fall into ruin over village gossip.

But, evidently not content to rely on the power of centuries' worth of social reprisals alone (or perhaps they've become sufficiently unreliable), the People's Republic recently announced its intent to develop a national database to track down and catch marital cheaters. One wonders if it's only because this matter is centered on a growing elite social class of businessmen and officials (National Bureau of Statistics chief Qiu Xiaohua was recently "caught"), that such a controlling, Orwellian step is being taken. China's Ministry of Civil Affairs plans to have such records fully available and online-accessible by 2015. What related news stories that already make it within the Chinese press attract a vast and captivated readership.

Certainly, rigid sexual restrictions have long been a means toward social control throughout human history. This has been no different in China. In the late thirteenth century, a code of "demerit points" was developed, the Shih chieh kung kuo lu, featuring an itemized, detailed list of the severity to specific 'moral crimes'. "Spur of the moment passion" with a married woman had a penalty of 200 points, but only 100 if she were the wife of a servant or a prostitute. "Having lewd thoughts about a woman on the street" warranted 10 points, having "lewd dreams" warranted 1, and even though the Chinese have produced some of the finest erotic art in the world, possession of such material would result in a penalty of 10 points per image for the medieval Chinese subject.

And modern Chinese sex-related laws are no less mysteriously categorized. "Buggery" (anal sex) with women under age 21 is currently punished by life imprisonment, even though the age of sexual consent is 16 and that any kind of sex with a woman under that age of consent only warrants a prison term of five years. Go figure.

In view of such extensive (and arguably voyeuristic) measures, perhaps it makes sense that prudish officials in the world's most populous nation would go to the postmodern extreme of developing a computerized record. Exactly how such a record would yield to the government's ability to "catch" cheaters hasn't been clearly explained in recent news reports, but one might presume that the online availability of such information could serve to inform female sexual prospects to men who might not be entirely truthful about their marital status when being pursued by them.

In a way, could that then be a step toward women's independent sexual empowerment in China?

Probably not. While a whopping 70% of the world's sex toy manufacturing happens in China, and that it has a booming sex trade despite heavy suppression, China nevertheless has a deeply ingrained sexual conservatism.

For example, a 2009 business venture to build a sex-positive theme park to be called Love Land in Chonqing, itself being a bold move for even most Western democratic nations, was shut down by the government before it opened. There won't be any public theme-park nude statues, or modern books exploring topics related to anal sex for that matter, where they sing the March of the Volunteers.

But then, while I'm not necessarily out to demonize Communism per se, this is a nation whose government's efforts to control and regiment life on all levels is so tireless that it is a crime for dead Buddhist monks to reincarnate without government permission. So perhaps we shouldn't be too surprised.

A feast for the senses.

2011-01-16T20:40:00.004-05:00

Young Kinkster, aka Lolita, writes to ask:

"I have a question that needs your attention. My recently-acquired boytoy seems unwilling to, as we said in high school in the 'hood, go down. Specifically on me.

"I've taken a lot of sections of his cherry but this one frustrates me to no end. How do I go about persuading some almost-virgin to do this for me?"

Short answer: You can't.

Probably.

Well, maybe. It depends.

Read the long answer.

But first, have you tried tossing him into a crowd of drunken sorority sisters yet?

I'm going to begin with some comments about pussy, capitalism, and raising sexually informed men. Come walk with me.

One of the reasons that I am a strong believer in early sex education is because, in my view, it's the only way to undermine what mass market corporate advertisers impose on us from the moment we come screaming from the womb. Take the current trend toward bald (i.e, visually sterilized) pussy as an example.

Perhaps because of (mass market corporate) porn and its post-90s influence on pop culture, fashion, and advertising, throngs (thongs?) of women (and including, in some cases, children) have been starry-eyed foo-foo convinced that Brazilian waxjobs are de rigeur. It's the new conformity in marketed body modification. Consequently, hordes (hoards?) of men now may fully expect that the only "worthwhile" pussy is the seemingly pre-pubescent, bald, shaven one. This marketing concept has become so conceptualized into socio-sexual hegemony that I figure that the pressure on other (read: unoppressed?), furrier women feel must be huge. Big as a Victoria's Secret billboard.

Both feminist and queer theory have shown us how politically powerful bodies and sexualities are, and that's because of how fundamental it is to our personhood and identity. Genital modification is, and has been, used in cultures throughout the world as a means of social control for the same reason. How much difference is there then, for example, between young girls in Arabic cultures who are forced to undergo circumcision as a means of social control, and those women who "voluntarily" undergo cosmetic labiaplasty? Are they not arguably submitting themselves to the same end result? And for what? Because pussies terrify and deserve to be domesticated? Ok, YK, these examples are peripheral and extreme to your question, but don't they suggest that with so much control and unnecessary confusion imposed on women's (and men's, surely) genitals, is it any wonder that they remain such mysteries to most people?

In other words, sexual anthropology jargon aside, most men simply aren't appreciatively, reverently, respectfully exposed to a celebration of women's bodies... and as a result, are usually either terribly uninformed (at best) or are subliminally scared of pussy. There's a reason why the ancient Celts used sacred vaginal sculpture as a warning sign, not an enticement.

How could we break young men (and women, surely) away from that ignorance in their adolescence? Take the kids to a nudist resort. Please. Make some hot cocoa and sit down with them at the computer to explore the virtual Vulva Museum. Visit England and check out the sculptors at Brighton Body Casting, who have embarked on an extraordinary art project that will dash any notions or expectations about what women are "supposed" to be.

I know an excellent young man who developed a reputation as a superb, considerate, hot lover. He was raised in a polyamourous household in California, and in his late teens was introduced to the ideas of romantic sex-as-pleasure by various articulate and caring women. They taught him by discussing their experiences and what they expected from men. They used what could be described as softcore porn. They taught him that sex wasn't exclusively about procreation, but also about communication, and they taught him the basics of how not to fuck it up.

There are those in the world who might jump to the conclusion that this is tantamount to borderline sexual abuse, if for no other reason than his age at the time. Yet, he's been exposed to loving, caring, body-positive people who wanted him to grow to be a good man for his partner. Elsewhere, more sexually conservative, "legitimate" families do produce men who are abusive, controlling, selfish, socio-sexually inept, or fail to respect and value the women they profess to love.

