Thank you, Edeltraud and Charles.

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.

Tabletalk.

Hey. Good to see you. Come on in.

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

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

You want cheese on your burger? Cheddar or provolone?

The new girlfriend?

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

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

Go for it. Yeah, they do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Context?

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

Hell yeah.

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

So why do it to Little Ginger?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why so?

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

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

Can be, I think.

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

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

Oh, c'mon. "Cuntswipe?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ooo ice cream. Have any for dessert?

The Black Jack Stroker by California Exotic Novelties.

When I was a kid, my father took me to see the 1983 Charles Bronson vigilante/cop film 10 To Midnight. Dad was a big action movie fan, a very typical guy in that regard, and always could be depended on to see the latest gun-toting, car-chasing, machismo-riddled strip of celluloid. Mom was good for occult thrillers and James Bond. Either way, I would happily munch on my Whoppers with the hit men, demonic spawn, spies, and man-eating sharks.

(10 To Midnight also featured a very nekkid Ola Ray who, in addition to being Playboy's June 1980 Playmate of the Month, thrilled me because I was dating a Nigerian at the time. The sight of her mocha self in the requisite shower-scene-as-the-crazed-killer-looms-nearby definitely caught my attention.)

But what stands out in my memory, even more than Bronson's snubnose .38 or Ray's beautiful brown tits, is the toy.

Psychopath Warren Stacy (played by Gene Davis) is a sexual predator. During a raid on his apartment, he's found in his bathroom with a large, bizarre apparatus that (to me) looked like a small fire extinguisher tank with some kind of J-shaped red rubber or plastic tubing attached to one end. The whole thing must have been two feet long. Later, while interrogating him in classic bully-cop fashion, Bronson tosses the thing on the table before Davis with a clatter, shouting, "You know what this is for, Warren? It's for jerking off!"

And then it hit me. My junior-year-high-school brain met my burgeoning, straining libido and stars burst in my head. The tank was for suction. The tubing was for his cock.

"Holy fuck!" I thought to myself, a malted milk ball held in mid-crunch between my teeth and my tongue. "They make machines to suck it??"

I very probably jacked my tender, young dick that night and burst my load into the stratosphere just with the thought of having such a thing. It did remain in my fantasies for years to come. I mean, just think of the fucking convenience.

But, and perhaps only until very recently, sextoys for men has had an element of shameful taboo associated with it. While the adult toy market easily and readily sensualizes the buying experience for women, sometimes relating the ownership of a vibrator or dildo with personal sexual empowerment and independence, most marketing strategies have yet to bridge the ambivalence that many guys might have. Many men still inwardly believe that to purchase or use a sextoy somehow conveys the message that "they have to" because they're "unsuccessful" with women. Owning a sextoy becomes connected with shame and self-effacing embarassment. This, in turn, enables interrogating police officers to hurl these toys at suspects, shouting things like "You know what this is for, Warren? It's for jerking off!" because it will emasculate him into submission out of his own shame for having the thing in the first place.

This, of course, is absolute bullshit. This is also one of the ways how patriarchal culture actually works against men, because this sort of shame robs us of wholly enjoying what would otherwise be a perfectly fun experience. Sure, it's perfectly possible that anyone (man or woman) can and may use a sextoy because a date didn't present him- or herself that Friday night, but that doesn't have to mean that this sort of bodyfun is mutually exclusive to being with a partner. And what's to suggest that someone (man or woman) couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't enjoy using toys while with your partner?

So imagine my personal glee when, after fantasizing about blowjob simulators since my teens, I had the opportunity to review one.



California Exotic Novelties is among the most successful and prolific adult toy manufacturers to be found anywhere, and frequently collaborates with respected sexperts and well-known adult performers to develop and market their wares. A woman-owned company, they contribute to breast cancer research. They very probably made the cheesy (but clever) boardgame you or your spouse got at the bridal shower.

The Black Jack Stroker features "robotic suction action" with "the perfect fit." It consists of four primary separate parts: a rubber manual pump, the battery-powered suction and vibration controller, an interior sleeve, and the plastic casing which includes fist grip and vibrating egg. Made in China, its overall length is 12.5 inches (32cm), the business end being 6.5 inches (17cm), and 2.5 inches (6cm) wide. It weighs 21 ounces (.6kg) and is powered by four C batteries to provide its individually-controlled vibration and pumping functions.

The important feature, as far as your cock is concerned, is the interior sleeve. The dead-black, well-shaped lips could seem a little ominous (unless you're into goths), and they're very, very firm. The sleeve's interior also has dozens of round nodules to enhance sensation, but certainly there's nothing to simulate warmth, moisture (unless you use water-based lube), or the action of a swirling tongue. Made from TPE, it retains some heat and is elastic, but (if your sense of political correctness wants to know this) it was probably fashioned by a nasty chemical corporation like Monsanto or Dupont. But does it feel good on your dick? With lube, not bad.

