Flute.

His name was Alex.

Urban Roguery: Six years of shameless decadence.

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.

Wir sprechen verschiedene Sprachen.

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

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

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

But it became clear that we simply speak different languages.

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

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

No more oopses.

That being said:

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

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

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

Cupcakes? I'm glad we talked. Kisses.



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

The word of the manor lord.

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

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

Oh, for the love of God.

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

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

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

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

So, this post is also something of a rant.

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

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



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

Bring me my cognac, wench.

But let me explain.

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

blink
blink blink

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

What the fuck is she talking about?

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

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

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

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

Little Ginger: "I fucked up my chance?"

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

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

And that realization changed everything.



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

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

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

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

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

Does this really need saying?

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

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

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

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



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

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

Some of them can even spell.

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

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

There's a long pause before she replies.

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

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

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

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



Hrm. I actually can't disagree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So. Ginger? I have a better idea.

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

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

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

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

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

But you will be disciplined.

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

Dismissed.

Go.

Is the Great White North really that frigid?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the happy countercultural house near the park.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: *winking shrug*

Serene: Did you just feel the house shake?

Me: That good, huh? ;)

Serene: :D

Civil disobedience, Canadian style.

Women of the protest rally.

In honour of the G8 and G20 Summits in Toronto

Finding tribe.

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