Why am I writing this? What does this have to do with your boytoy not flicking your bean? Because when I was an older boy/young man/adolescent punk, pussy was as much an almost total, absolute mystery to me as it probably is for your playmate and most other men. Hell, it's only been within the last five years that I learned that the clitoris doesn't consist of the nubbin, hood, and shaft alone, but that its nerves and musculature are part of an entire wishbone-shaped mass that ensconces under and around the entire labia like an inverted horseshoe. Cool! Damn, I love it when there's something else to learn.

(Raise your hand if you knew that already. ...I'm counting about a tenth of you.)

So, to your question, dahlingk. I tend to shy away from seeking to "convince" a partner to do anything. My attitude is that if s/he doesn't already have a desire for something, the most you can hope for is to expose him/her to what it is you're into and make an effort at nurturing a new interest where none may have been before. You may find that he's simply not into it, and this might forever remain a sexual incompatibility between you. Whether or not that's a dealbreaker is up to you.

The Tomboy doesn't particularly like to suck cock. It disappoints me, but I'm mature enough to deal with it and choose to not let it bother me as long as I'm just her occasional lover. But if she were my primary partner (and especially if we were going to be monogamous), it'd be a Problem.

Yet, in a way, Cherry Boy's inexperience can also be to your advantage! If he's game, it might even provide you with a rare treat.

He's so new to his sexuality that everything is a fresh slice of pie. Apart from whatever it was he was stroking his cock to before he met you, all topics, nuances, and experiences remain fair game. Uncharted territory! If you have the patience, that might be fucking hot for you. You have become his sexual initiator, and as long as you're aware that almost every move you make will leave a longlasting impression on another human being's sexual consciousness and confidence, you could be in for a riproaring time. But it's a big responsibility.

I lost my virginity at 17. A late starter by some standards, but I more than made up for it by doing on-stage bondage performances within the next two years. Me, once the opportunity presented itself, I was eager to give my partner head and went at it with gusto. In retrospect, I wasn't particularly good at it then (too fast, too much pressure, not enough handplay, clueless about body language), but what's a kid supposed to know?

But it sounds like Cherry Boy lacks even the zeal. Assuming that he's at least been jacking off to images of women before you came along to offer him your delicious, flesh and blood self, then there's a reason.

He may simply be that selfish. So many young dudes are so focused on their own exclusive pleasure that it's become a stereotype. If Cherry Boy's among those ranks, I'd suggest that it's time to update your dating site profile.

He may be very shy. If he's otherwise trying to be a good lover, then he might not have the confidence to give it a go. I'm less inclined to believe this, but it's possible.

If it isn't selfishness, and if it isn't shyness, then (for him) something is standing in the way between his mouth and your body.

(I'm about to tread on some very sensitive territory. Caveat: as a man, I feel wholly unqualified to intelligently remark on the functioning of women's bodies or sexual health, and God knows guys have been doing that for centuries. What follows is strictly from my own experience and how I think I can best articulate it. We're all adults here.)

For the uninitiated young buck, bringing one's face and mouth and tongue to his lover's pussy can be a world-class adventure. Even young, experimenting proto-lesbians would, I'd think, have some clues as they share the same anatomy, but young lads feeling thighs on their shoulders for the first time have almost no idea whatsoever of what to expect and how "she" will respond. Pussies are complex, beautifully feral creatures that, for the mortally clueless, take a little getting used to. There's a full and rich orchestra happening there with diverse colours, scents, fluids, shapes, nuances, textures, zones, personalities and all of which capable of shifting its needs, demands, and sensitivities at a moment's notice.

When he places his face to you, it's your scent, wetness, and texture that's going to greet him first. You already know that. Like many women, maybe you've had some anxiety about that because, let's face it, sometimes men behave like insensitive morons.

For his book Coming Of Age In New Jersey, sexual anthropologist Michael Moffat "went undercover" and lived among coeds in the Rutgers University dorms to study sexuality among college students.

"Oral sex did not touch off alarm bells of guilt in either females or males as often as did "going all the way," he writes. "(Oral sex) dilemmas were more often that of hygiene. Men and women worried about learning how to do it and about whether or not their partner enjoyed doing it to them. Men complained occasionally about vaginal cleanliness."

Now, I know you're an intelligent, healthy person who knows how to take care of her body. I also know that if you did have some obstetric concerns and its possible relationships to your sexual wellbeing, you surely wouldn't be asking a man who writes a damned sexblog.

But consider this: what you know is a wonderfully healthy, happy pussy may not be what he thinks is a healthy, happy pussy. Brie takes a little getting used to when all your palate knows is cheddar.

A big part of his (current?) aversion probably is about your body being so foreign to him. He may be a little overwhelmed by all those new scents, juices, and textures. He's so new to sex in general that, despite what he thinks now, he really hasn't too much of an idea of what he's into, and not everything that he'll be into later will be something he'll crave right away. Some things take time, and for many lovers, enjoying oral can be an acquired thing.

Only once in my (younger) life did I make the mistake of suggesting to a partner that perhaps her cleanliness was an issue. I know now that it wasn't, that the cunnilingus experience I was receiving was perfectly natural and normal... but, like so many other guys, I never expected that the perspective problem was with me rather than a body issue with her. The partner in question was terribly embarassed and took to vaginal vinegar douching, which many now know isn't completely advisable. I wasn't rude or crude in my approach, but once I learned more, it became an important lesson for me. Embarassing a lover is no fun.

It took a little time, and a few lovers, before it really became clear to me how extraordinarily different bodies can be and that scent, taste, texture were as equally varied woman to woman, diet to diet, happenstance to happenstance. Eventually, learning the subtle nuances in scent, taste, texture a new partner's body might possess became part of the reason I'd be eager to feast on her. And the first time I'm with a lover, I'm always going to feast on her. Count on it. But it took time and paying attention before I got there.

So let's assume that it's his unfamiliarity with your yummyness that has him holding yellow flags. Because, let's face it, he's clueless. You ask how you can "persuade" him. I suggest that you try some playful games.

If you enjoy foodplay, you probably already know that whipped cream is the signature oral enhancement. Warm fruit nectar, maple syrup, canned cherry pie filling (poetic justice!), honey, crushed fresh berries, cream... anything that's wet and messy that makes it to his face can help him bridge the foreign sensation of stickiness while also blending with the (natural, healthy) scents and fluids that he's still learning about. Slice papayas and mangoes and smear them on one another. Use plastic bottles of chocolate sauce like water cannons. Enjoy the post-gooey-fuck shower together.

