The tapping at my chamber door... only this and nothing more?

This is a rant.

Can someone fucking please explain this to me?

I see your profile. I drop a friendly note in your direction, you read my profile, and soon we're in this really creative, articulate banter. It's really nice. It's really good. We're relating, we're laughing, we're finding common ground on matters social, political, sexually conscious, and more.

"There's a part of me that wants to simply write a short note saying that I like you too much already," you write.

We arrange a date. We open up even further, Really Talk, and Listen. We discuss everything from social politics to raising children to our relationship war stories to my father the artist to your crazy exes. Just-some-wine on the pub patio turns into late lunch. I'm finding that I'm so distracted by how amazing you are, how truly cosmopolitan you are, how much I'm melting at the sound of your laugh that I actually ask you if you eat meat when we had just ordered a plateful of wings. We enjoy me making fun of myself after that brilliant move.

Late lunch turns into More Real Talking in the park. I am utterly floored with your sharp intelligence, the likes of which I haven't seen in years. You've written textbooks, for chrissakes. You've started your own fucking alternative school! And while the look on your face suggests to me that, ok, my background in kink may not be a place you'd be interested in going, the fact that your first response was to ask deconstructing questions about the why's and wherefore's behind my interests in it really twisted my brain in terrific directions.

Up comes the First Kiss.

"I so want to jump your bones right now," you say. The Second Kiss follows. But we've been out for much longer than either of us anticipated. Life beckons.

I suggest we leave something to look forward to. Your face tells me this was a Good Reply. You get on your bicycle, and I totally enjoy the sight of your round, pert behind under the sundress you're wearing as your leg swings over the frame and you settle on the seat. I have no doubt that it would smack firmly against my pelvis as I took you, hard and deep, from behind.

As much as I enjoyed your hair, as long and dense as the mane on a Peruvian paso. And this from a guy who fetishes shorthaired women. With your thick eyebrows, the black whispers at the nape of your neck, your hair told me what feral treats I might find under your navel, and in the back of my mind I imagined having opportunity to press my face against a rich, musky forest before curling my tongue around the round, red, thrumming, tender marble that I want you to have responding to me.

As you rode away, I realized that I had already become completely smitten with The Raven. That doesn't happen often.

...And then it had to come screeching to a halt.

Ok, you did say that you'd be away for a while. Fine. Ok, you did say that you've had some really, really bad "relationships" and you'd need to take your time. "I had trouble getting close to my cats," you said.

But, call me crazy, I didn't expect that meant you'd want to completely avoid contact after our date. No calling, no texting, maybe some emailing. ...Huh?

"Less is definitely more," you said.

Ok. So, I'm very much the support-my-partner type. Ok. So, yeah, if you Really Need This, I'm willing to help out. Uh, sure.

But, I gotta say this: there's a part of me that's wondering: what the fuck. You tell me that I'm the first guy you're interested in having a second date with after your last ten dates with dudes. Great, awesome, thank you, love to know it. But... was I wrong to tell you that, yeah, just maybe, I'd become smitten with you? I mean, isn't that, in the big picture, the desired goal? Is it possible that I somehow pushed you away because I decided that I Really Fucking Like You?

So, yeah, I'd still enjoy seeing you again. But, you know, it really sucked to have to suppress all that keen excitement that I was feeling the next day. Yeah, I am supportive, I'm doing it, but somehow that just didn't seem fucking fair.

Sometimes I think I'm too patient for my own good. I just don't get it. This one, I really just don't get.

Ami.

"Hello, buddy," she said, talking to my semi-hard cock.

She stretched herself out on the futon, raised her head as I stood beside it, and took me into her mouth. My shower could wait.

Oddly, that moment was somewhat foreshadowed by the flirty dating-site messages we had been exchanging back in March. In them, sometimes I visually 'put her' in the position of being in my bedroom, seeing me with a towel around my waist that would... oopsie... drop to the floor. She was amused, we would chat more, and eventually began to date. Or something.

Ami is a bit of a departure for me. There's much that we simply don't have in common, and frankly I thought our first date was something of a wash-out at the time... until, after a walk through Chinatown, she turned to kiss me.

It was a nice kiss. The kind that awakened my then-largely-unused cock straining hard in my jeans after only a few moments. The kind of kiss that, after dealing with so much angst in the previous months, felt Really Fucking Good.

And it's with a little bit of surprise when I say that things just seemed to gradually happen from there.

Ami is an ever-positive, in-many-ways-innocent, articulate, curvy brunette mid30s grad student with a penchant for bicycles, couch surfing, and sumptuous breakfasts. She is, hands down, one of the gentlest souls I have ever known. It actually surprises me that, given all of her intelligence, straightfoward confidence, and disarming sense of total kindness, that her dating life hasn't been more vibrant.

That's also a nice way of sharing that her sexual experiences have been very limited. Granted, that sometimes means that my own sharings with her may not always be, shall we say, as receptively mindblowing as some other past experiences I've had, it's still totally true that I have a personal thang for corrupting the innocent.

That her vibe and looks often leave me mistaking her for a woman ten years younger than what she is doesn't hurt.

