Panties and petroleum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Romantic, no?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. I miss her. Still.

Sunday comics.

Women at the barbecue.

Women on bicycles.

And now for something completely different.

with thanx to Boots

Crossing my path.

The rock salt is sticking between the treads of my black steeltoes, making my feet crunch and clack against the concrete pavement. The sky is winter grey, and a streetcar slices its way near me as I approach the corner.

She is ridiculously short, and at first I think she's a kid from the neighboring grade school. She's wearing a clever red and white striped toque, smart little eyeglasses with gleaming rectangular steel frames, and unhitched red suspenders dangle across her jeans-clad thighs. I like her combat boots. She's busily punching into her Blackberry. Because she's so tiny, and so cute, and I bet she's so smart, I could easily see myself hoisting her over my shoulder and carrying her home like a kitten to rumpus with.

I'm smirking at the thought when, almost immediately, a brunette is passing me by. Her head and face is completely surrounded and framed with scarves and the hoodie, and as she stares at the pavement ahead, it's her cheekbones and soft pudgy nose that get my attention. It's the most fleeting of images as we pass one another, a split second maybe, but already I've seen her face when she's in deep thought, and the image stays with me. At almost the same instant, as was actually pass one another, the scent of her in caught in the snowy air. She smells like vanilla cupcakes, warm and just pulled from the oven. I smile.

Because I'm tired of phony porn too.

Because I almost never, ever plug a commercial adult site, I like to think that if I'm going to tha you'll agree with me (if we share the same tastes) that it's pretty cool.

I like my porn to be genuine, energetic, and sensual. Amateur stuff does it for me the most, and the big reason is that I know I'm enjoying watching lovers who are having fun and that what I'm witnessing is the human, real pleasure that sex can bring. Yes, Emily DaVinci and Stephanie Swift and Belladonna are gorgeous, and I enjoy watching them fuck, but for me, even a split-second facial expression of shameless abandon from an "unknown woman as she's about to taste some thick cock she's really hot for will send me into the cosmos.

Surfing the web recently, I found Desperate Amateurs, for "when you're tired of phony porn." Like the Pierre Woodman Castings X series or Eric of Backroom Casting Couch, this site features new-to-film performers that include general interviews to introduce us to who they are as people before we watch them get frisky. I like that.

But unlike Pierre or Eric, the people behind Desperate Amateurs are not only taking a straightforward approach as to why these women are consenting to be filmed (they need or want the money), but they approach the women with a real respect, supportiveness, and playfulness. They also enjoy shooting women of all body types and age brackets, which is something neither other site would ever remotely attempt. Castings X rivets me sometimes, but Woodman is often raw and mechanical, using film formulae indicative of the Private franchise. Backroom Casting Couch uses a (phony?) deceptive style, seemingly tricking the performers into their sex for supposedly nonexisting adult talent scouts, and often mocks about the women being seen on film. Reality TV meets porn, and while sometimes it catches my attention, it's more because it reminds me of a road accident than a sensual, visual experience.

So there's Desperate Amateurs, which not only is real, but seems to be "honest" and sex-positive in its way of working with performers. The women know why they're there, and they've bridged the chasm to be comfortable about sharing their play with you, the viewer. I think, more often than not, that seems pretty empowering. And once in a while, it seems, as in the case of Tatiana Kush, their performers sometimes actually do move on to bigger things in the adult entertainment world.

But by then, maybe they've become part of the 'phoniness' too. Ah, well.

Ha ha.

While we're making tea and relaxing in my kitchen, I grab Kara's camera and take a spontaneous picture of her bum.

I'm so weird sometimes.

Watching television with Tammi and Joe.

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Women of the World Cup.

Playing with the balls.

Oh, the things I do to keep my mind occupied.

In a bizarre trick of fate, lately I find myself helping a friend in his sports supply business. As he helps local youth soccer teams embrace World Cup enthusiasm, I've found myself getting some extra upper-body workouts in his warehouse as he deals with several major product orders. It's been a fun and relaxing source of extra income, and I actually get a kick out of it. (Ow. Sorry.)

But it's also given me a new venue lately to engage in a little friendly teasing. I've just finished emptying a truck when I text her in a blue-collar persona.