Roleplay some power exchange scenes like "Private Tutor." You're the professional sexual surrogate contracted by his wealthy guardian to teach him the "arts of pleasing a woman." His massive inheritance is completely dependent on your assessment of his ability to follow instructions. He does exactly and expressly what you tell him to do. Or "Cleopatra's Slave," where his very life depends on his ability to please the sovereign Pharoah queen as he kneels, head back in submission, waiting to be ridden. "Stick out that tongue or my guards will yank it out with pliers, you loathsome Greek!"

And when he's ready, get naked and read Violet Blue's Ultimate Guide To Cunnilingus or Ian Kerner's She Comes First in bed together. Make some popcorn and check out Nina Hartley's Guide To Better Cunnilingus DVD.

But sooner or later, if he has any hope of being a good and appreciated lover, he's going to have to wake up to the fact that pussies have fluids and scents and expressive diversity. If he's having a boundary with a perfectly healthy, natural, happy, properly enticed quim, dude is going to be awfully lonely. And doesn't he know that getting a rep for giving good head can only work for him?

As an added bonus, I polled some joyfully moistened blog readers (hi guys!) to share their thoughts about your plight. (See what perks there are when you become my Facebook friend?)

"How might you respond if your lover refused to go down on you?"

The Fearless Consultant was straightfoward: "That would be a no-can-do moment. I'd find out why, and if it were a pattern, it'd be see ya!"

"I think it's a deal breaker," replied Alise from the French spanking bench. (J'ai manqué voir vous là.)

"Not only is it selfish behaviour," she rightfully tells us, "but it would make me question his feelings towards the female body and women in general. If a guy wants his dick sucked (and which one doesn't) and thinks that should be his gods-given right but dislikes going down on a woman, then maybe he should consider trying a bloke so he won't have to worry about there being any vaginas in the equation. Even knowing the guy doesn't particularly like doing it and does it under sufferance is a deal breaker for me.

Sextoy Hostess was more patient, but to a limit. "As long as it isnt a regular occurence, I wouldnt worry. Sometimes I want what I want and I would imagine that he's the same, or we just want to get right to penetration and a quickie is just right. But, if it's regularly one-sided, I don't think that's fair. It's selfish and I probably would begin to feel cheated out of the enjoyment. I'd probably discuss it with him to find out why he isn't going down any longer. If he continued to NOT, I would take ORAL pleasure away from him as well. If that didn't change his mind I'd probably ask him (sarcastically) if he minded that I invite a girlfriend over while he's at work to replace what he's not giving me."

Poet and visual artist Shane Girl (no, not that one) would also have limited patience. "Depends on why he refused and if it's something he's done before with me. There really shouldn't be a refusal. No WAY! Otherwise, I'd need to figure out if this was his first time kissing below the belt and may give him a coaching lesson. He might love it! But if it's not his first time, then I'd need to know what the hell is wrong. The cootie is clean, free of germs and diseases, so why not? It amazes me when men want their knobs polished but don't want to return the favor, or if they're over-sensitive about doing something they know will drive a woman CRAZY!

"If he played his cards right, he'll know that's one of the ways to grab a woman's attention, providing he executes the tongue just right. There is a technique. Otherwise, it's not a two way street but a one way dead end, and then he's outta there."

And Boots, who tells me that she sweetens herself before an evening's feasting with milk and honey baths, reminds us exactly what it is that Cherry Boy is missing. If I could, I would pat her man on the back. Maybe he and I should take this kid behind the shed and learn him up some.

"I am concerned for your reader, the poor thing. My heart (well, my heart and elsewhere) go out to her.

"Having been beautifully and thoroughly attended to, year after year, with regular worship by my good husband's mouth, I cannot begin to imagine this girl's plight. When I think on the lovers that have come and gone, I cannot recall a man who didn't, at the very least, aim to please with his tongue and intentions, even though a fair few would do well to stick to receiving rather than giving.

"My man loves to pleasure me. And, oh my, he pleasures me well. His passion for tastings and tongue-fuckings is truly a thing of wonder and delight, and therein lies the key for giving good head methinks... That your man is unquestioningly enjoying himself whilst nose-deep within your wetness, to feel a man moan whilst his tongue explores your depth, or while he sucks and gnaws upon your eager clit... mmmm... to hear and feel and know that your lover is relishing in your scent, your texture, your wetness and your waves of pleasure is such a delight to the senses. He grows hot and swollen with lust 'tween my glistening thighs, not limiting himself to location nor limb, and it pleases me to see him so hard in his enjoyment as he worships my wellspring.

"After twelve years of his mouth on my cunt, he still brings me to that place of leg-shaking, panting, squirting exquisiteness. He teases with a mix of lip, tongue and finger, making my hips rise in anticipation and longing. A finger slowly circles my folds whilst teeth nibble at my turgid clit, and a tongue licks the length of my seam then pauses at my arse. A finger slides in there whilst another circles the button elsewhere, and he's eating me, hungrily. The stubble on his face is dripping with me, and he loves it. His tongue is at its length as he laps me up, his hot breath upon and within me, and I cum in his mouth. Hard.

"The wave washes over my body, and he inserts another finger into my tight arse, and moves his mouth to my clit to suckle while his other hand delves deep into my cunt, and my orgasm is kicked back up to the full height of eye-roll-back-pleasure.

"I do hope her man finds his manners, as poor head is surely poor etiquette."

Women of the sauna.

2011-01-15T15:00:00.003-05:00

Big ones that got away.

2011-01-11T22:00:00.002-05:00

The previous post had me remarking (ok, fine, bitching) about how winter probably will look like as far as my dating life is concerned.

That said, it seems like a good time to share three little stories from years past about "possibilities" that didn't turn out as well I might have wanted. I'm sharing these because I think of these incidents often, I really do, and I still wince even when I smile to myself about them. Oh, the pain.

The Exchange Student

New Jersey, 1997. I was the alpha male in what basically turned into an off-campus student house. It was a large, sunny place near a major university, and it was the first pad I had after the break-up of my seven-year relationship with Diva. I took in housemates to make ends meet, and they always seemed to be students.