Her slightly Rubenesque form features a very friendly pair of 38Ds, and after partnering with so many tomboys in my life (God love 'em all), Ami has given me a new appreciation for bigger tits. Hers fit perfectly in my grasp, and when I'm clutching them from behind her and gently giving them the massaging squeezes that she adores so much, her flesh only just barely peeks out from between my strong, outstretched fingers. And how she does love to have her breasts squeezed this way, especially if I'm nibbling at the nape of her neck or gently chewing on her ear.

Her tummy paunch is a cute and enjoyable palmful when we're spooning to sleep. She tells me that her massage therapist criticizes her bottom, but I keep saying that's nonsense. And, in a way that makes perfect sense in my brain when I think of her relative innocence, she sports a completely natural, completely carefree garden of coarse, dark fur that feels totally glorious to me when I'm gently rubbing my cheeks against her just before I begin to taste her essence.

And I've been tasting her essence frequently. In fact, I think my giving her head is the most frequent play activity that we've been doing. She is definitely not complaining.

During one of first dates, as we cooked together in my kitchen, random kisses quickly turned into a fun quickie session that eventually had her bent over one of my kitchen barstools. Her strong legs were sumptuously splayed apart as she bent over and across the seat of the stool, her lovely round ass before me. She had no choice but to gaze forward into the sunshine that brightened the deck as I squatted behind her and opened her up like a book.

I've written before about how one of my favourite activities is to discover, learn, study, enjoy the sight of my partner's anus. To me, there's a total intimacy in the sight of how she's crinkled, coloured, shaped there. Like fingerprints, like labia, the shape and contours of my lover's asshole are unique to her, and I enjoy the forbidden pleasure of learning hers.

And when I first gazed upon Ami's and began to give her light caresses there on this occasion in my kitchen, she bent over a stool, I immediately subconsciously knew that she had never been in such a position before. In such a vulnerable position before. And that, when I began to gently rim her, the gentle gasps for breath that I was hearing were very likely being accompanied by widened eyes that I could not see.

I liked that.

And so I slid my fingers inside her drenched, furry pussy and made her cum as I stood behind her and gently stroked my cock with my other hand.



But whether or not things with Ami are "relationship material" has been unclear. What were we doing? What were our parameters? Where did we want this to go? I've certainly enjoyed her company, and continue to, but for quite some time I didn't have my finger on the pulse. (G-spot yes, pulse no.) Our thang lacked clarity. Are we just-dating? Are we FWBs? Is she interested in romance? If I tell her that I lower-case-L love her, is she going to freak out or suddenly get distant? That kind of ambiguity makes me insane.

Ami, who commutes to and from the city frequently, has nurtured a slightly gypsy-ish grad student lifestyle. She housesits for the friend who's currently in Paris. She crashes on another friend's couch because it's close to campus. And recently she started spending enough time at my pad that it became a no-brainer for me to give her a set of keys and empty some drawers so she could move an amount of her stuff in my place and stay whenever she wanted to.

Ain't I cool? God, I frighten myself. cough

But her teaching and study schedule is intense. Despite a hot beginning, we've only rarely been able to spend "quality time" together lately. We'll share the same bed, but time and energy for fucking comes and goes. Eventually, I started to ask myself what it was that I was doing here, what it was that she was looking for, and it started to piss me off. Critical mass was approaching, and with a gentle nudge, I made sure she knew that a Conversation was soon becoming necessary. I needed to know where she stood, where she wanted to stand, and that she knew the same in return.

A relaxed sushi picnic in the park later and I had the clarity I needed. And, thus far, it seems that Ami and I are definitely in the friends-with-benefits camp. I sought clarity, and I certainly got it:

"Basically," she said to me after she listened to my mind, "I decided to get involved with you because I sensed that you'd be good in bed."

blink Oh.

Um. Ok.

I can handle that. Sure.

We finished our homemade miso soup in the park and went back to my place.

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.

Big ones that got away.

The previous post had me remarking (ok, fine, bitching) about how winter probably will look like as far as my dating life is concerned.

That said, it seems like a good time to share three little stories from years past about "possibilities" that didn't turn out as well I might have wanted. I'm sharing these because I think of these incidents often, I really do, and I still wince even when I smile to myself about them. Oh, the pain.


The Exchange Student

New Jersey, 1997. I was the alpha male in what basically turned into an off-campus student house. It was a large, sunny place near a major university, and it was the first pad I had after the break-up of my seven-year relationship with Diva. I took in housemates to make ends meet, and they always seemed to be students.

She was from Japan. Long, straight, raven-black hair and a lithe, winsome form, her English was broken but her grace and charm more than made up for it. She came home with the most bizarre seafood-based snacks, and she laughed at my attempts to make California rolls with the wrong kind of rice.

I knew that she had a boyfriend. And maybe I was being a little clueless, whatwith me in a very strange post-longterm-relationship headspace. But on that evening when she casually stood with her shoulder against the doorframe to her room, oh-so-subtly beckoning me to come in and see the tiny Japanese mat that she used for bedding, something in me just wasn't seeing the signs. Long ago, a female friend had told me that I didn't always See how a woman flirts with a man, and this must have been one of those cases because the Exchange Student looked terribly disappointed when, perplexed, I excused myself away.

Oh, it breaks the heart.

The Flirt I Will Never Forget

Two or so years after it happened, I still think on this lost opportunity with pained laughter.