Me: Mm... Hey baby. Yo, you're cute!

Kara: :)

Me: Yeah, yeah. So, hey, lookit, whatya think about coming in the back with me, huh? There's a nice, secluded spot over there between the boxes... c'mon, no one will see...

Kara: Oh, sure! Cuz the smell of cardboard just makes me so wet! ;)

Me: Mmmm... yeah... that's right... bend over just like that for me...

Kara: You mean like this? *wiggle*



Helda, one of the women who works there, sees me texting with a smile on my face. She smirks and asks me what I'm up to. Do I tell her? After all, I hardly know the woman.

"Uh, just something naughty to my girlfriend," I shrug with a grin. But Helda's face tells me that details aren't unwelcome. I laugh and go on.

"I was teasing her about taking her into the back of the warehouse, and she poked me to say just how much the smell of cardboard turns her on." Helda's dark eyes smile as she nods and goes back to the shipment of British-style soccer uniforms that she was working on.

Helda and Holly are the women of the sports supply warehouse. They're co-workers (inasfar as I can say I'm 'working' there), and only co-workers, but they've also been a source of personal amusement for me as I go about doing this extra bit of effort lately.

Both are tall athletes, and impossibly rail-thin with adorably teeny titties. Helda is a mid20s longhaired German brunette with a strong, squarish jaw, dark eyeglasses and a background in competitive soccer. Both her accent and attitude are subtle.

Holly is an early20s, longhaired dirtyblonde Canadian who looks as though she had just walked out the pages of a child's bedtime fairytale. Her innocent-as-pie, cornfed good looks and charmingly polite demeanor are instantly dashed however when, in a moment of constraint, she utters her favourite expletive: "Oh, ballsack!"

Usually, these women are engaged in the business office while I'm tossing heavy boxes around in the back, but from time to time they can be found in my temporary, helpful domain. These moments often afford me pleasantly enjoyable moments of corner-of-the-eye voyeurism, and lately I've been especially amusing myself when (ass man that I am) I'm on a high scaffold and one or both of them are far below me, squatting or bending over somethingorother.

Now, truth be told, for all my rogueishness, I like to think that I'm completely pleasant, respectful, and appropriately distant in the workplace. I am not the dude who's leering at the woman nearby. Yet, on the other hand, even a fox in a Zenga suit remains a fox... and so, for me, ever subtly, taking personal note of their choice of panties for the day has become a silly bit of sport. Lately, it's certainly given me more reason to update my Twitter with my cell. After all, one can empty so many trucks and fill so many orders before the mind wanders...

Cornfed blonde Holly possesses a delectably heart-shaped derriere with just the nicest bubble, and seems to be an all g-string girl. I particularly enjoyed the brief view she lent today when she squatted near the silkscreening rotunda in her low-rise jeans and revealed a generous eyeful of youthfully tender ass seam. Nice.

Teutonic Helda, on the other hand, with her smallish, boyish, perpetually black-denim-covered butt seems to prefer comfy panties. And I must admit, as appealing and as fashionable as gstrings are these days, more often than not I do remain a loyal panties fan. Somehow, to me, the idea that More Is Yet To Come when I'm slowly lowering my lover's jeans from behind her just teases my mental cockhead all the more.

Helda and I haven't really been flirting as much as just being playfully adult on occasion. Asking what other tasks needed doing one day, for example, she sighed and looked me over before requesting a back massage... and then promptly suggested a more realistic thing that cold be done around the place. It was cute.

"I'm worn out," she said during a rough day of unloading a truck of soccer balls coming in from Pakistan.

"Nothing a shot of scotch and a hot tub wouldn't cure," says I. It's something I say a lot. She shot me a smirking glance.

"Ok! Over there?" she asked, pointing to a large space between stacks of boxd uniform jerseys. Instantly, I was reminded of the recent, teasing textmessage between Kara and me hat I had told her about.

"Uh, yeah," I caught up, just slightly surprised. "But this isn't necesarily the sort of ambience I would have sought for."

She winks and smiles. "And you're girlfriend might not like it, huh?"

Yeah. Leave it to her to reaffirm that I happily have a partner. Typical, no? But then, maybe she's never heard of polyamory...