She was from Japan. Long, straight, raven-black hair and a lithe, winsome form, her English was broken but her grace and charm more than made up for it. She came home with the most bizarre seafood-based snacks, and she laughed at my attempts to make California rolls with the wrong kind of rice.

I knew that she had a boyfriend. And maybe I was being a little clueless, whatwith me in a very strange post-longterm-relationship headspace. But on that evening when she casually stood with her shoulder against the doorframe to her room, oh-so-subtly beckoning me to come in and see the tiny Japanese mat that she used for bedding, something in me just wasn't seeing the signs. Long ago, a female friend had told me that I didn't always See how a woman flirts with a man, and this must have been one of those cases because the Exchange Student looked terribly disappointed when, perplexed, I excused myself away.

Oh, it breaks the heart.

The Flirt I Will Never Forget

Two or so years after it happened, I still think on this lost opportunity with pained laughter.

I was dating someone, and we were going to a then-trendy little out-of-the-way pub that hosted ambient drumming nights. My date had her djembe, and her young son (who was with us) was borrowing my ashiko to play. As we approached the pub from the street, I spotted a cluster of women on the club's patio, including one wee faerie in particular. We made eye contact as I opened the door for my date and her child, and I felt it right in my chest.

As the evening progressed, I would eventually find myself enjoying a pint at the bar while my date and her boy played among a circle of friends. An hour or so had passed by, and I was basically giving her some mother-and-son time to help him enjoy this otherwise all-adult night out. My presence as the-guy-Mommy-is-out-with was still an adjustment for the young man, although not a problem, but I was perfectly game to make things as easy as possible. After all, sooner or later, he gets a bedtime, right? Ain't I a nice guy?

I spill my pint at the bar. I'm totally embarassed, but I'm laughing about it, and that gets the bartender laughing with me as he refills my glass. My self-effacing humour must have been refreshing to those in earshot, because soon others are in hysterics too... and that's when I realize that the person right beside me, back to me, is the same woman who made eye contact with me at the start of the evening. Oh, dear.

She's tiny. Her hair is a cluster of tight auburn spirals, and the face that is framed by this dark coppery mane is full of character, laugh lines, thought, and intelligence. Her eyes grip me.

"Um... hi," I manage to stammer. She smiles. We make small talk. No, I hadn't spilled my beer on her. Thank God.

But soon she's putting on her coat, though she stops for a brief moment when she hears me quietly say, and with genuine disappointment in my tone, "Oh, you're going."

Her face was full of real apology. "Yeah, I have to go. I have friends waiting for me." A pause. "Are you here with someone?"

I can't lie, and I'm sure my face was full of apology too. I was. I was still very unsure about where that was going, it all being new at the time and with me already sensing possible deal-breaking cracks in the pavement, but yes, I was there with somebody. I said so, but I think she also read the underlying message because smiled more and opened up.

But you know what? I had stopped really listening. Not to be rude... but I was totally transfixed by how dropdead beautiful this woman was and how resonant her energy felt to me. She's wasn't glamourous, she wasn't pretentious, she wasn't wearing the look of some woman seeking to emulate a cosmetics advertisement... she was simply herself, auburn ringlets and simple all. So I found myself playfully nodding a lot, smiling wide, jerking my head in yeah-I'm-listening movements that, at the same time, were a comic exaggeration. She got the hint that yeah-I'm-listening-but-not-really and stopped talking. Once she did, I shifted the energy with a joyful smile and a still gaze directly into her eye. She looked right back into mine, and after a moment's silence as we held each other's consciousness that way, I spoke clearly.

"You are... gorgeous."

There. It was out. No nonsense. Straightfoward. A man whom she had never met before just came right out and told her like it was, and she remained completely still for a second before blinking her eyes. "Did he really say that?" her expression read. She stammered for a moment and brushed herself closer. I broke the eye contact to move my head aside as I took a sip from my glass.

"I just wanted to tell you that," I continued. Her face was radiant. She complimented me in return. We locked eyes again.

"I just have to know your name," I asked earnestly. Her smile beamed and her eyes twinkled under the red lighting at the bar.

"Morgan." I laughed, remembering another I have known.

I sighed deeply. I thought to myself that, in my experience anyway, when a pride of women are out-on-the-town together, their priorities are to stay that way. I was torn, but decided to back off gracefully.

Stupid move.

"Your friends are waiting, Morgan," I said with a smile, gesturing toward the door with my shoulder, "Go." Two or three women stood outside on the pavement, chatting and smoking cigarettes. And at that, Morgan slowly, she very slowly walked from the bar and me and this extraordinary moment to go out the door. After a glance.

And to this day I wonder what could have been possible. I shake my head at the thought. Sometimes I wask myself if it's at all possible that I'd ever run into her again.

Bree

It is possible, though God knows how faintly, that a thang with Bree still isn't an impossibility. While we're really very close and have a deep friendship than spans more than twenty years, we both are pro-poly people.

Bree is one of my best friends, and throughout our sharing together, there's always been a delicious undercurrent of sensuality. To me, she is one of the most beautiful, extraordinary women I have ever, ever known, and I mean that in every conceivable way.

A petite, athletic, Latina shorthaired brunette, Bree is an early40s medical researcher with a genius mind and the patience of a saint. There was a time when we were massage buddies, each visiting the other (and our respective partners at the time) to break out the almond oil, strip, and coax away our stresses. Superbly delicious days, those.

We'd go out to dinner once in a while, usually to discuss various projects we were both invovled with, but there were times when those dinner converations would turn to more personal topics. I still remember how she confided in me that her then-partner refused to accept her bisexuality and latent interest in transgendered women. I still remember, as we noshed on Mexican food and had one margarita too many, she whispered how much she really liked being fucked in her ass.

And I have seen Bree's ass. Oh, I have seen. She is sculpture, with a pert heartshaped, dimpled, olive-toned derriere that never failed to make me completely skip a heartbeat whenever my eyes beheld it. And were she to turn about and display that dense, black, perfectly rectangular trimming of fur under her navel... I can't begin to tell you how long I have wanted to drop to my knees, gently grasp her upper thighs, and feast upon her.

And she has seen me too. She was visiting Diva and I once, and I strode from out of the shower. Entering the room where these two exquisite women were, a towel barely wrapped around my midriff, I glimpsed a glaze in her dark eyes as she sat on the hardwood, a glass of wine in her hand, her sight riveted to the penis that swung from beneath the Egyptian cotton.