The suction comes from your manual use of the pump. The pistoning effect really does precious little toward contributing to that apart from the visual stimulation, and the repetitive, mechanical noise this feature makes is not quiet at all. This also means that to really enjoy this toy, both hands are required to operate the pump (and keep a finger handy near the quick-release valve) and hold the entire thing steadily on your cock. Once a rhythm is in place this wouldn't seem so bad, but the sleeve remains attached to the hard plastic casing only by virtue of a 4cm grip curling over the casing opening. Even a moderate amount of lube, plus some vigourous thrusting or stroking, can easily make the sleeve detach from the casing. This can be frustrating to deal with, probably requiring the user to ignore the topmost handgrip to the Stroker and hold it by the base to keep the sleeve in place. Fucking annoying, really. Why is it so difficult for male sextoy manufacturers to come up with a design that doesn't include multiple, separate pieces that each have to be manually (and distractingly) secured?

The plastic casing is made from ABS, a recyclable thermoplastic also used in protective headgear, auto parts, pipes, and tattoo ink. Other parts are made from PVC.

The vibrating egg is affixed to the interior top of the plastic casing, and its effect on the head of your cock can easily make you see stars when properly combined with that good, if labour-intensive, rhythm. That is, if seeing a wire in there doesnt give you heebiejeebies. When all the component sensations (suction, pistoning, the lips' grip, the nodules, and the vibrations to the cockhead)are running smoothly, the Stroker can be pretty sensational when it wants to.

Does it completely simulate a blowjob? Not exactly, no, because it doesn't have a tongue and your lover doesn't have a vibrating egg down her (or his) throat, but it's still a interesting experience that had me shooting the first time I tried it.

But after then, I was quickly reminded that the Stroker is being marketed as a novelty. Hell, it's in the company name. Marketed as a novelty, manufacturers absolve themselves from a lot of quality control (and, in the case of toys made with phthalates, possibly safety).

The truth is that, for me, the best blowjobs eventually become a little vigourous and passionate. I like to thrust. Once the 'novelty' of finally satisfying my teenage oh-my-God-you-mean-they-make-things-that'll-suck-it fantasy had been met and I was moving past the newness of the toy (say by the third time), my body brought me back to wanting to thrust and fuck that little, firm, goth-black, elastomer mouth. I set the phaser piston on stun, the photon vibrator on kill, found my rhythm with the manual pump and held that sleeve in place by the base while giving this sucker a real Mythbusters-level road test.

And I promptly broke the goddamned thing.

klik whirrr wheeez All gone. Bye bye. So sad. On a downstroke, I simply oversuctioned, overpistoned, overjacked the big bad Black Jack Stroker until it too seemed like a crestfallen, whimpering, sniveling suspect on the other end of an interrogator's desk. It was defeated.

Would I recommend it? Actually, yeah. Compared to other strokers I looked at, this one seemed more comprehensive and fun to use, even with the headaches. The Blow Job Stroker seems to be more high-tech, and gadgets like the Solo Slider try to do the job is a handier, simpler fashion. But I wouldn't expect to be too vigourous with the Black Jack, and I wouldn't expect it to replace the fleshy passion of my woman's mouth, tongue, hands, breath, warmth, zeal, hunger, and whimpering.

Especially if she were, you know, Ola Ray.

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!

Speaking up for kink and culture.

In a previous post, I cited a mental health website that offered some strong, clinical arguments to suggest that kinky people suffer from a paraphiliac mental disorder.

In the view of these writers, kinkster- and genderqueer people are therefore included among the ranks of pedophiles and presumably other sorts of folk who engage in abusive, non-consensual, criminal, harmful activities in their lives.

"The essential feature of sexual masochism is the feeling of sexual arousal or excitement resulting from receiving pain, suffering, or humiliation," the site states. "The pain, suffering, or humiliation is real and not imagined and can be physical or psychological in nature. A person with a diagnosis of sexual masochism is sometimes called a masochist.

"The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders," they continue, "is used by mental health professionals to diagnose specific mental disorders. In the 2000 edition of this manual (the Fourth Edition Text Revision also known as DSM-IV-TR) sexual masochism is one of several paraphilias. Paraphilias are intense and recurrent sexually arousing urges, fantasies, or behaviors."

I finally got around to chiming in on their comments. I reached for my academic mortarboard (or was it my headmaster's cane?) and stepped up to the mike:

While it's always possible that a person suffering from a mental disorder may have an interest in these fantasies, it doesn't necessarily equate that a person engaging in consensual, expressive sexuality need do so because of an existing mental disorder.

Human sexuality of all stripes often includes a cognitive foundation involving power structures and roles. For many people, the deliberate and consensual application of these different power and authority structures (in a conscious and nurturing environment) can add enticing dimensions to one's sexual play. For some, the use of many kinds of physical and mental stimulation (such as spanking) adds another level of excitement.

People who engage in this sort of imaginative and creative sexplay are not the demons under your bed. Most are highly educated people coming from very professional and leadership-oriented backgrounds, with sound and happy families, paid-for cars, and mortgages.