No. I'm not seeking to pursue something with Helda the German soccer girl with the boyish butt, or with Holly the only-slightly-innocent, pertly-bummed gstring babe. But as I go through a few days of helping my friend out and pocketing some extra pre-summer cash, my eyes and scandalously beating heart remain nicely entertained.

Kara's birthday spankings.

She was already under the blankets, casually reading an erotic novel from my bedroom bookcase as I came in from work. I enjoy it when she lets herself in. She looked to me with a smile as I came upstairs, and the smile remained as I slowly stripped before her to get into the shower.

The day before, we strolled on Yonge Street to enjoy some birthday shopping. (Yeah. I'm a guy. And I shop. Deal with it.) At Northbound, we picked up a sharp black PVC evening gown and charming black satin corset, and later found some racy shoes to match both. Gradually, my little spitfire is creating quite the fetish collection, which is as it should be if she's going to drape her arm (or lap) over mine at deliciously sinful venues.

I had already given her a large box from Jacob the week before that contained a very sheer black sweater, a satin miniskirt and a shimmering bra and panty set. The metallic studs on the black and purple bra could easily be seen through the thin sweater, giving Kara an excellent dancefloor look. Our mission for the evening was to visit the store again and confirm my sizing choices, since we wanted her to be completely comfortable during the coming playparty before her impending fate made her completely uncomfortable.

Anticipation had been building up for weeks: Kara was to experience her first public birthday spanking session, and she had been left a-quiver as she waited for me in my bed. It had been at least two years since I last had the pleasure of administering birthday spankings with a lover, and so I thoroughly was enjoying seeing my waif whimper and whine for a while. She's so cute.

Despite how striking and precious the PVC is, she opted for the Jacob ensemble for the evening's play. Its miniskirt and panties would certainly make for easier access and more subby-appropriate vibe for what diabolical plans lay ahead of her. She had already taken it upon herself to polish the linked steel ringlets that adorn one of my favourite leather collars, and this fit charmingly around her throat to shower her upper chest with diamond-like glitterance.

Red attire was the theme for tonight's playparty, which I met with a sensual scarlet shirt under my leather officer's cap. Kara's contribution to redness would soon be her blistering, tight, naked and pert little ass.



Hands down, Goodhandy's is the most cosmopolitan venue I've ever been to. "Toronto's Pansexual Playground" is foremost a den for the local queer community, but is so adventurously openminded that people from any orientation or interest can and does taste its forbidden fruits and all in complete harmony with one another.

It was Dancing Nazi who first caught my eye as we entered the club. A buff dude grooving to DJ Jimi Lamort's tunage with his nearly naked partner, his Nazi replica uniform bugged me. Not because of what it was, mind you, but because the history buff in me was peturbed that he had mixed his insignia all wrong. Go figure.

And how often does one have the opportunity in life to watch a Nazi... dancing? Life can be so weird.

Leave it to Kara to steer my attention toward more topical eye candy. Nursing our ciders, we drooled at th sight of a sensual lioness n the dancefloor, a lithe and bald woman in a PVC gown very alike that which Kara chose not to wear for the evening. Alone, she swayed fluidly on the floor, and heartily beamed when we later shared how much we had enjoyed watching her.

Another couple, a plump Asian woman with a very athletic grunge blonde, kissed sensually as they swayed. Multiple couples of muscular men gyrated and filled the house with laughter. T-girls shuffled about in perfumed packs, eyeing one another enviously and each striving to command as much ambient space as possible. Kara and me took it all in, whispering to each other joyfully as we drank and moved to the tunes.

Until it was time.

I took her hand and led her upstairs to the play area. A blonde twink tended bar (yes, a 'drink twink'...) there, around whom a few voyeuristic dudes watched the dancing below from the balcony. A robust, mulatto woman with long, golden dreadlocks was receiving a light whipping on her naked ass by a muscular dark black dude as she rested on all fours on a table. A lesbian couple relaxed with their drinks in an alcove. Numerous individual men, gay and not-so-gay, enjoyed the action.