It was after that break with Diva, and in that same off-campus house, when we Almost Happened. She had come by for another massage visit, the first we would share in a long time, and things were on the skids (but not broken) with her then-partner too. I was skittish... I'll admit it... because, truth be told, I've had a crush (and still do!) on Bree for all the time I've known her.

She sat on the edge of bed as we talked. I was at my desk, which was very close to where she was, so close that when I stood to go in the kitchen for more of whatever we were drinking that I had to pass very close to her. I skirted my jeans-covered ass along the corner of the desk to avoid coming in contact with her... but that only served to have me angling my out-thrust groin very near her face as she sat on that bed. Prior to that, our afternoon together was full of friendly energy alone, but as I skirted by, her gaze went immediately to my bulge. And I saw the change in the look in her eyes.

I wish to God that I could tell you that I stopped, that I caressed her hair, and that I slowly unzipped those jeans while that bulge remained at face-level to her. I can't begin to tell you how often that possibility has crept into my fantasies, how much (and for twenty fucking years) I've wanted Bree to suck my hard, hot, thick, silken, flexing, pulsing cock. But I didn't.

What I did do was give her another long, sensual, hot oil massage. But this time, it was different.

We relaxed on cushions on the floor in a very Bohemian way. Sandalwood filled the air as I blended heated oils in my palm. She had removed her shirt and remained in bra and jeans as she knelt away from me. Gentle music. Quiet talk. Soon, she lay herself down and the bra was removed as her skin glistened in the low light. Like every massage we shared, it was an inwardly fulfilling experience for us both. I miss those days.

She had reached under herself to undo and slightly lower her jeans when I started working my warm fingers around her dimples at the small of her back. She wore no underwear that I remember. It didn't take long for my cock to stiffen as I felt the energy shift from sensual touch to something... else.

Her breathing quickened. At those moments when she might reposition herself slightly, I glimpsed her breasts enough to see that her nipples had hardened. Her hips began gyrating just... slightly. I swallowed and took a breath.

"Ok," I whispered, trying to control my own breathing and the strain of my cock trapped by my own jeans, "how does this sound? ...Just stop me if what I'm doing is becoming too much..."

We already had a deep trust with one another, so I wasn't at all surprised when she whispered just as quickly as I was breathing. "Ok." She looked at me from over her shoulder and smiled. She is so beautiful.

Slowly, painstakingly, I lowered her jeans. My heart was thundering in my chest as I peeled her denim away, and as she raised her hips to launch her behind upward, as her exquisite, perfectly shaped, muscular, naked ass was unveiled mere inches from my starving gaze and dry mouth.

In all of my sexual life, this memory is one of the strongest to ever remain with me.

My massage continued, but by now it was less about relieving her tension than it was about worshipping her body with hot oil and firm, slow, sensual kneads and caresses. Her flesh was tight in my grasp, and I relished how her muscles moved between my thumb and forefinger as I squeezed her in slow, upward, gripping strokes. When her thighs parted slightly, the faint sight of her dark muff and her beautiful nexus made my head swim. I count faintly, just faintly, detect her clean and feral musk amid the swirling scent of oil, and my cock stiffened even more. I desperately, desperately, desperately wanted to suddenly drop to the floor, grasp her ass in my hands, bring my face to her, and slide my tongue straight up the seam of her pillowy labia in a wide, wet stroke.

With a heavy breath of self-control, I leaned back and undid my jeans. I reached inside and withdrew my phallus from its brutal confines. She raised her ass a little higher. I held her cheeks in each hand and spread her open. Lowering myself, I slipped my shaft right into her gorgeous crevasse and began to glide the length of me there slowly, feeling her behind hold me in slick, hot, strokes. Her dark, starry anus glistened with oil, and I bit my lower lip as I felt it against that broad vein at the underside of my shaft. I held my cock from its base and tapped my spongy head against her there, and then rubbing it in fast motions right against that beautiful, winking hole. Bree relaxed on elbows and knees before me, her body glowing after the massage, breathing deeply and quietly. It was a moment that I had longed for, and to this day, long to have the opportunity to do again...

...Because I stopped.

Yes, it's true. I stopped. It took all of strength to force myself to, but I stopped. Why, in the name of God, did I fucking stop?

Because I was trying to be the Good Guy. Because while I was single, Bree really was not, and these were still days when "open relationships" were a rocky, challenging, and only occasionally successful thing among my circle of friends. "Polyamory" wasn't even a word in our vocabulary yet. Because I love her, and in some twisted place in my head, I didn't want to see something happen that might fuck something up. Call me an idiot, but that's how it happened.

Sure, at the time, I thought we might connect again, that we could still make something happen if she still desired it. But the opportunity didn't present itself, and within the next year, I was moving to Canada.

And, sometimes, I see her in my dreams.

Ice fishin'.

2011-01-09T13:00:00.002-05:00

For reasons that are totally unrelated to what I share on this blog, words can't express how relieved I am that 2010 has drawn to a close. Sure, my dating and sex life took some interesting turns this... uh, last... year, but other arenas in my world took even bigger jolts than the ending of my essentially-monogamous thang with Kara and becoming single again. The current economic downturn has certainly cut a swath over here at Rogue Enterprises, International.

Those other complications will probably take its toll on my dating life too, so who knows what'll happen, and what might or might not get shared here, in the coming short-term. But that's ok: God knows that I'll have plenty to say even if my bed is slightly quieter for a time. I'm not necessarily expecting a repeat of 2009's winter blight, and there's been some interesting prospects. I thought I might share.

I was very definitely winsome for a possibility with Rollergrrl. Um, yeah. It's so rare that I find myself that potentially attracted by someone simply through a dating profile and a phone conversation or two. Call it (on my part anyway) digital chemistry, lucky stars, happy algorithms... but in the end, the dude she was seeing, on the outs with, becoming otherwise disappointed with, seemed, at the last moment, to get his act together and treat Rollergrrl right for a change. Maybe I shouldn't have wished him luck... Still, it was nice to feel my chest tighten over possibilities again, and I still smile when I think about it. (Hey. You reading this? Good. Now let's set that just-friends date up for a pint or four, mm?)

So, 2011 is opening without me seriously seeing anyone. That's ok: it's fun to enjoy the options.