I was dating someone, and we were going to a then-trendy little out-of-the-way pub that hosted ambient drumming nights. My date had her djembe, and her young son (who was with us) was borrowing my ashiko to play. As we approached the pub from the street, I spotted a cluster of women on the club's patio, including one wee faerie in particular. We made eye contact as I opened the door for my date and her child, and I felt it right in my chest.

As the evening progressed, I would eventually find myself enjoying a pint at the bar while my date and her boy played among a circle of friends. An hour or so had passed by, and I was basically giving her some mother-and-son time to help him enjoy this otherwise all-adult night out. My presence as the-guy-Mommy-is-out-with was still an adjustment for the young man, although not a problem, but I was perfectly game to make things as easy as possible. After all, sooner or later, he gets a bedtime, right? Ain't I a nice guy?

I spill my pint at the bar. I'm totally embarassed, but I'm laughing about it, and that gets the bartender laughing with me as he refills my glass. My self-effacing humour must have been refreshing to those in earshot, because soon others are in hysterics too... and that's when I realize that the person right beside me, back to me, is the same woman who made eye contact with me at the start of the evening. Oh, dear.

She's tiny. Her hair is a cluster of tight auburn spirals, and the face that is framed by this dark coppery mane is full of character, laugh lines, thought, and intelligence. Her eyes grip me.

"Um... hi," I manage to stammer. She smiles. We make small talk. No, I hadn't spilled my beer on her. Thank God.

But soon she's putting on her coat, though she stops for a brief moment when she hears me quietly say, and with genuine disappointment in my tone, "Oh, you're going."

Her face was full of real apology. "Yeah, I have to go. I have friends waiting for me." A pause. "Are you here with someone?"

I can't lie, and I'm sure my face was full of apology too. I was. I was still very unsure about where that was going, it all being new at the time and with me already sensing possible deal-breaking cracks in the pavement, but yes, I was there with somebody. I said so, but I think she also read the underlying message because smiled more and opened up.

But you know what? I had stopped really listening. Not to be rude... but I was totally transfixed by how dropdead beautiful this woman was and how resonant her energy felt to me. She's wasn't glamourous, she wasn't pretentious, she wasn't wearing the look of some woman seeking to emulate a cosmetics advertisement... she was simply herself, auburn ringlets and simple all. So I found myself playfully nodding a lot, smiling wide, jerking my head in yeah-I'm-listening movements that, at the same time, were a comic exaggeration. She got the hint that yeah-I'm-listening-but-not-really and stopped talking. Once she did, I shifted the energy with a joyful smile and a still gaze directly into her eye. She looked right back into mine, and after a moment's silence as we held each other's consciousness that way, I spoke clearly.

"You are... gorgeous."

There. It was out. No nonsense. Straightfoward. A man whom she had never met before just came right out and told her like it was, and she remained completely still for a second before blinking her eyes. "Did he really say that?" her expression read. She stammered for a moment and brushed herself closer. I broke the eye contact to move my head aside as I took a sip from my glass.

"I just wanted to tell you that," I continued. Her face was radiant. She complimented me in return. We locked eyes again.

"I just have to know your name," I asked earnestly. Her smile beamed and her eyes twinkled under the red lighting at the bar.

"Morgan." I laughed, remembering another I have known.

I sighed deeply. I thought to myself that, in my experience anyway, when a pride of women are out-on-the-town together, their priorities are to stay that way. I was torn, but decided to back off gracefully.

Stupid move.

"Your friends are waiting, Morgan," I said with a smile, gesturing toward the door with my shoulder, "Go." Two or three women stood outside on the pavement, chatting and smoking cigarettes. And at that, Morgan slowly, she very slowly walked from the bar and me and this extraordinary moment to go out the door. After a glance.

And to this day I wonder what could have been possible. I shake my head at the thought. Sometimes I wask myself if it's at all possible that I'd ever run into her again.

Bree

It is possible, though God knows how faintly, that a thang with Bree still isn't an impossibility. While we're really very close and have a deep friendship than spans more than twenty years, we both are pro-poly people.

Bree is one of my best friends, and throughout our sharing together, there's always been a delicious undercurrent of sensuality. To me, she is one of the most beautiful, extraordinary women I have ever, ever known, and I mean that in every conceivable way.

A petite, athletic, Latina shorthaired brunette, Bree is an early40s medical researcher with a genius mind and the patience of a saint. There was a time when we were massage buddies, each visiting the other (and our respective partners at the time) to break out the almond oil, strip, and coax away our stresses. Superbly delicious days, those.

We'd go out to dinner once in a while, usually to discuss various projects we were both invovled with, but there were times when those dinner converations would turn to more personal topics. I still remember how she confided in me that her then-partner refused to accept her bisexuality and latent interest in transgendered women. I still remember, as we noshed on Mexican food and had one margarita too many, she whispered how much she really liked being fucked in her ass.

And I have seen Bree's ass. Oh, I have seen. She is sculpture, with a pert heartshaped, dimpled, olive-toned derriere that never failed to make me completely skip a heartbeat whenever my eyes beheld it. And were she to turn about and display that dense, black, perfectly rectangular trimming of fur under her navel... I can't begin to tell you how long I have wanted to drop to my knees, gently grasp her upper thighs, and feast upon her.