Tragically, yes, there are people in the world who use power-exchange or bondage play or similar elements within the BDSM milieu for things other than safe, sane, consensual adult sexplay between knowing partners. But then, equally tragically, genuinely abusive people can also be found among the clergy, law enforcement, child care workers, and in other places in life where one wouldn't expect criminal activity.

If one thinks back far enough, deep enough, it wouldn't be unusual to find some kind of "kinkyness" (however one might apply that highly subjective term) in one's sexual fantasy life, including as far back as childhood. It's part of the human sexual awakening experience. Attempts to argue otherwise often fail to grasp the whole breadth of human sexual history and anthropology, and simply resort to trying to sell a specific, limited, restrictive idea about what is "right" and "appropriate" from a culturally myopic point of view.

In other words, the world's a lot bigger and broader than you probably think, and just because I spank my grrlfriend, that doesn't mean that I should stand in line for a thorazine shot.

Just sayin.

Veronica Andrews.

Say it ain't so! The quintessional blonde versus brunette rivalry coming to an end? Can't be.

Comic geeks, pulp romantics, and pop culture enthusiasts are all abuzz with the news that teenage comic icon Archie Andrews is tying the knot with brunette li'l rich girl Veronica Lodge (and, unfortunately, I don't mean to tether her to rival blonde Betty Cooper) after, uh... seventy years of dating. In that time, Archie fans have witnessed the high school rivalry between the main characters recycled over and over again, the (sometimes playful) enmity between Veronica and Betty remaining a constant understory with its own spin-offs. Even now, those enraptured by the pulp soap opera can catch details on blogs from the characters in a way that's almost true-to-form to the snickerings of real, red-blooded, Facebooking, Twittering, cellphone-addicted adolescents in every home with a computer.

If you're a parent, you're probably snickering right about now. You understand.

It's really a clever marketing tactic, don't you think? Such an "announcement" would certainly awaken geeks everywhere, reorioenting their attention from whatever is at hand and back to the Archie comics of their youth. We might even expect that, in time, the wedding bells will be replaced with the din of new and deeper rivalries. It's good copy.

Will Archie have an affair? Will Betty sabotage the marriage? What about Jughead and Moose and Reggie?

This might all seem like silly comicbooky stuff to a lot of people, but there's something to be said for the sexuo-cultural anthropology exhibited in these comics, and in comic stories in general. The Veronica/Betty rivalry illustrates many of the same issues people face, and in making fun of the dating scene, it itself reflects many truths and foibles and anxieties about it.

But more to the point for a sexblog, it also helps entice the imagination. There is Archie slash out there, and for years, spanking enthusiasts have enjoyed twisting the comic themes for their own (... ok, our own) deliciously seditious, uh, ends. How many of our own fantasies, especially from childhood, were sparked and nurtured because of comics such as these?

Archie and Veronica. But we polyamorists were always reading between the lines anyway... how much simpler, how hot it would be if these inked minxes pursued their own poly lifestyle. Oh, the Riverdale gossip that would happen then.

Lust and Wrath.

One thousand years ago, a charismatic fellow named Odo remarked that "to embrace a woman is to embrace a bag of manure."

A few hundred years later, two young men published a book, a real best-seller, that argued that sexuality (especially that of women) would be the downfall of all that is right and good unless it was violently persecuted.

This tradition for antisexual, so-called moralist God-fearing behaviour would perpetuate itself again and again and again in the years to follow. Sexual repression has a long and colourful history, often couched in so-called "higher" ideals.

Now, this doesn't mean that material of a sexual (or "prurient" if you prefer) nature was unavailable to the people, mind you. Certainly not. In fact, English literature alone boasts multiple examples of stimulating material, both clandestine and the wildly popular.

Sometimes, sex-positive reading could be found within both the spirit and heart of the same sort of people who otherwise would seek its purgation. That sort of suggests something, does it not? And sometimes, sex-positive expressions could be found in times and places far more ancient and diverse than that.

But still the proponents of sexual repression, of single-minded judgment, of homogenous culture, of whitebread patriarchal gender roles continued to beat their drums and their chests before the lost and wayward sons and daughters of Sodom. Finger-pointing was good business when the sawdust got into your shoes as they bellowed quotes under the Big Top, or later on the radio, and later still on the small grey screen after Mitch Miller stood behind the bouncing ball.

But between chomps on his cigar, an Austrian guy had already started a dialogue about sex that had nothing to do with the book those pulpit pounders kept quoting from. A few years later, between chomps on his pencil, an American guy wrote a book of his own that a lot of other people started quoting from. Not long after that, something incredible happened in the world of print media when, heavens-to-Betsy, women started talking and learning and sharing and realizing and connecting in a way that would have given good ol' Odo a righteous heart attack.

Then came Gloria. And Betty. And Nancy and Xaviera and Reay. Then Camille and Susie and Nina and Violet and so many more contemporary voices proudly sharing, teaching, discussing, and even climaxing in joyful abandon for and about empowered, articulate sexuality.