Kara and I still see one another, as friends, and get together when our hectic lives permit. She was over at my place for dinner recently, and much to my intrigued surprise, agreed that, yes, she'd potentially be interested in still getting together as kink playmates from time to time. Interesting. Mm.

Having recently rekindled some lustful play after several years of just-friends, I'm pretty confident that the Tomboy would enjoy getting together again too. We live far apart now, so if that were to happen, it could be a long while, but it's feeling good to have reconnected.

Once she learned that I was single again, Biting Tina started some heavy Facebook flirting with me. It's a little challenging because one of the reasons I put a stop to things between us was because of her apparent inablity to respect basic personal boundaries, and since I've already (politely, nurturingly) told her that I'm Not Interested, her persistence has been noticable. Should I feel complimented?

Dean tells me that she still thinks of me from time to time, which is always nice to hear. She also tells me that I should go to a damned munch "and get a girl." Ain't she cute? Since Molly keeps me on the guest list for some local polyamory socials, maybe I should consider her advice.

Hey, Morgan. You listening? C'mere with those tight jeans and spankable, pantied behind, damn you.

I'd love to get together with the ever-elusive, ever-mysterious Stacy again, but she's dropped from the face of the earth again. Not that she really would make for sound grrlfriend material, and that by her own past admission.

And that's part of The Thing. Sure, the male stereotype is to be simply chasing women to fuck, to (as Vesper Lynd put it) "see women as disposable pleasures rather than as meaningful pursuits." Truth is, I'd love to be pursuing that meaningful pursuit, and when the Fates have her cross my path, you best believe that I'll be open for her. But I'm also sober and adult enough to know that each of these aforementioned daughters of Aphrodite, outstanding and glorious felines they are, aren't necessarily seeking that. So I keep the dating site profile updated.

It would just be nice if some of the women to respond positively to my profile there actually, you know, lived in my region. Call me crazy. The Hippiechik... in Winnipeg? The Kinky Ph.D.... in Cleveland? The Rennie... in Flushing? Nice to know that the Blonde Gardener has added me to her "favourites" list... but she's in fucking Pittsburg. Please, please, guys... you're killing me here.

(And that includes you, Boots, you delicious raven temptress you, because you're on the other side of goddamn planet, even if you dangle statements like "have cunt, will travel" before me. Wench.)

Ok. Bikerdyke has me hot. She's (sorry, he's) local, thank God, and a genderqueer, shorthaired, countercultural subbie who's seeking a broadshouldered Daddy. Nice play possibilities there, if we ever get around to meeting. Hm.

Aggressive Subbie (really, that's what one of her online tests calls her) is intriguing, even if she tells me that I'm "not normally her type" (see below) but apparently interested enough in my profile that she keeps checking it out and wants to meet. But do I want to revisit my thoughts about having kids? Hm.

There is this creative, lithe, shorthaired faeriewench among my FetLife friends who stops my heart whenever I see her, and she's openly seeking a playmate these days... but how do I feel about her interest in watersports? Hm.

And, ultimately, here's the skinny: Yes, a deep, mutually rewarding, not-just-sexual, life-planning sort of relationship would be outstanding. Partnership is where it's ultimately at over here. I'm open, but still, I'm not holding my breath, man. More and more, I'm getting the sense that the single women of Toronto are exclusively interested in exactly the sort of neo-conservative, goose-stepping, corporate drones that I most certainly am not. Pity for them, no? So meanwhile, I think there'll be a lot of "ice fishing" for me this winter, and who knows what might or might not happen.

Now where did I put that rod and reel?

Congratulations, baby.

2011-01-06T14:40:00.005-05:00

Through the magic of the Internet, I've just learned that Shayne has given birth to a boy.

I've been thinking about you lately. He's beautiful.

Despite all the unnecessary nonsense, it'd be nice if we became friends again one day. Heartfelt and genuine congratulations, Pixie. I have no doubt that your son will grow to be as creative, sensual, freespirited, and courageously happy as you have been. Blessings to you all.

Die einreichende Walküre.

2011-01-06T14:00:00.006-05:00

This post may be a little anticlimactic and a little surreal, and if so, it's only because this most recent experience was as well.

The Valkyrie and I have been Just Friends for more than ten years.

We met when I was first visiting Canada, before the damned marriage that led to me taking residence here. I'd been visiting Toronto to teach some workshops, quickly found myself among a crowd of mostly interesting people, and immediately wound up seduced by one of her friends (but that's another story). The days when I was more innocent and impressionable.

(Oh, shut up.)

I visited Canada more often, dated other women from among that crowd of interesting people, and eventually moved here to pursue the aformentioned marriage-made-in-hell (and again, that's another story). But the friendship between The Valkyrie and I continued to grow, mostly founded on our shared interests, our drinking, and generally being opinionated, outspoken people in a British commonwealth nation where no one tells you what's really, truly, honestly on their fucking minds.

The Valkyrie is a very Teutonic, early40s damn-near-platinum longhaired blonde BBW who would look absolutely natural were she to come to dinner dressed in amber-decorated armor and carrying a seven foot pike bearing the head of her ex-boyfriend. She'd be the perfect alewife, clad in a heavy boustier and with her massive fists sporting two or three pottery tankards of frothing brew, except that she's far more likely to be among the drinkers at the worn wooden table beside the fire than she would be the wench to serve it.

Yes, it's true, she and I have been flirty with one another for years and years. Yes, during a mutual birthday party that we threw for one another, I semi-drunkenly tugged her into a private nook to give her a "friendly" kiss. (...Um, ok. I thought it was a private nook... it wasn't unti, loooong after when I was told her then-boyfriend witnessed thw whole thing. Oopsie.) And, yes, it's true, over the years, she's talked to me for friendship and counsel about her own sex life on the rare occasion.

But, and I swear on a stack of Prose Eddas, everything in the back of my mind was simply Just Friends flirtaciousness. Really.

Alright. There was the one time she came over my pad for dinner and there was... this tension... and the underlying question of, "Valkyrie, darling, are you here because you wanted to fuck?" It certainly seemed that she wanted to. Over a few glasses of wine, the question hung in the air, but in the end, both word and body languange made it clear that she had reservations. So nothing happened. And that was fine. We've been Just Friends, after all. And it quickly was put out of my mind. No worries.

So if you're getting the impression by now that there's apparently been this odd, lingering, hot-and-cold vibe from the Valkryrie, you'd be right.