And she has seen me too. She was visiting Diva and I once, and I strode from out of the shower. Entering the room where these two exquisite women were, a towel barely wrapped around my midriff, I glimpsed a glaze in her dark eyes as she sat on the hardwood, a glass of wine in her hand, her sight riveted to the penis that swung from beneath the Egyptian cotton.

It was after that break with Diva, and in that same off-campus house, when we Almost Happened. She had come by for another massage visit, the first we would share in a long time, and things were on the skids (but not broken) with her then-partner too. I was skittish... I'll admit it... because, truth be told, I've had a crush (and still do!) on Bree for all the time I've known her.

She sat on the edge of bed as we talked. I was at my desk, which was very close to where she was, so close that when I stood to go in the kitchen for more of whatever we were drinking that I had to pass very close to her. I skirted my jeans-covered ass along the corner of the desk to avoid coming in contact with her... but that only served to have me angling my out-thrust groin very near her face as she sat on that bed. Prior to that, our afternoon together was full of friendly energy alone, but as I skirted by, her gaze went immediately to my bulge. And I saw the change in the look in her eyes.

I wish to God that I could tell you that I stopped, that I caressed her hair, and that I slowly unzipped those jeans while that bulge remained at face-level to her. I can't begin to tell you how often that possibility has crept into my fantasies, how much (and for twenty fucking years) I've wanted Bree to suck my hard, hot, thick, silken, flexing, pulsing cock. But I didn't.

What I did do was give her another long, sensual, hot oil massage. But this time, it was different.

We relaxed on cushions on the floor in a very Bohemian way. Sandalwood filled the air as I blended heated oils in my palm. She had removed her shirt and remained in bra and jeans as she knelt away from me. Gentle music. Quiet talk. Soon, she lay herself down and the bra was removed as her skin glistened in the low light. Like every massage we shared, it was an inwardly fulfilling experience for us both. I miss those days.

She had reached under herself to undo and slightly lower her jeans when I started working my warm fingers around her dimples at the small of her back. She wore no underwear that I remember. It didn't take long for my cock to stiffen as I felt the energy shift from sensual touch to something... else.

Her breathing quickened. At those moments when she might reposition herself slightly, I glimpsed her breasts enough to see that her nipples had hardened. Her hips began gyrating just... slightly. I swallowed and took a breath.

"Ok," I whispered, trying to control my own breathing and the strain of my cock trapped by my own jeans, "how does this sound? ...Just stop me if what I'm doing is becoming too much..."

We already had a deep trust with one another, so I wasn't at all surprised when she whispered just as quickly as I was breathing. "Ok." She looked at me from over her shoulder and smiled. She is so beautiful.

Slowly, painstakingly, I lowered her jeans. My heart was thundering in my chest as I peeled her denim away, and as she raised her hips to launch her behind upward, as her exquisite, perfectly shaped, muscular, naked ass was unveiled mere inches from my starving gaze and dry mouth.

In all of my sexual life, this memory is one of the strongest to ever remain with me.

My massage continued, but by now it was less about relieving her tension than it was about worshipping her body with hot oil and firm, slow, sensual kneads and caresses. Her flesh was tight in my grasp, and I relished how her muscles moved between my thumb and forefinger as I squeezed her in slow, upward, gripping strokes. When her thighs parted slightly, the faint sight of her dark muff and her beautiful nexus made my head swim. I count faintly, just faintly, detect her clean and feral musk amid the swirling scent of oil, and my cock stiffened even more. I desperately, desperately, desperately wanted to suddenly drop to the floor, grasp her ass in my hands, bring my face to her, and slide my tongue straight up the seam of her pillowy labia in a wide, wet stroke.

With a heavy breath of self-control, I leaned back and undid my jeans. I reached inside and withdrew my phallus from its brutal confines. She raised her ass a little higher. I held her cheeks in each hand and spread her open. Lowering myself, I slipped my shaft right into her gorgeous crevasse and began to glide the length of me there slowly, feeling her behind hold me in slick, hot, strokes. Her dark, starry anus glistened with oil, and I bit my lower lip as I felt it against that broad vein at the underside of my shaft. I held my cock from its base and tapped my spongy head against her there, and then rubbing it in fast motions right against that beautiful, winking hole. Bree relaxed on elbows and knees before me, her body glowing after the massage, breathing deeply and quietly. It was a moment that I had longed for, and to this day, long to have the opportunity to do again...

...Because I stopped.

Yes, it's true. I stopped. It took all of strength to force myself to, but I stopped. Why, in the name of God, did I fucking stop?

Because I was trying to be the Good Guy. Because while I was single, Bree really was not, and these were still days when "open relationships" were a rocky, challenging, and only occasionally successful thing among my circle of friends. "Polyamory" wasn't even a word in our vocabulary yet. Because I love her, and in some twisted place in my head, I didn't want to see something happen that might fuck something up. Call me an idiot, but that's how it happened.

Sure, at the time, I thought we might connect again, that we could still make something happen if she still desired it. But the opportunity didn't present itself, and within the next year, I was moving to Canada.

And, sometimes, I see her in my dreams.

Ice fishin'.

