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.

Bedtime stories.

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Sweet.

Last year, I teased you-all with some naughty foreshadowing about some erotica I had submitted for print publication. I'm really pleased to share now that the resulting book, Sweet Confessions, edited by none other than Violet Blue through Cleis Press, is now available through Amazon, Cleis, and very probably your local erotica shoppe.





My piece, a short story entitled "Bad Influences," shares space with the work of other exquisite eroticists like Heidi Champa, Andrea Dale, K.D. Grace, the extraordinary Rachel Kramer Bussel and more.

I'd seriously enjoy receiving feedback from blog readers who have read this exquisite anthology, which is ideally suited for loving couples looking to enjoy some hot reads together.

Die einreichende Walküre.

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

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

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

(Oh, shut up.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, please, God, yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Ok.

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

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

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

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

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

She came for another ride: second gear.

In the kitchen, the wine was still breathing, although not nearly as hard as we were in the bedroom.

I was hard as stone, grinding the length of my cock against the soft, flannel sheets as I lay on the bed, my legs akimbo, my chin and tongue drenched with her elixir. Her firm, warm thighs were splayed wide just above my shoulders, and my hands caressed her taut stomach as her shudders slowed down gradually. Her dewy, black stripe of pubes tickled the tip of my nose, and I turned my face to softly graze my cheek against that sexy tuft. It had been almost four years since the Tomboy's pussy had been at my mouth, and now it was time to fuck her. Hard.

I drew myself up to my knees, and her eyes were still clenched shut when she felt my hands begin to grip her lower thighs and splay her in place. She smiled wickedly when she looked up to me, her head wholly surrounded by multiple feather pillows. She knew what was coming: she opened her legs even wider, her knees bent, her mouth open as she sucked for air and looked into my eyes.

Resting her legs on my shoulders, I chewed on her right calf while I slipped on the condom. Holding the base of my cock in my fist, I tapped my cockhead against her eager nubbin, stroking and pressing my girth against her mound. Still on my knees, I inched my body closer to hers until our thighs met and her legs ran upward against me. In one slow, prolonged movement, I gently the slid the entire length of me inside her willing, eager, dripping core, my eyes closing tight now as I felt her grip me.

Her fists gripped the sheets as the look in her eyes shifted from yearning to yielding, her mouth agape in a silent cry, until I felt myself press against her cervix and began to thrust and pump.

Soon, my hands were gripping her legs from under her knees, gently forcing them to bend until they were almost meeting her full and shaking breasts. In this position, my body weight and angle held her in place so I could Take her and give her the full length of me in deep, demanding strokes. Her cunt was completely free to me now, her legs held open, her body in check, and when I started to thrust faster and faster still, she cried aloud in staccato pants and wails. The hardwood frame of the bed pounded against the hardwood floor, and I smiled to myself as the thudding blended sexily with her growing keens and groans.

Truth be told, I never expected that I'd ever fuck the Tomboy again, and now here she was, finally getting something from me that she had told me she had been longing for again.

She is so good for my ego.

I set both of her ankles across my right shoulder and kept the thrusting pace deep inside her. My left hand steadied her in place with a palm firmly planted against her chest, and she managed to wiggle a hand underneath us to grasp my smacking, full sack. I licked my thumb and wiggled it against her hard little clit. She cried out my name.

With a laugh, I pulled myself away from her and spun her around on the bed. Before me was her beautiful, heart-shaped ass, and while I intended to yank it high in the air and take her from behind, I knew I had to enjoy it up-close-and-personal first.

With a satisfying grunt, I cupped both of her asscheeks and brought my teeth to her flesh. Bites and nibbles later, she both giggled and yelped in brief spasms of teasing pain. I parted her open and delved my chin deep between her strong thighs to swab my tongue against her folds again, and upward still to dart a small circle or two around her clenched, dark rosebud. She moaned resonantly in reply.

"Mmm... you like my ass, don't you?" she asked as she pressed her face into the mound of pillows. I replied by pressing a wet fingertip firmly against her anus. Her head shot up.

"Yeah... oh fuck yeah," she said over her shoulder.

I knelt up again and gripped her hips firmly to tug her behind upward, setting her halfway on her knees. Again, she knew what was coming, and pressed her chest down to the bed. I smirked as I held her right asscheek in my grip then, opening her up, and aimed my cock to her pussy with my left fist. I tugged her backward and against me, filling her again. My knees weakened when I felt her behind slap against my pelvis and as I relished the sight of her cheeks below me. I ran nails down her back. Gripping a handful of her ass, I pumped and tugged her, fucking her steadily and deeply. I brought my thumb to her rosebud again.

"Yes, fuck yes," she panted. "Play with my ass. Do you know that the only ass play I ever get is from you or Terry?"

(Yes, she really said that. At that moment, I was so glad that I was behind the Tomboy, because the look on my face probably would have stopped traffic. Only the Tomboy, one of the most aggressively pro-poly women I have ever known, could have the cajones to mention a mutual friend and another one of her lovers mid-coitus. From any other woman, I probably would have been dumbstruck and maybe offended; but from the Tomboy, it was just too fucking funny.)