Welcome now to the postmodern cybersexual world. The erotic classic literature remains with us, and many modern writers continue the tradition. But now we can also add to that genre a wider world of media and expression. Phonesex chat lines yield to webcam sites, VHS (itself the successor of Super-8 film loops) yields to DVD and YouPorn, and earmarked paperback sexbooks yield to the growing world of internet sexblogs.

But still, even with all we've learned and celebrated since Kinsey and Playboy and My Secret Garden, since vibrators moved from the Sears & Roebuck catalogue for "curing women's hysteria" to the glass counters of upscale boutiques, since the development of both oral contraception and erection enhancement in convenient little tablets, there are still those heirs to Odo who insist on trying to spoil the party. They are Saturn to our Dionysus, saltpeter to our ambrosia, Wrath to our Lust.

They are the small-minded folk who harass sexbloggers.

It's because of these spoiledsports that so many people, throughout history, have been terrified to express themselves as they truly wish to live, do, be. This is part of the reason why elements of the fetish community can be as insular as it is accepting, because once we realize that we all (well, ok, most of us) have our "kinks," it becomes much easier to appreciate the diversity available in the world, providing no actual physical/emotional/mental harm is being committed. "Safe, Sane, Consensual."

Nevertheless, some sexbloggers have strong apprehensions about their sexblogging because of the possibility of a blog's discovery by another in the writer's life. Many of us write with a level of anonymity for that reason.

I, for example, use my pseudonym because it's simply more convenient. It allows me to share my truths without too much worry that I would hurt a lover's feelings should I write something critical (although that rarely happens). It's also because I'm part of a spiritual community that, in my region at least, is really quite judgmental and sexist and hypocritical despite its reputation for more openmindedness than that, and I enjoy not having unnecessary headaches. To date, two lovers have deliberately been told about this blog (and continue reading it) (hi guys!) and another found it by accident (hi!), all to no ill affects or breach of trusts thus far. But I may be lucky.

One sexblogging colleague of mine tells me of people who not only send her hate mail, but have doctored blog-shared photographs in particularly nasty ways and resent them to her. In one case, an individual was observed staking out hotels where the writer's consensual escapades took place. These people then would use other internet resources to lambast the subject's sexual play in troll-riddled forums where they freely espouse their judgement.

Another sexblogging colleague recently posted about how her blog had been "discovered" by a co-worker. This co-worker found it titilattingly necessary to share the fact among others in their office, and this resulted in a complete change of decorum toward the blogger. She became the brunt of colourful "humour" and, in one case, had actually been physically approached and touched inappropriately. She writes about sex, so she had become "easy" in the eyes of these social Neanderthals. She had become a victim of sexual harassment at work, but her first instinct was to panic about her blog rather than redress the infantile and liable behaviour she was being subjected to at her place of employment. This eventually changed.

And there is the man who stopped sexblogging because his ex-wife thought it would strengthen her case during a custody dispute to argue that his bisexuality made him a bad father.

Or the courageous, selfless woman who stepped down from her position as a successful parochial schoolteacher because of her sex-positive community building (and blog) as part of an agreement to keep her A-student child out of controversy. Not that there would be any controversy without the immature judgement of these allegedly educated people, or that child would have been part of it to begin with without their machinations. But even this (tragic) compromise didn't prevent the God-fearing powers-that-be from twisting the knife later, sending this happy and sane family into unnecessary duress anyway. So much for loving thy neighbour. Or being human.

It is easy for lesser persons to point fingers toward those who are living joyfully. In our post-Puritanical Western culture where the likes of radical conservative and religious zealots still manage to bluster their way into large microphones, it is easy to sometimes forget that those people who choose to behave thusly not only weaken their arguments with such illegal and reprehensible tactics, but they actually empower the braver souls to carry on doing what they choose to do, what makes them happy.



Sexblogging, at least here in Canada, is not a crime. The harassment these people may be responsible for very probably is. The inter-office sexual assaults definitely are.

At the root of voyeurism is the desire to want to secretly witness the escapades of others. Those of us who enjoy sharing ourselves pose for photographs or films, write about our sexuality, or create blogs. Exhibitionists. We give consent, and thereby have an amount of control over what will or will not be shared.

But sometimes even consentual exhibitionism is not enough for some and an invasion of privacy (or worse) is necessary to achieve the desired thrill. These are the people who delight in seeing sudden "surprises" on Jerry Springer programs, or ferret out personal information about others for amusement, or who create and use surrepticious networks to share their vitriol with others of like heart. These are the passive-aggressive people who delight in gossip and drama and hurtfulness. They want their judgment to be shared, to be agreed upon, so that their lives may seem so much less uninteresting and puerile. They form social bonds with others to cluck tongues and roll eyes with. Misery may love company, but judgement requires a forum.

The irony is that people who take the time to send virulent remarks, or harass, or cajole, or stalk often do so out of a sense of righteousness and moral vigilance. But what in fact they only manage to demonstrate is their own pathetic ignorance, provincialism, and compassionlessness. They advertise how empty their lives truly are. There is no sophistication in bigotry. Further, I'll submit that many, if not most, people who target literate libertines do so out of a latent and conflicted jealousy.