For reasons that are totally unrelated to what I share on this blog, words can't express how relieved I am that 2010 has drawn to a close. Sure, my dating and sex life took some interesting turns this... uh, last... year, but other arenas in my world took even bigger jolts than the ending of my essentially-monogamous thang with Kara and becoming single again. The current economic downturn has certainly cut a swath over here at Rogue Enterprises, International.

Those other complications will probably take its toll on my dating life too, so who knows what'll happen, and what might or might not get shared here, in the coming short-term. But that's ok: God knows that I'll have plenty to say even if my bed is slightly quieter for a time. I'm not necessarily expecting a repeat of 2009's winter blight, and there's been some interesting prospects. I thought I might share.

I was very definitely winsome for a possibility with Rollergrrl. Um, yeah. It's so rare that I find myself that potentially attracted by someone simply through a dating profile and a phone conversation or two. Call it (on my part anyway) digital chemistry, lucky stars, happy algorithms... but in the end, the dude she was seeing, on the outs with, becoming otherwise disappointed with, seemed, at the last moment, to get his act together and treat Rollergrrl right for a change. Maybe I shouldn't have wished him luck... Still, it was nice to feel my chest tighten over possibilities again, and I still smile when I think about it. (Hey. You reading this? Good. Now let's set that just-friends date up for a pint or four, mm?)

So, 2011 is opening without me seriously seeing anyone. That's ok: it's fun to enjoy the options.

Kara and I still see one another, as friends, and get together when our hectic lives permit. She was over at my place for dinner recently, and much to my intrigued surprise, agreed that, yes, she'd potentially be interested in still getting together as kink playmates from time to time. Interesting. Mm.

Having recently rekindled some lustful play after several years of just-friends, I'm pretty confident that the Tomboy would enjoy getting together again too. We live far apart now, so if that were to happen, it could be a long while, but it's feeling good to have reconnected.

Once she learned that I was single again, Biting Tina started some heavy Facebook flirting with me. It's a little challenging because one of the reasons I put a stop to things between us was because of her apparent inablity to respect basic personal boundaries, and since I've already (politely, nurturingly) told her that I'm Not Interested, her persistence has been noticable. Should I feel complimented?

Dean tells me that she still thinks of me from time to time, which is always nice to hear. She also tells me that I should go to a damned munch "and get a girl." Ain't she cute? Since Molly keeps me on the guest list for some local polyamory socials, maybe I should consider her advice.

Hey, Morgan. You listening? C'mere with those tight jeans and spankable, pantied behind, damn you.

I'd love to get together with the ever-elusive, ever-mysterious Stacy again, but she's dropped from the face of the earth again. Not that she really would make for sound grrlfriend material, and that by her own past admission.

And that's part of The Thing. Sure, the male stereotype is to be simply chasing women to fuck, to (as Vesper Lynd put it) "see women as disposable pleasures rather than as meaningful pursuits." Truth is, I'd love to be pursuing that meaningful pursuit, and when the Fates have her cross my path, you best believe that I'll be open for her. But I'm also sober and adult enough to know that each of these aforementioned daughters of Aphrodite, outstanding and glorious felines they are, aren't necessarily seeking that. So I keep the dating site profile updated.

It would just be nice if some of the women to respond positively to my profile there actually, you know, lived in my region. Call me crazy. The Hippiechik... in Winnipeg? The Kinky Ph.D.... in Cleveland? The Rennie... in Flushing? Nice to know that the Blonde Gardener has added me to her "favourites" list... but she's in fucking Pittsburg. Please, please, guys... you're killing me here.

(And that includes you, Boots, you delicious raven temptress you, because you're on the other side of goddamn planet, even if you dangle statements like "have cunt, will travel" before me. Wench.)

Ok. Bikerdyke has me hot. She's (sorry, he's) local, thank God, and a genderqueer, shorthaired, countercultural subbie who's seeking a broadshouldered Daddy. Nice play possibilities there, if we ever get around to meeting. Hm.

Aggressive Subbie (really, that's what one of her online tests calls her) is intriguing, even if she tells me that I'm "not normally her type" (see below) but apparently interested enough in my profile that she keeps checking it out and wants to meet. But do I want to revisit my thoughts about having kids? Hm.

There is this creative, lithe, shorthaired faeriewench among my FetLife friends who stops my heart whenever I see her, and she's openly seeking a playmate these days... but how do I feel about her interest in watersports? Hm.

And, ultimately, here's the skinny: Yes, a deep, mutually rewarding, not-just-sexual, life-planning sort of relationship would be outstanding. Partnership is where it's ultimately at over here. I'm open, but still, I'm not holding my breath, man. More and more, I'm getting the sense that the single women of Toronto are exclusively interested in exactly the sort of neo-conservative, goose-stepping, corporate drones that I most certainly am not. Pity for them, no? So meanwhile, I think there'll be a lot of "ice fishing" for me this winter, and who knows what might or might not happen.

Now where did I put that rod and reel?

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.

And now for something completely different.

She came for another ride: easy ridin'.