Now try to imagine where my headspace was when, totally and completely out of the blue, I suddenly get this call from her some time after public knowledge among my friends was that I was single again. My headspace was in Complete Dismissal when it came to the Valkyrie. Totally off my radar. Not even a blip in the fuckability option department. Long gone.

So when she starts asking for my advice about how to best approach a bdsm scenario that she's been thinking about, I blinked a little to myself (because, lemme tell ya, the Valkyrie woulda been the last woman I'd have expected to have submissive fantasies) and simply offered my straightfoward, friendship-based, objective thoughts. Not a problem. Happy to help. That's what sex-positive friends are for, dude.

But what began as an unexpected little chat with an old friend quickly became a bizarre, though not unpleasant, gradual mental gymnastics session of leapfrogged ideas and expectations. Let me explain.

Let's call it a "performance art project" that she wanted to pursue, and one that would involve the Valkyrie submitting herself to an experienced dominant male who would escort her through a bondage experience that would intentionally result in her orgasm. That we share some background in such things is one reason, as she said, why she approached me, plus she knew about my background in kink, and she trusts me. So, when I invited her over to my place for a relaxed dinner to discuss all this with her in detail, I thought I'd be trying to learn more about her (sudden?) interest in kinkplay while also trying to get an idea of what sort of art piece she was envisioning. Because, over time and further discussion, it was apparent that wanted me to be her partner in this.

Whoah, said I to myself. So, my inner voice continued, you're not just asking for my thoughts, but to be my playpartner for said art piece? Hrm...

Maybe I would have been more relaxed had she just come out and asked me to do this from the get-go. I know I wasn't entirely thrilled to have had to put it together, despite the fact that such a request was, in reality, a charming and sensitive offer. But I'm kvetching.

She comes for dinner. I make some succulent marlin steaks in a light ginger-tamari sauce with butter-sauteed creminis. She breaks out some really excellent Hells Angels hydroponic cannabis. Good food, good hard cider, good weed, and a good friend who seems to be rekindling an interest in my bod and I'm feeling very, very nice.

But the Little Voice in my head knew that something was still amiss here, although I couldn't put my finger on it. Perhaps the best decision would be to take things one step at a time. Test the waters. See what's what. There'd be plenty of time to see where the Valkyrie's head was at as far as her submissive fantasies were concerned.

And it was when I was in this thought, in this cannabis-hued fog, when she stood close to me and pressed her double-D treasures against my arm and kissed me deeply.

"I've been waiting for you, you know," she said.

Had I been totally sober, I might have quirked my head to one side and asked her about that. But I wasn't. Instead, my hands reached upward and were soon squeezing two handfuls of very blonde, very German, very big tit, and I couldn't stop the laughter at the unusual (for me) experience of it all.

The bedroom. The Valkyrie, topless. My hands and mouth, feasting. Her wide and pink areolae. The snap of her jeans before my face. My teeth at her fleshy ribs as I undid it and lowered them. Denim being pulled down her legs. Her white panties. Her shaven mound. Her thighs in my hands as I closed my eyes and feasted, elsewhere, again.

I knelt up, stripped off my shirt. How odd to see my longtime friend before me, on her back on my back, naked. How interesting to see myself lubing my hands as she parted her strong legs wider. How the heat of her clung to my skin after I teased her open and began to slide my fingers... one, two, three... four... two from one hand and three from another... deeper, gently pistoning, moving inside her body. Her pussy opened like an orchid for me, and the Valkyrie gasped and bit her lips as she clutched the sheets, panted, and screwed her eyes tight. My hands glistened in the lamplight. She came into my palms.

On my back. She's kneeling beside me. My hands caress through her long, perfectly straight, platinum hair as the back of her slowly bobbing head fills my hand gently. I'm sinking into the pillow as I feel the cider, the weed, the food, and her soft and open mouth gently taking the head of me inside. It's a relaxed, slow movement that she's doing, no real suction to speak of, but a gentle bob of mouth and lip with the occasional dart of tongue. Gentle. Pleasant. She holds the base of me firmly in her fist, her face away from me, her body leaning against mine.

"You are just so... perfectly shaped," she tells me between tastes.

(Mm. Nice. I love it when lovers tell me that sort of thing. In my experience, so many women don't say what they're liking. Tell me. Men like to hear it too.)

I tug her up, bring her face to mine for deep kisses. My hands slowly down her spine, her hips, grasping her generous behind. Her kisses become deeper still when she feels my fingers teasing her rosebud, and her heart quickens. She's straddling my thigh, grinding her core against me.

I get the hint. I slowly spin around and over her, and she's already assuming a yielding position as she pulls a pillow under her breasts and parts her legs while raising that butt a little higher. My thighs at either side of hers as I kneel up, reach into the drawer nearby, and warm the lube in my hands before teasing her crinkled hole with it. By the time I'm noisily stroking my hardness and getting it wet, she's biting her lower lip and whispering very quietly.

"Yes, please, God, yes."

The tip of me against her, and I'm surprised at how fluidly, how easily she takes me in. She tenses just slightly, but soon I sense it's more from pleasure and expectation than discomfort, so it isn't long before my fists are just above her shoulders as I deeply stroke myself into her body. I'm fucking my friend of more than a decade in her ass.

She's gasping, her eyes clenched shut, repeating my name. I set myself to thrust my cock in long, steady strokes and feel the perspiration between my shoulderblades. I hold her open more with a palm gripping her right asscheek as I piston myself inside her in consistent, steady motions until she starts to stiffen underneath me. Shudders. Quaking. A brief moment of total, ecstatic silence just before her loud shout and whimper as she feels her cum build and finally crest while she's getting taken. I don't relent, I don't slow down just yet, I don't show her mercy, and she's getting the full length of me deep.

Her eyes open, her breathing steadies, and only then do I relax and bring myself to a gradual stop. I withdraw, we cuddle, and snooze for a short while in the lamplight.

"I think," she slowly says after I've left the bed to warm some towels for us, "that... that's the first time I've ever cum by being fucked in the ass..."

I smile. The rest of our evening was relaxing, full of talk and discussion, before we drifted to sleep. It was nice to not be in an empty bed again. The cats squeaking in the morning. A light breakfast. Tea. Showers.

"Would you like to fuck me in my ass again?"