(And it didn't say much about her dumbass boyfriend if he wasn't giving her something she so obviously wanted. Especially considering that, thanks to a military and outdoorsy life, her ass is fucking yum. But I digress.)

So I bit my tongue, shook my head in amused disbelief, and wrapped her now-much-longer-than-I-remember-it brunette hair around my fist to tug her head back as I gave her two or three oh-yeah-take-this thrusts into that aggressively pro-poly pussy of hers. She screamed. I smiled.

I kept at her that way, fucking her hard and fast, and gradually slipped my lubed thumb into her backdoor. By then, her moans were reverberating throughout the bedroom as I took her, she face down and ass up, until the crook of my thumb made its way past her quivering sphincter.

I didn't fuck her ass. In retrospect, I should have. But I did discover something new for me when I found that my crooked, inserted thumb made a perfectly good hook when I raised my arm high and above her. As I kept the pace with my stiff, eager cock, it was my crooked thumb halfway inside her ass that I used to raise her butt even higher, pulling her upward with it, holding her high with it, my right bicep straining as I hooked her with it while I fucked her again and again and again and again and as she screamed aloud again and again and again and again in reply.

I was pumping hard and fast into her gorgeous, gripping pussy when I felt my balls tighten. Now pressing her down from her shoulderblades with one hand, a tight hold on her hip with the other as I matched her backstrokes against me with strong tugs to my pelvis, she looked over her shoulder to me when she felt my cock swell. Arching my hips higher, I felt burst after burst of me fill the condom as her pussy squeezed me, milked me, and as her bottom kept smacking audibly against my skin. With each stroke, my draining sack slapped against her aching and thrumming clit, and the Tomboy screamed aloud as she quivered and came underneath me.

We laughed. I collapsed. Warm towels. Panting. Riding the waves. Red wine and steak. Long conversations. More catching up. Her warm, naked skin beside me with the coming of sleep.

Carol gives me her ass.

Kara was out on a date, of sorts, and I was enjoying some tea and futzing around on Twitter. I like to be selective about whom I "follow," but it's true that I have a weakness for interesting, sex-positive women involved in one element or another of consensual adult fun. For me, that usually means fellow writers, sociosexual pioneers and advocates, or local porn stars. Take Montreal's own online 'amateur' Carol Cox, a fiery mid40s blonde, for example. Her ballsy don't-fuck-around-just-fuck-me-goddammit attitude makes me smirk.

To me, Carol Cox is among an interesting, seasoned sex-positive internet elite. I'm intrigued with people who saw the internet's sexual potential early on, and she began sharing her saucy self long before the days of Twitter or Facebook. I think that's very cool.

So recently, when she tweeted about finding a past picture of herself, I couldn't help but peek.

@CarolCox Just came across an old promo pic for my website...



I can't help but notice the sparklybits barely hiding the girlybits on the other model. I'm in a goofy mood, so I reply. Does Carol know me? Nah. I'm just being a fun smartass.

@UrbanRoguery When I die, will I head toward the light?

@CarolCox The dark is always much more fun. ;)

@UrbanRoguery Oh, now, if you're offering me *that* option... turn over. ;)

@CarolCox hahahaha, I wasn't even thing about that, but it's all yours for being quick ;)

Mmm. All mine. Which, of course, gets me fantasizing about fucking this delicious blonde sexythang in her tightest places. Ain't I bad?

@UrbanRoguery Ok. Now I'm thinking about @CarolCox 's beautiful derriere. Be still my heart. Thank you, Twitter.

@CarolCox Thinking about my derrière? Just for you ...

I think I made a new friend.

Rogue finally submits.

I accomplished a longstanding goal recently.

I've enjoyed writing erotica for years, but it's been only recently that I've finally decided to take the action that I've been nagging myself to do and send a decent submission for publication. I've been published before, and usually on other topics, but for some reason I just haven't been pursuing my intentions to do more in the sex-positive realm.

A recent submission call by Cleis Press changed that, and I've issued a light femdom, male subbie, first-timer tale entitled "Bad Influences" for their upcoming Sweet Love project.

It was an amusing exercise to twist my brain into male subbie space. Maybe a dirty martini will fix that.

But, exclusively for youse Urban Roguery readers, here's a taste of my, uh, submission...

* *

I bobbed my outstretched palms and fingers on his flesh, feeling his bubble shape and patting him. His ass filled my hands nicely. I slowly drew a finger or two up and along the seam between his cheeks, enjoying how pert he really was. Daringly, I slowly probed a finger inside further, found his anus, and teased it with a fingertip. It was warm and soft and tight, and I gave a little pressure under the very outermost ring of his sphincter when it started to clutch the tip of my finger.

My arms still around him, I felt him tense up as he pulled back just slightly. The quizzical look on his face was precious.

“Um. What are you doing?”

Did I see the hint of a smile under those widened, glittering eyes?

“I’m enjoying my man,” I smirked, looking up. I pressed my forearms firmly against his strong legs and held him, my hands sending a clear message: stay just where you are, dude.

Watching television with Tammi and Joe.

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War stories.

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Sunday comics.

Sunday comics.

Sunday comics.