Nyeh nyeh. So there.

But such jealousy can be easily surmounted: you're not going to beat 'em, so simply join 'em. History is not on their side. In every age and in every repressive regime, the human imagination and desire for passion has surmounted every attempt to contain and control it. Jeannie is out of the bottle, sons and daughters of Odo, and she's sucking Master's cock. Probably Major Healey's too.

And she likes it.

Love your sexuality however you choose to express it, be it, do it, have it. Sexually "conservative"? Fine. Love the arousing beauty of your partner in whatever happily monogamous, missionary, bimonthly way you choose. Stay dressed. Keep the lights on. Make it quick. Be sure to get to confession right afterward.

And if you can't handle that, really, then please consider continuing your own guilt-ridden masturbation sessions while keeping your Wrath and Envy and Anger away from our Lust.

A closing thought... How can any "sin" that has helped elicit minstrels and artists and poets to heights of inspiration, join people in happiness, be the one of the most important topics for every culture in every era on every continent on the face of the earth, and repopulate the planet after plagues and pogroms and crusades and wars be called "deadly" anyway?

Now go get laid, wouldyapleez?

On spanking.

"Why do you enjoy spanking so much?"

As I turned the car onto Queen Street, my beautiful and delicious friend Morgan asked me a question that immediately had my penis, pressed against my thigh in my tight Lee's, swelling. Spanking. Oh baby.

"God," I said, smiling, palming the wheel. "Just hearing you ask me that is getting me hard."

She blinked, surprised, and smirked. "Really?" I looked at her and nodded mischievously.

Every time we get together for one of our lunch dates, the thought of having Morgan draped over my lap again, on my bed or on the futon in the den, comes to mind. At this point, we've been together socially more often than sexually, and while she's somewhat off-limits at the moment, I still enjoy tawdry memories. Gently tugging her panties down her thighs, revealing her delicious backside. I want to spank her again. Often.

Mmm.

While there is debate about whether or not power-exchange fantasies in themselves consist of a paraphiliac mental disorder, researchers often agree that many sexual fantasies begin during childhood. I find it curious that often these early childhood-based fantasies frequently seem to have more to do with power structures than genitalia. Could it be that, in not necessarily comprehending the details about penises and vulvae, but in comprehending the differences between submissive and dominant social roles, do very young humans thereby sexualize the environments they are most familiar with? Do heinies stimulate even before wee-wees and woo-woos?

They certainly did with me. Speaking from my own sexual development as a child, I remember finding behinds fascinating even before I completely comprehended what dicks and pussies were all about. I remember innocent kiddie games of "House" that somehow included "Nap Time," which somehow included some amount of sensual cuddling with Elizabeth the babysitter. Over time, this would become kiddie games of "Doctor," especially with a childhood friend (whose nickname really was), Binky. I remember one session of "Doctor" where, in our purely childhood-consensual, positive-and-healthy body-discovering explorations, she bared her behind to me for an "examination." It was the first time I had seen a girl's underwear, a girl's bum, more, and it struck me like a thunderbolt. Sure, there were genitals to be viewed by my plate-sized, healthfully curious eyes... but it was her heinie that so enraptured me. The curves, the curves.

Was it because my kiddie brain wasn't quite comprehending "labial mound" yet, but oh how I comprehended "behind"?

Not long after those experiences is probably when my childlike sexual imagination went into gear, and I remember having the most bizarre and imaginative fantasies that usually involved observing girls in their panties. Panties started to excite the hell out of me, and long before I had ever heard of Playboy my barely pubescent self was having heart palpatations over the women's underwear pages of the J.C. Penney's catalog. Ah, innocence.

What I would have given in those days if the Super X-Ray Specs advertised in the back of Spiderman and Thor comics were really true. I bet almost every boy who could read has had the same damned thought.

You can see them in their panties...

Not entirely unlike Jade Chan hentai (which I only recently discovered), among my more intense proto-spanking childhood fantasies involved conveyor belt devices. Big, ornate conveyor belt devices. Conveyor belt devices where sniffling, submitting girls would be "forced" to endure having their pants lowered, followed by the panties, and then yielding to swats and "Doctor"-like "examinations." Pinches. Measurements. Thermometers. Baby powdering.

Looking back on this as an adult, I think it shows a lot of sexual imagination, but I also think these were the foundations for some of my Topspace. These fantasies were all about power, and all about a boyish passion for the feminine derriere. To this day, while I'm adept at the use of crops and chains and floggers and whips and clamps and other delicious toys of torment... my favourite kinky niche remains good ol' fashioned OTK play. I needs to see the butt.

When I bounced the clubs, when I attended the playparties, sometimes I felt just slightly apart from my leather colleagues. Most of my friends were interested in glorious bondage techniques or developments in electro-stimulation play, or something else that was very esoteric. I enjoyed these things also, but sometimes it seemed like the simple pleasures of hoisting a willing, skirt-clad tart over my knee seemed, well, vanilla by comparison.

