Is the Great White North really that frigid?

As this post goes to press, so to speak, I'm boarding a WestJet flight to Edmonton, Alberta, and from there to Yellowknife, Northwest Territories. I will be within erection distance of the Arctic Circle for the rest of the week.

The Northwest Territories. To me, just the sound of that is incredibly exotic. It's not even part of the recently-created Nunavut province; it's still a damned "territory." Ooo.

When I was a kid in Brooklyn, I loved maps. Still do. And I have a faint memory of being bent over my desk, poring over atlases for hours and hours as my imagination ran wild, and I do remember looking upon the Canadian north and wondering how life would be in (what I figured was) barreness.

It's a family trip; Kara flew there last week to visit relatives, and I'm tagging along because I can. Because we'll be in tight lodgings and her urchins are with us (and I write this teasingly and with a smirk), I have my doubts about how much sexplay we'll get to have. I'd love to slip out of her family's place during the perpetual twilight, find a glen near the banks of Great Slave Lake, and take her from behind at the base of a black spruce. Feel her tightness grip me as I watch her claw the bark, hear her pant as she squats, bent-over, with my hands gripping her hips and tugging her backward to me. Mm.

I think the sexual anthropologist in me might be a little frustrated on this trip, though. I love to travel, and part of that pleasure (if I'm in a city) is to learn about and explore the seedy nightlife. It's a sport, probably enhanced by my first eye-opening (and cock-awakening) experiences when I cut class in high school to cruise around Times Square.

Stripclubs, sex shops, BDSM networks, lingering skanky porn theatres that refuse to die in this DVD- and internet-age... they become unspoken additions to my personal to-do lists, simmering underneath my plans to find excellent pubs, museums, historic sites, and galleries. For fun, I'll explore Craigslist postings from escorts in a given area, not because I'm necessarily seeking them out (no, really), but as a visual and voyeuristic taste of the women who'll be around me there. (Shuttup, no, really.) It's a game, and now that I've been doing this sexblog thang for the last few years, sometimes I'll share my results with you. I did this before past trips to Chicago or back home. Some people collect tchotchke shotglasses or refridgerator magnets; I look for pix of gorgeous, interesting local women and post them there. My little hobby.

But Yellowknife, Yellowknife, Yellowknife! You're freaking me out! I'm going to totally love being with my woman. I'm going to totally love meeting her family. A chance to perhaps see bison or bowhead whales in the wild? Sign me up! I'm going to be thrilled to experience your 23-hours of daylight, to meet and hang out with your Dene First Nations folk, to get a beer and a bison burger at the landmark Wildcat Cafe. But I've been looking through the 'net, Yellowknife, and I'm dumbstruck. Flaccid, even.

I did find an obscure inventory record of historic buildings. It includes the "Old Prostitutes Log Cabin" at 3804 Bretzlaf Drive, built by John Stakston in 1938. John lived there until the 1950s, and we might readily assume that he was a local pimp because the house "became a prostitution den when this street was Yellowknife's red light district, known as Glamour Alley." Now that can be good and fun sexual history to discover.

But I am learning that many of the 18,000 or so folks in "the Knife" aren't exactly the sex-positive type. I've found one blog covering queer issues there. One. Jason tweets me to say that "western Canada, in general, is much more prudish than Toronto or Montreal. That's not to say "things" don't happen. It's discrete. Yellowknife is filled with well-traveled, educated, adventurous people. It's very diverse, inclusive and friendly."

Yet a local pro-atheism blog recently detailed an account of discrimination against gays by a religious zealot.

And speaking of religious zealots, it seems that the Catholic school board there refuses to administer HPV vaccines to female students despite statistics apparently showing that young women in Yellowknife become sexually active at earlier ages than in the rest of Canada, and that STD infections are eight times the national average there. Suffer the little children.