I did note that this post would be anticlimactic. I was certainly anticlimactic, and experience has taught me that when I don't cum with a lover, there's usually a subliminal reason. True, that frequently happens the first time I'm with someone new, but my cells were telling me that it was something more.

Was it because she and I had been Just Friends for so long? Maybe. But if Bree ever found herself in my bed (and you'll learn about Bree in a future post), I have no doubt that my bursts would reach the stratosphere. So maybe it was because during our friendship, it's been on-again, off-again flirty with the eventual (seemingly) entrenched conclusion that Nothing Was Gonna Happen.

And maybe it was because, once this new vanillafucking started, the Valkyrie seemed to speed from zero-to-sixty. She wanted to share a bdsm-related art art project with me. Really? Sounds like fun! Ok, let's talk. She's been "waiting for me." Waiting for me? But... you've been blowing me off for years. No, she wants to be my playpartner. Uh, ok. Can we still talk about the project you want to do? No, she wants to be my slave... whoa, that's a big step, you sure you know what you're... She wants to be my girlfriend. Huh? Um, hang on, maybe cool, yeah I'm single right now, but you're going a little... She wants to see me every weekend... fast here...

Now, you'd think that I, being single now and potentially thrilled to encounter a partner with a passion for kinkplay and someone who already knows me really well, would have been flying high happy. But I'm also conscientious and a little bit of a cynic, and when my synapses are starting to hit overload, I've learned to listen.

And I like the Valkyrie. I really do, but I was starting to feel a little railroaded. I was still adjusting past the wait-we're-Just-Friends stage when I was being essentially told what my weekend schedules would start to be like.

You like me? Awesome! You wanna fuck me? Sweet! You want to splay yourself across my lap and be my playpartner? Cool! You wanna be my girlfriend? Yay, great!

But... could I be included in this decision-making process too?

It's slightly challenging to write this sort of thing because, you know, I'd be thrilled to be in a bonafide relationship again. I would. But if I can't do it with my eyes and head and heart and voice and priorities and boundaries open, being listened to as much as I work hard to be listening, then hey, I'd rather stay single. Good sex is great, it's a requirement, but dude, it isn't all of it. Not for a relationship.

So I was on the threshold of having A Conversation about this consciousness with the Valkyrie and see about happily working with her in her kinky art project alone for a while when the Fates helped decide it all for me. Within three weeks of our tawdry tussle, she had explored a kinky social site enough to connect with someone else, another male Top, in another city. She seemed smitten.

Oh. Ok.

She actually asked for my permission to pursue this other guy. What struck me the most about that was that, by doing so, she clearly had already developed kink expectations that I was her Top. I wasn't. Not by a long shot. One (ok, two) assfucks and a homecooked dinner does not your Top make.

Do I need to vanillafuck every potential subbie playmate before I consensually, happily use&abuse 'em? No. (Oddly, had I just dove straight into bdsm Top-headspace instead of as a relaxed-guy-just-taking-her-out-on-a-date-and-getting-to-know-you with Little Ginger, I very probably would have had her as Silly Putty in my hands too.) But because of all the mental gymnastics I found myself in, because subbie play is a totally new shiny for her, because sometimes I worry about her headspace and any possible fragilities under her double-D armour, I wanted to approach things an ittybittytitty step at a time.

Had she been collared by Me, yes, asking would have certainly been appropriate... but in my mind, we had barely scratched the surface. I never had a chance to catch up to the paradigms that she seemed to increasingly, rapidly want.

And trust Me, had I taken her under my glove, she would have fucking known.

We're still friends, of course. As best as I can, I've decided to keep a discrete eye on her because she's a kink beginner and God knows there are some pretty loopy dudes out there too. If it comes up again, maybe, yeah, I'll see about helping her in her project. But, as I continue in a nonpartnered world, I'm also a little relieved.

Auld lang syne.

2011-01-02T10:00:00.000-05:00

Bringing in 2011 was a relaxed, stag affair for me. I even turned down an invitation to a fetish event, and instead simply kicked back with some casual friends one of my favourite pubs.

But that doesn't mean that my mind and heart weren't entirely elsewhere as I tossed back a few pints before the bubbly came out of hiding.

Of course, Kara was on my mind. We brought 2010 in together passionately, with relaxed, languished, shared oral as we dressed for an evening out at a pansexual club where we would enjoy on-stage sexplay and shibari bondage as part of the festivities. Her beautiful ass would find itself soundly spanked in public, and she looked charming in my Top man's leather cap as I drove us back to my place later. We woke in the morning to even more fun as I took her from behind in the way we both enjoyed so much.

Her new year was brought in among family, children, and friends as part of a week-long holiday away. Nice.

Taking Shayne to a New Year's burlesque show remains among my favourite memories. I still recall how delicious she looked as she put on the red dress, and how sweet her skin tasted with the Japanese body lotion, that she received for Christmas. It was 2007, the last time I would fuck her spankable ass, and our evening together was a drunken, hysterical, ribald ball.

I have no idea how she brought in 2011. Most likely, she shared it with her man in the Pacific Northwest, and held her bursting belly warmly as she contemplated becoming a mother in this new year.

And, certainly, as I held a glass to my lips in my charming British-style pub, thoughts of the Grrl crossed my mind and heart. It was 2003, and the dimly-lit, golden-hued wooden cottage house was aglow with joy and sensuality as we cuddled and danced with champagne flutes in our hands. The entire house smelled of a roaring fireplace, and I was passionately in the depth of love.

I suspect that she will have brought this new year in with whomever she's seeing now, if she's seeing anyone now, and with joy of having recently become a grand-aunt.

I love and miss you guys. You remain within me.

Happy New Year from Urban Roguery.

2011-01-01T00:00:00.001-05:00

And now for something completely different.

2010-12-30T17:00:00.001-05:00

We got mail.

2010-12-30T14:05:00.005-05:00

Just a quick word to say a strong and pleased thank you! to Urban Roguery readers who have been emailing, Facebooking, and Tweeting me to share your thoughts and questions. Rest assured that those of you who have been writing with questions (such as advice on how to be an effective Top or how to get your squeamish boyfriend to suck your beautiful pussy) will see responses in the near future. I have a crack team of internationally acclaimed scientists at work as we speak.

Really.

Meanwhile, this postal carrier has some very pretty tits, don't you agree?