The following morning, I slowly awoke to find that we were spooning, her back to my chest, under the thick covers. I nuzzled my face between her warm shoulderblades and, in a slow, sleepy caress, brought my hand from her taut stomach to her hips, thighs, and to cupping her firm heart-shaped behind. I smiled groggily to myself as I held her asscheek in my grip, and my cock stirred. Slowly, she began to wake and murmured with a slight smile. As I held her, my caresses shifted to gentle probing, and she parted her legs slightly and brought her right knee down to the bed and toward her chest to give me more access to her folds, her anus, her sleepy clit. For a few moments, I enjoyed gently touching and stroking her tenderness in the dark warmth that enveloped us. As I hardened, I enjoyed sliding the length of me along the small of her back and in the soft seam underneath.

I tugged some of the covers free to expose her beautiful ass to the morning light. Uncovering myself, I knelt above and behind her. She gasped quietly when I parted her thighs and dove my head between them to slide the length of my tongue down and between her smooth labia. Her body stiffened when I flicked it beside her clit and slowly gave her a wide, wet lick upward until I was teasing the outermost ring of her dark, crinkled rosebud while both hands grasped her asscheeks firmly and spread her open like a book.

But I was teasing. After gently holding her clit between my fingers and giving it a few slow swirls, I brought my hand back again to cup and caress her delightful bare butt some more as she whimpered quietly into the feather pillow. A firm pat or two later, I was smirking to myself as I strolled out of bed. I knew the Tomboy would want to slumber lazily some more, and I was wide alert and ready for a pot of tea. She grunted in playful annoyance but was soon asleep again.

Her black leather chaps were still carefully draped over the edge of the parlour futon as I relaxed with the newspaper. I sipped a mug of Russian Caravan and listened as she breathed deeply in the bedroom. My pad smelled like warm flesh and the previous night's filet mignon decadence.

Soon, she stumbled quietly into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes awake like some small child whose desire for breakfast won over the desire for more sleep. Like me, she was naked, and the cats swirled around her ankles. I poured her some tea. She reached for her jeans, which were also on the couch, and began to put them on. Damn, she looked good in those jeans.

As we chitchatted, I remembered that she'd be riding home later, but a naughtier part of my thinking knew that I'd want to have some more fun with her before she left. After all, it had been almost four years since we'd last fucked, and while I definitely got the sense from Tomboy that she'd want to see me again reasonably soon, God knew how long it would be until then.

And that's when, an hour or so later and after I'd dressed, we both were fully caffeinated and alert and making plans for the morning (while, incidentally, she remained topless), I smiled and impulsively pulled her close to me. Her warm tits felt fantastic against me as her kiss took me whole, grunting quietly under her breath as she feasted on me. Playfully, I gripped her long, dark hair and spun her toward the futon with her chaps draped over them and bent her over its edge.

I reached around her and began undoing her jeans. She got the idea and assumed the position, resting her hands on the wooden frame. I squatted behind her and tugged the denim low, totally enjoying the sight of her gradually exposed flesh as I did so. She was my toy, my plaything, and I intended to fuck her senseless before she had her morning OJ.

The denim held her ankles in a fallen swath as she parted her legs and bent completely over. Still squatting, I held her ass open and teased her holes again, soaking her, drenching her with my probing tongue before standing once more and aiming my wide, silky cockhead to her eager pussy. Tilting my hips just right, I slowly slid inside her tightness and my chest heaved as I indulged in her heat. She felt fucking fantastic, and I grunted aloud as I started thrusting smoothly and deeply inside her core. Under me, she panted and squealed, pushing herself back against me as she totally got into getting fucked this way in the morning light.

I love it when my partner's ass smacks gently against me as I fuck from behind. I love it when they thrust back to me. I love it when I watch them, from above and behind, yield and give in to being taken for my thick, hard cock inside them. And, in this case, fucking my ex-lover Tomboy again felt delicious and saucv and just plain fun.

Her ass slammed harder against me as I took her deeper and faster. I coiled her long hair into my fist, and she moaned aloud when I tugged her head high and back, her mouth open as she got taken.

Soon, I withdrew from her, and in a no-nonsense, shut-up-and-come-along move, I wrapped her hair around my fist and practically pulled her back into the bedroom, her head tilted to one side as she snapped to it. Using her hair like a leash, I pulled right right to the esge of the bed and yanked her to the mattress, hard and fast, and then gripped her hips to keep her ass raised high in the air and her head down against the crumpled covers.

Standing above her, I held her ass open again and thrusted my cock back into her drenched pussy. She cried aloud and I used her hips to pull her backwards and forwards while I fucked her. Her cunt was mine. Her ass was mine. She screamed aloud as she felt me batter her walls until I felt my balls tense, my cock thicken, her wetness coax me, her tightness milk me, and then burst after burst of me exploding in steady streams.

Soon, I slowed down, and she was a puddle on the bed. My cock glistened when I withdrew from her, and with a deep and appreciative laugh, went to shower. She giggled, rolled herself back into the covers, and snoozed contentedly.

We went to breakfast. True to form for her newfound passion for riding, we went to a terrific local bistro with a cool biker vibe before she took the saddle again and rode her way home.

It was good to see her again. It was definitely good to fuck her brains out again. I felt reconnected, not only to our friendship, but to elements of my own sexual senses after the disconnects of the past several months in my continuing post-Kara, essentially-monogamous year.

Tomboy has since invited me to a holiday dinner at her pad, when her Idiot Boyfriend will be away doing his own thing. I wouldn't be the only one of her extracurricular lovers whom would attend, and I'm undecided as yet if I'll go. But it's an interesting thought.