Yellowknife. Jason suggests that your discretion is the better part of your valour. I hope so, because I'm wondering: have you no healthy sexual consciousness, no sex-positive venues, no reasonably enticing sensuality for the erotically adventurous, woman- (and queer-) respecting, blog-posting, kink-conscious, I'm-really-not-trying-to-be-such-a tourist? Dammit, Yellowknife, inquiring minds want to know!

Let's make a deal.

Jesus. There are times when I'm so fucking bad.

Given the chance, the right amount of caffeine in my system, and how tired I am, my imagination takes my brain on sudden whirlwinds from time to time. I roll my eyes to myself, I smirk, I'll chuckle on the streetcar, and people look at me like I'm crazy.

But it's just so fun.

Lately, I'm trying to sell some antiques that I've acquired over the years, and have been making a lot of postings on CL. Some of the pieces are artifacts from when The Grrl was with me, and so parting with them would be healthy for my psyche. Some are simply things I just don't have the space or dire need for. Other things are echoes, physical noise from my past.

I had a pair of antique window frames that I rescued from a house renovation, for example. I intended on replacing the glass with either stained glass work or mirrors, but the damned things just sat in my storage unit for ever and ever.

A CL posting later, and someone whom I thought was a male with a uniquely Slavic name was heading over to buy them for three times my asking price. kaching! I open the front door, and "Virve the artist" turns out to be this statuesque Nordic blonde who looks as though she's previously won biathalon gold. I must have looked somewhere between cute and ridiculous when my jaw dropped and my eyes fluttered. Leading her into the garage, where I was holding the frames, my cock twitched under my jeans as she stood directly under a crossbeam.

"Oh, ja. Just relax, meinem frau. Raise your arms over your pretty head. No, no, don't be afraid, these ropes won't cut into your wrists, won't hurt a bit, I promise. See? I'm not feeling a thing! Now, how effectively might these scissors remove the tight denim covering your lovely, butch bottom, mm? ...Sehr gut...

I'm selling a wooden dresser. It's worn, but with the right TLC would be a very solid piece for someone. An office worker named Tina responds, and she's haggling over my dirtcheap price right away. I cave. She sends another email now that she's seen a very swish dining table I'm also offering (the very one that Molly sucked my cock beside and squirted her grrlcum under two years ago) and is haggling with me over email for both pieces. I like her spunk (Tina's, not Molly's. ...ok, I like Molly's too...), but she's undercutting me way too low.

"You sure you can't take just $60 for them both, mister?," she asks. "Your price is really fair, like, but it's just that I can't afford to spend that... and it really is a great table..."

She glances over her shoulder and reaches for my crotch gently, leading me into the storage unit. She turns on the timed light and it cliks loudly as she lowers the aluminum door behind us. She bites her lower lip as she kisses me.

"I really like the table..." She drops to her knees and unzips me slowly.

Yeah. I chuckle to myself.

I continue haggling with CL responses when, speak of the devil's mistress, a message from Molly herself appears on my Facebook. Talk about serendipity.

She's interested in some books I'm culling, but making it to the storage unit to pick her choices is a small hassle for her. No crisis.

Now, I know for a fact that Molly, God love the sexy fandom geek she is, isn't exactly swimming in cash. She's been rebuilding her world, and more power to her. Sure, the books'll be cheap... but my brain had already been in the gutter. Shameless, sarcastic me. I caught myself smirking again when, you betcha, part of my naughty, laughing head pondered poor, happily-submitting Molly sucking me for garage sale reading material.

"I just happen to love cock," she told me once, her wet lips slurping around my shaft after dinner. "And yours is attached to a particularly nice guy."

I can just picture it now...

"Oh! Mercedes Lackey! Piers Anthony!" likk Oh! Anne McCaffrey! Douglas Adams! sssuk Oh cool! A Laurel K. Hamilton I haven't read ssstroke Hey! The complete Marion Zimmer Bradley! mmmbub mmmbub Mmmm.. nice.... Oh! A limited edition series of Anne Rice?! mmf mmmf slrrrp! Oh... oh my God! A hardcover, limited, gold-embossed, fucking fiftieth anniversary edition of The Hobbit! mMMmmmm mmmlp mulp mmmf mmmph Mm MmMMMMmmmm...

