Genderfuck.

Her hair was black, a lush and thick mohawk flanked by stubble at the sides of her head. It was high and tight above her ears. She exuded a confident resolve, but somehow I sensed a neophyte's vibe underneath it, as though the confidence, her sense of presence, was there but still getting its fine tuning.

She was a work in progress. Her air suggested that in a former life, she might have been completely comfortable in a DA, wearing painted leather and snapping gum or rolling a cigarette as she hung out with the other "bad girls" at the corner soda shop. She was a postmodern Anybody's.

She wore a pleated white wifebeater, under which I could barely make out her binding ace bandages. Or was it post-surgical gauze? Her bluejeans were scuffed, her Docs faded, her spirit streetwise and reckless. Was she packing?

We made eye contact. She stared, open-mouthed, caught, as she saw my mischievous, comprehending, friendly smile. Was I alone in feeling the connection? She may have felt my sexual attraction, but did she sense the same energy of kinship, comradeship, brotherhood that I did? If not, was she confused to find that coming from a masculine, biological male? From a guy? I wanted to reach out to her, connect, learn her name, make a buddy out of her. I felt pulled.

She went to the other side of the streetcar but maintained eye contact. She studied me, I saw. Was she observing my movements, feeling my vibe, observing and learning more of how a man might move, act, speak, be? Or was she checking me out? Probably not likely, not in that sense. Pity.

Moments later, too soon, she was leaving. Going out of her way to pass by me, she gave me a manly nod of recognition. "Take care, man," she said in an affected, resonant voice, and she swaggered off with a sexy machismo. Her ass swayed in a man's stride, crinkled in worker's blue denim.

I could picture her, wearing a handsome black leather strapon harness sporting a swaying, thick dildo, lubed and ready. I could picture her in that and her wifebeater alone, kneeling between Shayne's splayed thighs, small bare feet over the edge of Shayne's bed. Shayne, clad in her pink 1950s dress, that dress straight out of a My Home magazine cover, her strawberry red lipstick, her damp panties on the floor, the cuntpassion in her eyes as she would get soundly fucked by this boiish Daddy.



images Birls, personal collection, Ultimate Surrender

HNT with bike.

She seduces me.

How many of us can truly say that there isn't an element in ourselves, perhaps even a large one, that isn't aroused by "misbehaviour"? By "being bad"? Oh, sweet naughty us.

Ms. Inconspicuous is a decidedly, delightfully, decadently, deliciously bad girl. But how can we resist her when she's so charming? So alluring? And how can we resist her when she's an avid reader of Urban Roguery?

image The Seduction of Infidelity

The heart of darkness.

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Morning wouldn't.

The sun wasn't up yet when I left for work this morning. On my way for coffee, a blonde streetwalker cautiously approached and offered me a "date."

"It's only twenty dollars," she smiled. "We can go over there." She pointed her shoulder toward an alley behind a car wash.

She looked like she had spent many childhood summers shucking Ontario corn. She needed a shower, a chance to brush her teeth, maybe some cleaner clothes, but she wasn't particularly unattractive. As I politely declined, all I could think of was, "Baby, why are you asking for so little?"

Her spinning fingers.

It was almost midnight when, earlier last week, she and I were on the phone together. She's been calling from time to time, and it's been terrific to hear from her and discuss things. I like it. We shared that we missed one another.

"I'm horny," Shayne whimpered.

"Mmm, I see," said I. "You know, I miss holding you, caressing you, feeling you naked beside me. I miss kissing you: your lips are so exquisite. I miss the feeling of you beside me in the morning. And I miss going down on you, baby, probing that gorgeous pussy of yours with my tongue, my kisses. I love stroking your amazing clit with my tongue. She's delightful."

"Oh, stop," she giggled. She was cradling her cellphone in her hand, and I could easily picture her under her covers, nude, a cat at her feet.

"She is! Your clit amazes me. It's round, like a pebble, and I love feeling it between my lips as I suck on it slowly, gently. I love the scent of your skin, the warmth of you as I taste you. And I really miss feeling you against me as I start to take you, slide the tip of my cock into you. I love to fuck you, babe."

"Tell me that again," she asked. She was breathless. She had started to jill herself.

"I love to fuck you. When the tip of my cock parts you open, and when I watch you gasp as I take you, I'm speechless. I like to hold you tight as you get the full girth of me, parting you, making you full. I love when your wetness seethes along the length of me, and your bare ass is met with my slapping balls when I mount you."

I heard her whimper some more. Her breathing was shaken.

"And your ass, baby. I miss fucking you in your ass."

"Tell me that again," she repeated, imploringly.

"Shayne, I want to fuck you in the ass. In your tight, beautiful ass. Feel my cockhead slip past your winking sphincter, baby, and feel my girth inside you. I love it when you raise your ass in the air to meet me, when you feel my balls slapping against your skin, when you open up for me. I like it when your tight hole grips me, slowly yields to me as my wet and thick cock pumps into your depths..."

I heard her breath quicken now, the stuttering whimpers and whispers that told me she was starting to cum. I coaxed her, spoke to her in clear and gentle tones, using my voice to inspire her blurring fingers as they spun moist circles at her folds. I easily imagined how she looked, her hand swirling her flesh and her mound glistening with desire, desire for my gifts. I closed my eyes and savoured the familiar sounds of her riding waves in her orgasm. She whimpered, cooed, shuddered, gasped with closed eyes and her neck bent, the top of her head against her pillow. I could see it all again.

I love to make her cum.

"You're either very lucky, or I'm crazy," she said afterward. We're discussing seeing one another again. She misses me. I miss her. The context would probably be a little different, but I'm intrigued.



images personal collection

Photo Essay: Craigslist courtesans of Montreal.