I made our way for a reasonably empty spot near the other end of the balcony where an unused spanking bench sat lonely and isolated. It wasn't very long before Goldielocks' nearby flogging came to an end and the area began to clear of most of the voyeurs. Once the space opened some, I commandeered it by turning the lonely spanking bench into a position that suited me, with its upper tier facing what I knew would become new voyeur space and its rear close to the back wall but allowing me plenty of safe movement room. The area was dim, with the blended scent of cologne, bodies, and drinks. Shafts of light from nearby spotlights in the rafters beamed down to the dancefloor but yielded an ambient glow to the area. The thumping thunder from the DJ's work below pulsated through the floor.

I sat Kara down on the bench as I lay my bag of tricks on a shelf that ran along the back wall, moving some candles and empty beer bottles. I went to Drink Twink for some ice, and he looked at me with that slight sneer that gay boys are wont to do when they feel like being judgmental, but his attitude cleared up rightquick when it dawned on wee li'l him that he was being addressed by a Top that wasn't just looking for free fucking ice.

I stood before Kara and held her head in my hands, giving her a slow and wet kiss.

"How do you feel?"

She smiled.

I grasped the short, dark hair at the nape of her neck and slowly pulled her around and upward until she was in position, on her hands and knees on the two-tiered spanking table. I rested her forehead all the way down to the polished wood before turning away to stand behind her and near my bag on the shelf. Leaving her there untouched, I knew the voyeurs would begin to gather around again as I set my toys in a neat little row along the shelf while my back was to her. By the time I turned around, a gathering had come but nicely remained at a respectably workable distance. Among them was Goldielocks.

I didn't waste time. After a few gentle shoulder rubs, I went for Kara's backseat jugular and hoisted her hem up and over her pert heiney. Her panties framed her most nicely, and with only the minimal amount of warm-up, I began an openhanded assault on her delicious little ass. I wanted her to see stars. I wanted her to twitch and yelp aloud. I wanted her writhing and her face looking at me from over her shoulder with a shocked and embarassed expression, wide-eyed and stunned, as she received her birthday spanking. I wanted her to thoroughly entertain every hungry pair of eyes, male and female, gay and straight alike, with her public punishment.

And I got what I wanted.

I had count aloud, marking each of her years with every spank. Of course though, my memory lapsed from time to time... seventeen does come after thirty-two, right? Oh well. Damn that grade school I went to. Better start over.

Kara's ass was bare and red and glowing by the time I paused long enough to slip some ice into her mouth. She was panting yet breathless, her face even redder than her posterior as she strained to keep her forehead against the wood. She looked at me pleadingly.

"Are you alright?" I smirked.

She nodded slowly, blinked, panted some more, and gratefully swallowed the water that melted along her tongue.

Behind her again, and now I pressed against her lower back to guide herhips even closer to the edge of the upper tier to the bench. This raised her butt even higher, giving her lithe body a pretty but uncomfortable S-curve. By now her bare knees were feeling the wood too.

I drank a swig of my cider, and looked around me. Some looked right back, smiling and nodding most approvingly. Others couldn't take their eyes off of my pet. One man sat nearby, slowly stroking his cock. One of the lesbians gently played with her partner's earlobe as they watched.

I retrieved one of my slappers and began giving my pet a series of loud, cracking smacks on her raised behind. Kara wiggled and squirmed, especially when I used my other hand to hold the crotch of her panties and tug them upward to apply pressure to her swelling and drenched clit. I rained punishment along her thighs, which sent her into jolts. I held her head up by tugging her hair, forcing her to look at the crowd which so enjoyed seeing her suffer.

"I love you. Are you having fun?"

She smiled and nodded. "I love you too."

I paused. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

I smiled and returned to my cider. I took a long look at Kara's glowing ass, round and red but still somehow ready for more. I turned to one of the lesbians who had moved closer to me.

"Hi," I said. "So, it's her birthday... would you like to help me out?"

One of the things I learned when I was bouncing and supervising playparty scenes back in my pro-dom days was how to raise the bar of fun in a safe, well-considered way. If you're going to seek "audience participation," it's healthy and wise to know how to read body language and observe that someone understands a sense of protocol. If a Top is going to offer the utmost in generosity and actually offer his or her pet to a stranger, intuition and resilient observation is vital.

But this woman only blushed and stammered, smiling in her quiet and polite refusal. Oops: I had picked a submissive. Still, it was adorably cute. But I was undeterred and wanted a sharing. Somehw I knew I wouldn't be turned down again if I sought a guy. Call it a wild guess.