I wonder. What would she do for some out-of-print Michael Moorcock? Hardbound? With, you know, a thick and sturdy embossed spine?

The ironic and funny thing is, kidding aside, I would be surprised if Molly wouldn't enjoy sucking my cock again, books or no books. She keeps inviting me to the local polyamory social events. Maybe one of these days I won't be too busy to go.

And maybe I'll have some Andre Norton in my pocket. You know, just in case.

A demanding pet.

Date: 15 September 2009 06:11
Subject: Re: gmorning, sexy
From: Kara
To: Rogue


Something I had never thought of before: that once a moment of ours is blogged about, not only can I see your "spin" on it, but I can re-live it over and over. There are so many more things I want to share.

You know, I have to admit when we first met, when I was toodling around online, dom/sub posts definitely caught my eye. I was beginning to wonder what kind of head-space I would have to be in to TAKE that kind of a suggestion seriously, and, not finding an answer to my musings, I let the idea go as just an internal fantasy ... not to be acted upon.

But what excites me with you, and binds me TO you, is and will always be the "headspace". You wooed me in my greatest erogenous zone: my head... and continue to do so, with safety and love and excitement and expectation ... and it has ALL caught my interest and imagination and, uh, well, my libido.

At the risk of sounding like a demanding pet, winding myself around your legs, trying to trip you with my enthusiasm ... I am looking forward to playing more.

Craigslist courtesans of Toronto.

That being said...






... so there.

To serve and... protect?

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April foolishness, or three tales of sexual stupidity.

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Teacher likes bad boys.

When there are decent dating sites out there, sometimes I wonder why I still bother with Craigslist. Maybe its because the anarchic nature of it appeals to my sexual politics. Maybe its because, while there are definitely some lunatics on there and one's screening process really needs to be acute, there are also Morgans and Stacys who can make the winnowing worthwhile.

Moving forward from my more recent misdventures in dating (have you seen that new reference in the updated header?), I cast a net for the helluvit recently, wondering if an option other than one-night stands might actually be out there. I really didn't expect any replies. I received eight. Of them, it's been with Karen that I've enjoyed some hysterically fun and funny emails over the last few days.

An early50s blue-eyed, longhaired blonde, happily divorced schoolteacher, Karen may be a wee bit older than I, but we seem to have empowered singledom in common and she's intelligent, outspoken, and wellness-positive. Despite the charming pictures she's sent me however, I know precious little about her physically other than her hair and... that she's "proudly endowed" with 34G breasts. Good God.

Being a man who's usually attracted to more modestly adorned ladies, the light dinner we're planning for this evening should be interesting. But, hey, if the attraction turns out to be mutual, I'm all for diversity, because her smarts and attitude already have me smirking. Which, frankly, considering the kind of women I've been meeting lately, would be a plus.

That, and the confessed fact that she loves to suck cock.

I had told her about my past as a phonesex worker, and she responded to say that during a recent "wild women's weekend" with her "accountant friends" (oh, how that got my sarcasm going...) she and her buds had been discussing setting up that very thing. Must be the economy. So, upon hearing about my former semi-sexworker status there, her interest was piqued.

"I am one of those girls attracted to the bad boys!!" she had emailed me. "And the phone sex... now THAT makes me curious, hungry, and... well.. HOT. Sex is all about having fun, and driving your partner WILD, and it's a neverending adventure. Well, I really do want to hear a PROFESSIONAL in action... so, how much do you charge, mister? Could I afford the very best?"

We spoke for the first time last night, and the truth is that I really wasn't planning on pursuing anything randy. We talked about her kids, our exes, Jonathan Kozol's work about race and funding in American schools, what we like about being single and what we'd like to see in possible future partners. We laughed about "wild women accountants." We flirted casually. And then I asked a fateful question. Honestly, I was just curious.