...That is, until the night Diva and me attended a private party where our play was the centre of attention, with her on all fours on an ornate Oriental rug, our hosts and their guests seated on chairs surrounding us, as I spanked and cropped her bare bottom hot and red and angry.

I have daydreams of organizing a private spanking club, hosting private playparties for OTK enthusiasts. I've wanted to do this with a kinky partner at my side (and over my knee), but I may even try on my own.

Discovering my sexuality, I found asses and anuses captivating long before other elements of a woman's sexybits ever sparked in my libido. Saying I'm an "ass man" is too general... it's virtually the root of my lust, and I think it's because it grips me somewhere deep in my medulla where only the oldest, most primal of my sexual awarenesses remain.

So part of the reason why I love to spank is the sheer devotion my sex has for a beautiful woman's behind. I've written before about how I see learning a woman's anus is to learn the most intimate part of her, and God knows I adore sexual intimacy. I could devote hours to sensually snaking myself around, upon, with my partner's bum, raining it with nibbly kisses and bites and explorations with warm, relaxed, friendly hands. To begin gently spanking my partner's bottom is for me to become entranced with the movement of her muscles and skin, the way her flesh yields and ripples and returns, to enjoy the gradual glow on her dermis, to hold her as she sighs and breathes and gasps. The curves, the curves.

When she's across my lap, I love the feel of her ribcage trapped between my bicep and my chest as I bend forward, my face even closer to her derriere, clutching her firmly as my free hand rains delicious torment to her. I love the feel of her imbalance as her toes strain for the floor, her hands grip the legs of the wooden chair we're upon. I love the yelps and the bleats and the sharp intakes of breath. I love feeling her slick wetness between her thighs after she's been given a good reddening, and then the blushing on her face and in her eyes as I bring moist webs of her excitement across her ashamed cheeks, ashamed for being so excited from being so punished. And so another part of it is the naked domination, the act of controlling, the administering of consensual wrath, escorting her through her own sensual shadows.

And then there's the element that's simply playful fun, in that grown-up version of cowboys-and-indians kind of way. The dress-up that comes with games like Student And University Professor, or Rush Pledge And Frathouse, or Ale Wench And Highwayman (an especially fun game for larger and buxom partners), Inefficient Secretary, and more. The role-play. The power of masks. Cosplay.

I love it when my partner feels so safe that she completely lets go and drifts into her own sexually submissive bliss, her body becoming relaxed and accepting of her fate as my toy, my pet, my tenderest source of care and admonition. I smile deep into my sexual spirit when her own lust sifts free, when her hips begin raising her lovely ass in higher poise, wanting to be spanked, needing to be spanked, deserving to be spanked. When her need to satisfy my desire becomes such a hunger, when her ass has reached its limit for punishment to the point where it's dropping to her knees to passionately, wetly suck my thick cock that becomes a craving.

How I love to catch my breath as I tower over her, her as she kneels crumpled and soaked on the floor, her fiery-red ass shaking as her beautiful mouth thanks me for delivering the attention that she's been longing for. I like to have her hold her own ass at such moments, to feel the burning heat that sheds itself from her tender body, as my cock gently taps moist hardness on her beautiful, sexy, worshipful, slutty face.

Or turning her over on her belly, raising that raging behind into the air and taking her. Fucking her hard, feeling that fire against my own thighs as my cock searches and swells deeply inside her. To give her another reason to scream my name into a pillow, or against a wall, or across a kitchen table, or upon the dripping tile in the shower, or into the blackness of the starlit woods with the dry leaves between our toes and not another living human soul for miles in every direction.

Yes.

Spanking Shayne was always fun, and I didn't get to do it nearly enough, or often enough with her in her schoolgirl uniform, or simply nearly as vigorously as I wanted to. The Grrl realy liked a solid spanking, especially when she felt my hard cock against her as she lay splayed across my lap. And then, long before any of these excellent ladies, my first love, Diva, of whom I have yet to write anything of substance, enjoyed spanking to the full.

I may not have been Diva's first spanker, but I'm confident that in what was our seven-year relationship, I was among her most memorable. I escorted Diva into a dimension of spanking so intimate that she wouldn't be fully, wholly complete with the end of a session until she was shaking and in tears, her ass devilishly red, her labia puffy and glowing with excitement. I spanked Diva in private, before audiences of masturbating men and women in BDSM clubs and in private parties. When our relationship ended, she was posting fetish networking sites for a new partner that could fulfill her need for "an attitude adjustment." Without spitefulness, sometimes like to think she never quite found again what she lost.

Given the opportunity, there are some sexblogging friends whom I would love to introduce to a view of the floor as they dangled across my lap. The deliciously alluring Coy Pink. The vivacious Swingerwife. The extraordinary and breathtaking Ms. Inconspicuous. The electric, sensual sexblog matriarch Catalina Loves. Would you ladies care to come into my parlour? I have something special for you.

The sensuality. The beauty of her lower body. The grace of her form. The intimate and raw discovery. The curves. The taking. The imaginative games. The childhood excitement. The power. These are reasons why I like to spank.