She came for another ride.

"You know something?" she asked me the last time I saw her, perhaps a year ago, when I was helping her move out of the Toronto area. We were standing at my car as I got ready to go. Her idiot boyfriend, unhappy I was there but probably grateful for my help, had skulked back into the house they were leaving. We were dirty. Their U-Haul was packed.

"After we broke up," she continued, "you became the one I thought of the most when I masturbated."

Words I'll never forget.

More than three years since I ended things between us, we've remained friends. She's still with her freeloading, unemployed boyfriend and his sidekick, still defiantly polyamorous, and still as high-energy and boistrous as ever. She had heard that I'd recently become single again, and when she made plans to visit mutual friends in my area, she texted me to see if we could "meet over coffee or a beer." She said she'd be riding in and was concerned about the weather for the trip back. My brain was still on we're-just-friends mode when I mentioned that she'd be welcome to crash at my place if a night drive through the coming cold would be too much for her to bear. "We're-just-friends." I swear.

But it's also true that, still in post-Kara mode, I hadn't been properly laid in a while, and even during these last months she and I were together, things had cooled down some. Leave it to The Tomboy to tease me on this.

Tomboy: Ooo! I get to crash with you?

Me: You'll like the new place. And my new futon is way comfortable.

I have two futons. Only one of them is my bed. I swear.

Tomboy: ...Does that offer come with all the bonuses I'd like? Ha ha!

The Tomboy is an athletic, mid30s soldier who is among the most pro-poly women I know. Her myriad list of outdoorsy hobbies make her a riot to be with, and while sometimes I think she can be a little crazy, she's good people. And here she was, randomly suggesting that after more than three years, she'd like to share my bed again. A year of monogamy under my belt left me blinking my eyes a lot at the possibility, but I also knew that breaking my cherry again would go down so much nicer with a former lover and friend.

I was letting a bottle breathe when I heard her bike rumble down the driveway behind the house. I hadn't even seen her since she moved from the city, when she gave me that delicious praise, and it was a treat to hear her boots clonk up my stairwell to my pad. Hugs and laughter abounded. She removed the black leather chaps she wore, and as she turned her back to me, I was reminded of how gorgeous her heart-shaped ass is in a pair of jeans. My cock thrummed.

Small talk. Catching up. I tinkered with the filet mignon I was preparing and started to sauté the cremini mushrooms. Slowly, as we spoke, we found ourselves drawing closer to one another until, standing in my kitchen, our arms touched. I coiled a hand behind the nape of her neck and ran fingers through her dark brown hair, now much longer than I remember it being last.

"Kiss me," I told her. What followed left my stomach tightened and my cock as hard as stone as she let loose three years' worth of fantasizing against my lips. She feasted on me, her mouth opening for me as her tongue darted across my teeth and teased. She grunted when my arm wrapped itself snugly around her waist, her lips never leaving mine, her thigh raised to graze my own and her knee pressing gently but firmly against my crotch. She reached around me to grip my ass. I reached around her to grip hers.

When the kiss broke, I saw only one thing to do. I smiled wide, grasped her wrist, and led her to the bedroom. "Come on." She laughed out loud.

She tugged my shirt over my head as we knelt on the thick futon, and she stroked my nipples when she brought her mouth to mine again. Her shirt. Her head on my shoulder as I undid her bra. Her hand clutching at the hot bulge in my jeans.

When my hand rediscovered her breasts, memories of them flooded to me. Warm handfulls of her flesh stiffened me more, and she gently chewed on my ear as we knelt before one another while I enjoyed them.

The Tomboy, for all her sex-positive attitudes, is one of those few (in my experience) women in the world who reserves sucking cock "for special occasions." Go figure. It wasn't that way when we were together, but after three years, I wasn't going to assume anything and left well enough alone there. I, on the other hand, was craving warm and randy feminine flesh in my mouth at that point, and I intended to have it.

She splayed herself on her back, languishing in the cushions underneath her, as I drew my face to her bare stomach and started undoing her jeans. Raining kisses and tender bites on her abs, I snapped her pants open and started tugging them playfully, smiling as her black cotton panties revealed themselves to me. The jeans pulled off from her legs, she laughed when I bit her calves and reached for my long locks when I brought my head between her opened thighs.

"Oh, yeah..." she cooed. She hadn't felt my mouth in such a long time.

Pressing my lips to her covered mound, I exhaled deeply and roasted her. I looked up and into her smiling eyes as my warm, wet tongue swabbed in slow, searching strokes and pressed the cotton against her mons. Her underwear was drenched by both my saliva and her trembling, expectant excitement when I finally peeled them off and began sliding my tongue along her seam in earnest.

I had forgotten how gorgeous the Tomboy's pussy is. Soft crescents of reddening smooth skin framed her long and eager clit, which nestled at the core of some of the tightest, most gentle soft petals one could hope to find on such an orchid. A disciplined tuft of dark fur above pointed the way to her button, and I followed the directions it was giving me as I swabbed, as I licked, as I swirled my tongue around her glistening grrlshaft. The lightest of flicks at either side of her left the Tomboy in a cooing puddle of goo, her legs slowly squirming at either side of us, her head occasionally jolted from the pillows, her breathing deep and full of joy.