"So, what are you wearing?"

A deep chuckle came from her throat. "Um... I'm naked. On the bed."

Relaxing on my futon, I smiled silently and nodded. "Oh, really? Did something inspire you?"

"Uh huh. And I have a little toybox here. Do you wanna play?"

I blinked. Ooo. Ok...

I had been working out earlier, and was clad only in a pair of my alma mater sweatpants. I smirked, lay back on the futon, and felt the slight twitch through my awakening dick under the white cotton. I hadn't enjoyed a phonesex session since a chat late last summer with Carly, I've missed it with Shayne, and it felt overdue.

"Tell me about your toy," I asked, smirking.

"Is it ok with you? It's not too kinky for you if I use one, is it?" she asked, sounding defensively concerned.

If she only knew. I tried to stifle a laugh. "Um... no, it's not weird for me... at all." Already, I was asking myself when I was due for my next shipment from VibeReview, what she might like if we actually did hit it off well (am I generous, or what?), and whether or not I would share this blog with her. "Uh, relax, no, you go right ahead." She sounded relieved, as if I taken an old burden off of her shoulders. I liked that.

I reached into my sweats and gently tugged my growing cock as I listened to Karen, this delighfully randy blonde-blue-eyed schoolteacher, play with herself. Really, what a privilege it is to enjoy listening, watching, a woman explore herself. I smiled as I listened to her sighs and how her breathing became softly ragged.

"I'd like to tell you that I'm really wet," she breathed. I thought about our emails over the last few days. Nothing explicit, but funny and flirty.

"Mmm. Have you been fantasizing about me, schoolteacher?"

"... Yes."

"I see," I smiled, holding the cordless close to my ear. "So tell me then, what have you been thinking about? ... My cock?"

There was a pregnant pause before the deep inward breath. "...Yes... ... I want... ... ... Can I have it in my mouth?"

Well, my. I lowered the sweatpants to around my ankles as I lay back and relaxed, stroking myself now for true.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, schoolteacher? My cock gets really warm and nicely thick..."

A moan.

"... and you'd like to feel it sliding between your pretty lips, wouldn't you? To feel it throb and pulse on your tongue, feel it twitch, to taste it, know the scent of me is starting to seethe along your wet mouth. Yeah, I think you'd like that."

I could her her breathing quicken. Her staccato rasps told me of the movement of her body as her jilling became faster, hungrier. She was fucking herself with a dildo, likely on her back, her legs spread wide and her long hair scattered across the pillows. I pictured her knees up, her thighs splayed, the blonde racing stripe she had told me of gradually dampening with her desire. It was fun.

"I love sucking cock... I do..."

"I'd want to feel your tongue swirl around the head, feel your wet and sucking mouth..."

A deeper moan. "... I'll suck it deep..."

"I know you will. And I'll gently hold your pretty head in place and fuck that sweet mouth of yours. Suck that cock..."

The groans became more intense. My cock swelled in my first, the spongy head thoroughly enjoying the sensation of my closed fingers as I pumped my fist. We stopped speaking for a while, simply listening to one another. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the wicked sensuality of going in this direction with a friendly, but really total, stranger. My own thoughts started drifting into wayside tangents, memories of lovers, memories of phonesex, as I listened to the schoolteacher thrust her dildo deeply into her drenched academic pussy and daydream about blowing my bad boy phallus. I enjoyed her whimpers. She listened to me stroke.

"Would you cum on my face?" she panted, slightly out of breath. "I like... I like..."

And then I heard her cry out, gasp, and shake. When she did, I felt my balls tighten and the happy tubes of my body fill with me as I burst across my abdomen in two or three streams. I growled, panted, and gasped too. She continued to moan quietly as she came down from her crest. Soon after, we were chuckling.