"It's like fucking," I said to Morgan, my hands leaving the wheel long enough to grip the air, full-palmed and open-fingered, as if I would grip her lovely hips. "It's a taking, something passionate." The act of fucking, to fuck a woman, to take a woman, to hold her firmly and tug her toward you as your swelling, twitching, living hardness is slipping past and through her tender, wet flesh and into her tight, yearning core of femininity. To fuck, to be fucking, to fuck her good.

After responding to her question, there was the briefest pause as I turned the car onto Bloor Street. It was snowing. Morgan smiled and nodded as she digested my answer.

"Mmm. Yeah," she finally said. "And getting fucked is pretty awesome too."

Back to the drawing board.

I do enjoy being single.

My friend, the Gothic Chef, has told me that he likes my energy when I'm single and "the excitement (I show) that comes with knowing that the world is full of potential new lovers." The world is my oyster. I also enjoy the anticipation of what could happen next, even if admittedly my preference is to be partnered, on some level, with a delicious daughter of Venus.

It's been an unusual, transformative, and healing past few weeks. Since New Year's, I've been doing a lot of re-evaluating.
Shayne and me discussed it in early December.

Me: Look at it this way: its a change of context. We're still friends, can still love each other, but we're not holding out for stomping on crystalware. That doesn't have to change our closeness if we don't want it to. You're still important to me, and I do love you. We can always revisit it again, in time, if we want to. No burnt bridges.

Shayne: I agree. That doesn't stop me from feeling sad over the loss of an idea. Tho i'll try to focus on the positives. Man! Why do ya suppose i freak out every time you come? ...don't answer that. ;) Love you.

There's a lot we never got to do. I never got to take her to a playparty, or scuba in Honduras, or camping on the Saint Lawrence, or even particularly intense private bdsm play. Well, hey.

But I've already decided that, unlike what happened after things ended with the Grrl, I don't want to see this blog fall into hiatus because my primary relationship is being redefined. In addition to continuing to share hot and tawdry memories from my past, tawdry moments from throughout my days, and general sexuality, perhaps this blog will feature a stronger singledom element as I embark on What's Next. Dating, for sure. Affairs? One-nighters? That all depends on what Aphrodite offers.

Following a recent date, some redefinition also seems to be happening between myself and Morgan as well. What started as a Craigslisted over-the-knee spanking affair has become a richer friendship that we're both enjoying a lot, but very recently she's taken the brave step to invest more into her troubled marriage and pause on our sensual play. The truth is that my heart sank when she shared this recent news, but that's not stopping me from cheering her on, even while she tells me how she's been fantasizing about my firm hand on her amazingly beautiful posterior. A recent discussion about the relationships between power, fucking, and being fucked left me with a raging cock in my jeans, and I think she enjoyed knowing the feral affect our chitchat had upon me. Damn, I like her.

The Tomboy and I reconnected socially recently, and it's been nice now that a lot of dust has settled. We won't be having sex anytime soon, or at all, but I'm told that that's more because her boyfriend (who is still unemployed) forbade it between us rather than any barrier she may have. Interesting.

To my shock, Stacy and me also reconnected over the phone recently. Long-time readers may remember this saucy, secretive tart whom I also encountered via Craigslist almost a year ago. It seems she had thought I had "given up" on her, and expressed interest is getting together some time in the future. Interesting.

And speaking of shock, how on earth did my reasonably old friend Lee end up in my bed recently? While she's made no secret about her interest for years, I still can't quite figure out how a night bar-hopping among friends... turned into us stopping at my pad for caffeine as I drove her home... turned into her voraciously sucking my cock. (Yes, I disclosed.) An early30s goth, Lee is a fun and friendly sweetheart but, to be frank, hasn't really been on my sexual radar. Perhaps I'll slip my tongue in my cheek and chalk this one up to "helping a friend out," because I have to admit that it was really fun to hear her scream "Fuck me! FUCK ME!" as I tugged her dark braids while pumping into her from behind. Oh, for the Women Upstairs. Interesting.

How can you not enjoy a woman with such vocabulary?

A recent date with Hannah was very bizarre. A mid40s entertainer (no, not a stripper) and mystic, she's a self-described control freak whose kink, articulate nature, intelligence, sexual independence, and spirituality intrigue me. I already sense that here's a woman I could potentially explore tantra with, and she's already made it clear that she has experience in other sexual territories that remain only fantasies to me. Over the phone, our vibe is resonant, but somehow the energy seems a little wonky and elusive when we meet in person. She's made it clear that she's attracted (the kisses were a decent hint), so I'm scratching my head about it all still. I may learn more when (if) we date again after she returns from a trip to Holland, whereupon I've joked that she'll be pegging her Dutch boy there while he squirms in his woody clogs.

And talk about contrast. While Lee is such an abundantly endowed BBW that the acronym seems like a polite understatement, Hannah could easily pass as the poster child for a refugee fundraiser. Now, I appreciate a healthy grain&green vegan diet, but when I'm tempted to hook my date up to a saline intravenous drip between bites of goat cheese pizza, something must be wrong. Further, doesn't the idea of a self-described control freak in an admitted submissive sound like a headache waiting to happen? Call me crazy.