I love it when my partner likes to have her pussy sucked. I live for it. And when I finally started to slide my fingers inside her core, taunting her G-spot and pumping while I sucked her button quickly through my wet lips, her hips bucked as she rode my mouth. My free hand grasped her beautiful ass, caressed her abdomen, squeezed those tits that were left to sway along her chest with each shaking movement she made. She came in my mouth. A lot.

It healed me.

Jam formations.

I was already totally into her apparent ability to adapt and overcome to life's circumstances and her understanding of the same in others, her goals, her spirituality and how I see it resonated with her desire for laughter and positive manifestation. I could easily see how her love for interesting foods would coalesce beautifully with my love to cook. Her pictures on the dating site totally rocked my socks with her intense eyes, her freckles, her short and shining hair, and her womanly form.

But when I learned she was into competitive roller derby, I knew I'd get hooked.

Me, whose chest tightens over empowered, kickass women. Me, who smirked broadly when I read she was "really good at hitting women in fishnets."

Yeah, I've been dating. So has Rollergrrl, of course, and we've even talked about her desire to keep trying with a quasi-ex, Mr. Lucky, as she oh-so-struggles with apparently enjoying talking with me online, and recently, on the phone.

No, I haven't met her. And, no, I'm not really trying to jinx anything by writing about this growing acquaintance. But, thanks to our shared friend, she already knows about the blog, and she's already shared with me that it's turned her on.

(Hi. Are you reading this now? And are you smiling?)

I already knew that I could easily fall into Serious Like with this woman. And when our flirtations found themselves directed into her sharing of how she could easily enjoy seeing herself splayed across my lap for a sound, firm, over-the-knee bare-bottom spanking, well...

But you'll have to bear with me as I deliberately keep those details from you. I'm enjoying that as a between-Rollergrrl-and-I moment.

I'm writing this now because I want to leave a mark: yes, I'm dating again, and yes, it's entirely possible that future posts will involve experiences with other women than Rollergrrl. Like, of course they will. Like, again, I have yet to even physically meet her yet.

But I'm sensing a vibe here that I'm really enjoying. It isn't very often when my bones tell me that Something Could Really Be Good Here sight-unseen, based on first impressions. I'm not projecting, I'm not assuming anything, and for all I know right now we could end up only Just Friends. But I'm also enjoying that feeling of Possibility and Potential when my inbox shows a reply from her and when I hear her articulate, sensual voice on the phone. She seeking to manifest her desires in life; if I'm right, I think I could definitely enjoy perhaps being a part of them.

She's very yum.

I'm just sayin.

Graduation Day.

Where to begin.

My puter complications continue, and that's one big reason why I haven't been posting that often lately. But it's also true that my head has been in bizarre space.

It's been about a month since I've gone into post-Kara living, and it's somewhat surreal. Finding her brand-spanking new profile on one of my favourite dating sites was interesting to be sure, but it didn't stop me from sending her real compliments. As friends, we haven't been getting together nearly as frequently as I think we've intended, but that's very probably more about our mutually crazy schedules too.

But one thing I've learned about myself in the past, and am living in again, is this seeming reluctance to share my path right after a relationship break. It's odd (and hardly conducive to decent blogging) but I think I do it out of some strange sense of respect for my previous partner. What's weird is that I don't seem to do this when I'm the primary one to end a relationship, but when I'm the recipient of that axe, and one might otherwise think that I'd be eager and gung-ho about posting about whom I've Been With since, as if I were subconsciously (or not) thumbing a nose to The (Insert Expletive) Who Left Me.

I guess I'm just not that petty.

I think I can live with that.

Is it weird for me to not blog about what I've been up to this month out of some latent desire to not, somehow, make Kara uncomfortable? She's a reader of the blog, after all. (Hi, hon.) Am I, in restricting myself, being a gentleman after some fashion, or am I holding out a candle for her? The mental gymnastics I go through.

Perhaps I'll feel better if I make some kind of caveat. Like this:

Kara? Hi, it's me.
You know, the guy who took you to your first playparties, you spanked your delightful little bum in public, and who gave you delicious head.
I'm sorry that we didn't play nearly as much as we wanted to.
I felt as though we were still just getting started,
and I'd been eager to tie you up more, see you in the corset we bought,
and do so much with you.
But, you know, for your own reasons, it ended. Yeah, I miss your company.
But, you know, you were dating a guy who writes a sex blog.
While our ending isn't the only reason it's been quiet here, it's true that I've been ambivalent about writing much because I like you, respect you,
and because I haven't wanted to sting you.
After all, for the year-plus we were together,
we were essentially monogamous.
You can safely say that you are the first person to have returned me to that zone for more than ten years. And I was actually starting to like it.
But, you know, maybe it wouldn't have stung.
I don't know, and I chose to err on the side of caution.
And, either way, it's been long enough now that I think I'm ready to be writing again. I still don't want it to sting you.
In the end, it's entirely up to you if you want to continue reading.
We're both adults here.
I'm going to move forward in my writing, my sharing, now.
Just know, and I hope you'll enjoy knowing, that I miss you,
your laugh,
and gripping your beautiful little ass as I take you hard from behind.
A lot.
Love you.

sigh
There.

Softly breathless.

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