"Goddammit," I said to her in a playful, feigned anger. My fist and abs were soaked with me. "You made a mess. Look at this."

"I love safe sex," she whispered appreciatively, "and it doesn't get any safer than this."

Dating weirdness.

I've heard it said that "even bad sex is still pretty good."

I have my doubts.

Things have been very bizarre since the holidaze. Still adjusting to the changes between Shayne and me, still supportive but nevertheless aware of the paradigm shift with Morgan, January has left me scratching my head a lot. Crazy Stacy and I haven't reconnected (yet?), and even if we did, I have no delusions that it would develop into anything regular or dependable. Kinky Hannah is away in Europe, and I'm unsure yet if we'd have a second date or not. Glamorous Lauren and I have always been Just Friends. I've decided that I'm a little uncomfortable about the recent surprise experience with Bubbly Lee.

Whenever writing about my lovers, I always endeavor to be as positive and nurturing as possible while still remaining truthful to the events at hand. I prefer to treat women with respect and appreciation in virtually every circumstance... but sometimes I find I have to face some simple man-truths, cock-truths, heart-truths.

Fairly recent experiences with Biting Tina and Lee have shown me that sometimes I'm prone to entertaining sexual options that I already know aren't going to completely satisfy me. Maybe its because of that maxim, that "even bad sex is still pretty good," or because not-dating can sometimes suck even more than less-than-ideal-dating. Maybe its simply because I really enjoy a woman's company, whether its something sexual or not. Maybe I want to distract myself from missing Shayne.

Enter Redhead Carla. A late30s insurance cubefarm worker and single mother to an adorable wee urchin, Carla responded to a listing that, completely on a lark, I posted to Craigslist. A few emails and conversations later, we met for coffee that didn't remain just for coffee. This sounds strangely familiar.

I'm learning to listen to my gut more. My gut didn't respond with starfire when I saw her picture, pretty though she is, and maybe even then I sensed that there could be gulfs between us. But, in the spirit of openmindedness, I decided to give it a chance anyway.

I really wasn't expecting anything to happen that night. I even more really wasn't expecting anything to happen while Carla's three year-old was goofily crawling around on the couch we were on too. But, no, there she was, hoisting her jeans-covered legs over mine to share some peckish smootches while I tried to suggest that maybe, if this was going to go down, it might be better after some tiny person was fast in Lalaland.

And that's how we ended up in her bedroom, her tiny pad pitch black in darkness, as these tactics were viewed as the best possible way for some tiny person to actually drift off to sleep. She did.

It felt totally weird to be undressing and preparing for unexpected sex in pitch darkness. The wee one would sense and respond to any light, I was told, so I smiled and tried to enjoy it, ignoring the thought that maybe I was with someone who simply didn't want to be seen naked. Turns out I was mistaken, but what did I know?

Her kisses seemed innocent, shy, reserved. I began to wonder how comfortable she was, but was well assured. Deciding to relax in the moment, I slowly brought myself down her nude body with kisses and teases before parting her open for a sensual session of head. I felt, rather than saw, that her mound was shaven and smooth, her clit small and responsive, her inner labia taut and finely sculpted. Gently sliding my fingers inside as I licked and sucked her, her G-spot was small and surprisingly smooth, difficult to tease. I enjoyed listening to her quiet gasps and sighs... and then it was over. She had had her cum, and sought to cuddle and drift to sleep. I was amiable. The pillow was too hard.

"Plans" seemed to happen quickly from there. We talked about what we were seeking in longterm relationships, Valentine's Day, that there's a musical happening in town that she'd enjoy seeing on her coming 40th birthday. Some of the yellow lights in my head started blinking.

Still, I'm openminded guy, and remained willing to give it a chance.

I made an excellent turchia scallopini for our second date, where we had already planned for her to spend the night. We were going to fuck, and frankly, as I hadn't enjoyed reasonably good sex since my last visit with Shayne and was very frustrated by the almost-theres through the past few weeks, it's safe to say that this time I had expectations. I deserved a solid, passionate night of getting properly laid, I told myself. My broken heart be damned.