Greek Guy looked presentable and intelligent, and he had been enraptured with my handiwork. When approached, he almost came in his pants at the opportunity to participate, and I gave him a crash course in certain ground rules before squatting down near Kara's head. I gave her a sip of cider and more ice. Her ass remained high in the air. Caressing Kara's head, I kept a watch on Greek Guy as he stood behind my pet and began with a series of very light spanks.

He had a (shall we say) interesting technique, beginning with a rapid fluttering of his outstretched fingertips that only barely met her skin. Her firm ass jiggled slightly under each series of rapid butterfly swats, which he would then finish off with only a moderate final smack. He was completely enjoying and behaving himself, but for Kara this treatment was a cool-down. Not entirely a bad thing, but not where I wanted to take her yet.

(Later, Kara and I would call this the "good kitty" technique, and mimicked it while rapidly patting one of her cats on its head. "Goodkittygoodkitty...")

It was Goldielocks who helped me make the evening. Even though I had seen her on the receiving end of a lash, somehow my instinct told me that she was an experienced, sex-positive switch. I was right: she positively beamed when she was invited to help me wish Kara her happy birthday.

Goldielocks was an earth mother. Those long, golden dreads rained down her light brown back like a lioness' mane, and her eyes shimmered with sharpness and wit. Buxom and broadshouldered, I could easily see her gyrating with thunderous feet around a bonfire as djembe players resounded on a lakefront beachhead. I could see her smoking cigars. I could see her downing whiskey. She resonated with fun. I liked her instantly.

I gave Kara a break and let her kneel up, sip some more cider. I introduced them.

"How shall she address you?" I asked Goldielocks. "Ma'am... or Sir?"

She chuckled deeply. "Sir."

Smiling, I looked down to Kara and back to Goldielocks. "Have fun." I walked aside and leaned against the back shelf, confident my pet was in good hands.

And she was. Goldielocks' hands were soon all over Kara, caressing and stroking and teasing her little faerie titties. Kara was in bliss, like a little domestic kitten caught by some wild mother tigress, and soon found herself back in position as her new friend had her way. The nearby lesbian couple sat up with rapt attention. Submissive girl practically drooled. The crowd of men doubled, and soon I was standing to maintain acceptable distance as I supervised what went on and guaranteed my lover her safety. With eye contact and the occasional ear whisper, Goldilocks and I handled the scene as though we had been partners for years, keeping it smooth and safe and fun. It was a treat.

Goldielocks spanked Kara's smart little ass to a glowing amber, and it glowed even under the red spotlighting. Each swat was decisive and true, and my poor little dear cried out with whimpering, gasping breaths. Her ass was squeezed. Her ass was gently punched, with Goldielocks smacking her bum with enclosed fists that would tenderize a slab of beef. We flogged her. We caressed her. We made Kara a shared little public playtoy, and when all was done, Kara was a puddle of living goo.

Goldielocks and I shook hands.

"We really need to do this again."

The mice will play.

Serene, one of the happy dykes who lives below me, is away on holiday in Cuba with her partner. Lacey gets to have their pad all to herself.

I'm coming home during a break in my workday. The door to Serene and Lacey's place is directly next to mine and at the top of a flight of stairs. I'm sliding my key into the lock when I hear a feminine voice, saucy in tone.

I hadn't realized that Serene and Lacey's bathroom was so close to their front door, because the sound of a running shower is loud and clear. The bathroom door must be open, just on the other side. Lacey is showering and her lover is speaking to her, taunting her, completely unaware that she's being heard. Oh, the grin on my face.

Airline Attendant: Well! Look at you, all tramped up in the shower!

Lacey: (over the noise of cascading water) Mmmm mmmm!

Airline Attendant: ...I'm gonna stick my finger up you. Stick my finger up you and lick you and suck you and buzz you...

Lacey: Ooo...

I picture Lacey's girlfriend leaning against the doorjamb, pulling a shower curtain aside to get an eyefull of Lacey's strong, blonde form. I picture Lacey's lover as a saucy brunette, her head tilted naughtily, biting her lower lip or keeping the tip of her tongue aainst her teeth as she audibly teases Lacey with her plans.