Just prior to New Year's, I enjoyed a sumptuous dinner date with Tina, a buxom 40s businesswoman, who encountered me through a dating site. This became a very, very short-lived affair. The fact is that the combination of my own early-post-Shayne angst and Tina's inability to respect some boundaries (like, you know, don't bite the fucking nipples as though you're trying to eat a steak, especially after he's asked you for the third or fourth time) made any potential for further sexual play less preferable than getting pinkeye. I made that Just Friends right goddam quick.

But then there's Lauren. With Shayne and me at a romantic distance, with Morgan courageously Trying To Work It Out, Lauren has kindasorta become the defacto sigh-maker in my world. This actually sucks because Lauren and me are Just Friends.

A mid30s social worker and former model, Lauren is, in a word, stunning. Intimidatingly so, with rich brunette locks and eldritch eyes, a statuesque elven shape, and a voice like cognac. We've been casual acquaintances for some time, and after she had learned about my newly-single status, she sought me out for drinks. Also healing from an ending relationship, she did the smart thing and enriched a friendship with someone in a similar space, and what's been developing since is a very pleasant closeness between us.

But we're Friends. Despite us enjoying my famous chicken vindaloo together and cuddling deeply over a James Bond DVD this week. And despite me giving her a sensual hot-oil massage afterward. And despite the most sensual, relaxed, tender night of shared sleep I've known since my last visit to Chicago. Simply said, of all the dates and the one-nighter and the drinks out with this wonderful assortment of excellent women, my completely nonsexual evening with my-just-friend Lauren soothed every stress and almost every sense of heartgrief for the few hours they were shared. It was very healing, and because I really don't believe that things with her will really ever progress beyond this, also frustratingly unrequited. But I wouldn't have traded it.

So I seem to be nurturing possibilities these days, and enjoying how it enriches my friendships with cool women. That isn't necessarily a bad thing.

And Shayne? We talk, though perhaps not as often, and perhaps not quite as tenderly. We're adjusting, and the future remains unwritten. I understand that after some physical hiatus of her own, she's met a wonderful woman and may be falling in love with her, an early20s violist with a penchant for healthy cooking, social justice, and introspection. From what little I've gleaned, thanks to Facebook and the like, she seems virtually perfect for Pixie, and I'm genuinely really very pleased and excited for her.

No, really.

This may be one of the healthiest breakups I've ever had. I regard Shayne as family. I can only hope that her dating future isn't nearly as weird as mine has been over the last few weeks. God knows she deserves some peace of mind and unfettered fun.

I miss her a lot. I miss holding her close, naked, at night. I miss giving her pleasure, hearing her laugh, sharing breakfast. I miss our sexy textmessages, her sassy smartassy nature, and her queer politics. But everything is ok, I'm doing really well, and sooner or later I know I'll be with a woman again who won't have me wanting to whack my head against a wall.

Until and after then, every day remains an adventure.

Postmodern lust.

Shayne texts me with the most delicious notes. I love it when she's thinking of me, telling me about she's relaxing in her bed as she slides her favourite dildo inside her. She's sensual, loving, and fun. I threaten her with spankings. She sends me images as we talk on the phone. It's decadent.

Since reconnecting with Alix through the net, she sends me tawdry texts as well. True to her nature, she's direct and straightforward with them. It's pure flirtation, but its suddenness is enjoyably arousing to be sure.

And in the last few days, I've "met" Dree when she contacted me through a dating site. No explicit sextalk has happened (yet?), but it's clear already that she's deliciously open and interested in experiencing something. She tells me she dropped her cell like a bad habit, but implies that she might reconnect with it if only to be sending sexy texts again.

All of these women live far from me. Also, for some odd reason, the dating scene in my own city has slowed to a crawl lately. It's odd, really. Sometimes I think Aphrodite simply wants me to explore new venues of love, lust, and relationships, where I'm not engaging in something with a live-in, or even local, partner for a while. Maybe this is so I can actually put more emphasis on my own day-to-day living and goals as I continue living on my own.

Most people are used to that paradigm, I think. Me, I'm more used to having a live-in primary partner with consensual friends-with-benefits.

Me: Hi. Wanna fuck?

My cellphone has essentially become a new sex organ for me. Has it become an extension of my cock? Am I some psychosexual cyborg whose experiences with women are being enhanced through the use of a Samsung a920? Or this MacIntosh as I share this thought with you through a blog?

I've heard it suggested that the boom of the computer age owes a great deal to the human animal's desire for sex. I remember science fiction stories that I read as a kid where, in some post-cataclysmic world, social interaction would become wholly dependent on computers and machines. If Naomi Klein has anything relevant to argue, it's worthwhile to consider that this shift in social interaction has already begun. Many of our relationships to things, and to people, are increasingly becoming dependent upon media modalities.

Shayne: You know it sexy

Sure, it's fun. But how is it also affecting social interaction on the cultural scale?