Airline Attendant: ...I'm gonna buzz you, baby, buzz you like you've never been buzzed before...

Lacey: (laughs) Oh, yeah!

She trails off with a laugh, singing a song to herself. The shower continues to run as I turn my key and go inside my place. I'm left smiling, wondering what vibes lay awaiting Lacey in the side table next to her bed.

Upstairs, downstairs.

Recently, I shared how I moved to a new pad, exchanging my digs from the more bohemian, club zone part of the city for something more upscale, refined, and within flirting distance of a most excellent park. As much as I was so overdue for the change of living space, the voyeuristic naughtyboy in me was still chagrined to be going away from the Women Upstairs.

Sometimes, in the quiet, through the air vents or from an open window, I might have caught the sound of one them masturbating, lost in their own bliss. Was it the lesbian blonde costume designer or the straight brunette mall rat? The brunette, whose bedroom was directly above my own, certainly received a nice hard fucking from time to time, usually after a latenight boozefest which didn't always let me sleep.

I wasn't a peeper. I didn't set out to listen for them. But when it happened, when my space was quiet enough at the right time, I wouldn't restrain my smile and stop for a moment to enjoy the music. And it's not like I didn't know they listened in on me from time to time as well.

So I didn't know what to expect when I moved to my new digs, where the cardinals and black squirrels enjoy the treats I leave out for them on my high deck, where my cats look at me pleadingly as I keep them from playing with live prey. On moving day, I sensed that I was a small disappointment for at least some of the existing residents when, while hauling a fifty-pound box of books upstairs and past a closed door, I could overhear a woman's crestfallen sigh that "it's a guy" who was coming in. It didn't take long before I understood why.

I am the only man in a house full of lesbians.

It was Lacey who was disappointed at the time. Aw. Lacey is a strikingly attractive Nordic blue-eyed and shorthaired blonde, a tall and broadshouldered valkyrie from Australia. She has the looks and healthy vibe of a crosscountry skiier or mountain climber, and many are the dykes whom I know would melt into a puddle of goo were they to see someone like her stroll in a leatherbar wearing Lee-covered chaps and leather vest. Her lover is an airline attendant who visits from time to time (I have yet to actually see her), and their bedroom is just below my parlour.

Lacey had sighed to her roommate and former partner, Serene. To my shock, not long after I started unpacking, Serene and I discovered that we've known of one another for years through mutual friends in other circles in our lives. Serene knew of me through associates in a spiritual community of people, plus she's been acquainted with my ex-wife. I similarly knew of her by name and she had actually someone I've been interested in meeting in person. In a strange way, our first meeting at the threshold of the house was almost like a reunion of old friends who had never met before, and this was and remains very cool.

Serene is an auburn shorthaired earth mother with a ribald laugh and a quick wit. Her black, dreadlocked partner matches her in BBW bodytype and artistic temperment, and the pair of them share an easygoing vibe. The first time she was in my place, we talked about the general energy and landlord politics of the house, but she was quick to add how I shouldn't worry about it should I hear them fucking downstairs, their bedroom being just below mine. I suspect that we'll become good friends.

And, yes, it's happened at least once thus far when, lying in bed, I could easily define Serene's voice as she cried out in ecstacy below me. I'm also certain that Kara and I inspired her at least once, as another time I could hear her again within an hour or so after I had Kara panting for more while her face was inches above the hardwood floor as I took her from behind.

And then there's Sam who resides beneath Serene and Lacey's place. Sam is still an enigma to me, but I have to admit that my eyes are smitten. Her lesbian credentials are only suspected by Serene and Lacey, and so far she seems private enough to heighten the gossipy suspicion. Me, I've only seen her twice and in passing.

Sam seems to be the consumate young urban and successfully professional woman. A shorthaired dark brunette, she has the fancy car and the furnishings from Pottery Barn. She lives alone, at least when her apparently demanding work schedule allows her to be home (how I relate). She's spending the winter away, presumably somewhere warm and out of the country. We spoke briefly the two times we've met, and at once I was floored with her intelligent, articulate tongue.

So these are the Women Downstairs. And I am looking forward to the summer, when I intend to fire up the barbecue on my deck, make a few pitchers of something inebriating, and see what saucy fun can be had.