After, it turned out, she could tear herself away from my PlayStation. After, it turned out, she matter-of-factly undressed beside the bed; no tender kissing, few caresses, no verbal teasing, no sensual play. Was she nervous? No, she said. Was she comfortable? Yes, she said. Yellow lights, yellow lights.

The nude snuggling was nice. Now actually seeing her, my cock hardened at the sight of delightfully round, small breasts teased with tiny eraser nipples, the pattern of sexy red freckles along her shoulders and forearms. She passively asked me to give her head again, and again I did with relish and tenderness, and again she came with sighs and gasps. When I drew myself upward again, she rolled me over, announced that the "cougar in her" was going to come out and mounted me. I bit my lower lip as I enjoyed her tight wetness and caressed her back, but too soon she was asking for a change in position and wanted me from behind.

Her narrow hips felt fabulous in my grip as I started fucking her deeply, earnestly, enjoying the sight of her pale behind ripple as my cock drove inside her. I shifted into one nuance of the position after another, and in time tugged her on her back and raised her ankles above my shoulders for deeper fucking. Carla gasped loudly as she felt me.

I tried not to think about the fact that this was a position that I really enjoyed sharing with Shayne.

And, again, then it was over. Perhaps because it had been more than seven months since she last had a man, but Carla had had her fill. Her pussy was done. And it became clear that she just wasn't the sort of lover who had demonstrable interest or experience in seeing her partner have a fulfilling time as well.

For all my openmindedness, I have to say it for what it is: that's a sexual selfishness. No, I don't need to cum every time I have sex to have fun, but as I know I try my best to ensure the best possible time with my lover, I really would like to see the same pleasurable excitement and sharing to have that sentiment returned. Call me crazy.

Other differences are apparent. Carla, for all her apparent sexual availability (if not skill), is a woman who seeks monogamy and expects The Man to open his wallet for all evenings out. She's not kinky. She doesn't carry a conversation. She doesn't express firm opinions. When I shared with her that its strong, confident women who have their own goals and know what they desire from life, from sex, from the future that attract me, and that women who wait to be rescued from their lives will almost always bore me to death... she seemed eerily silent.

It's a shame, really. And the selfish part of me wants to bitch that it's just fucking unfair.

She loves to camp and ski. We seem to have similar taste in film. Part of me enjoys the idea of corrupting her innocence. But the truth is that there are wide gaps between us, and that tells me that there really aren't any strong possibilities for LTRs. Make a friendship out of it? Sure, easy. Enjoy her company for so-called "maintenance sex"? Maybe. Not if she's going to expect anything more... I wouldn't want to be unfair.

But, no, bad sex isn't always still pretty good.

Back to the drawing board.

I do enjoy being single.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How can you not enjoy a woman with such vocabulary?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, really.

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

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

Until and after then, every day remains an adventure.

Photo Essay: Craigslist courtesans of Alaska.

Photo Essay: Craigslist courtesans of Brooklyn.

Morgan's birthday spankings.

She was perfectly relaxed and enjoying it. Prone on the futon, her breathing was just slightly staccato as my lubricated index finger very slowly penetrated her to the full and then slowly withdrew, pumping over and over and over again. I comfortably sat on the floor. I smiled to myself as I felt her sphincter grip me, and languished in the intimacy of the moment. As I casually probed her in the ass, I was reminded of childhood games of Doctor with my babysitter, those first moments in my not-so-total innocence when I discovered a passion for behinds, for lowering a girl's panties, and for the taking control of them as a partner lay on her stomach before me. I caressed Morgan's long, dark hair as my finger disappeared downward into her body.

"Hi. Well that was indeed an articulate and intriguing posting," she had emailed. Several days earlier, I had placed a Craigslist ad seeking a spanking partner and Morgan had pleasantly responded. "With my curiousity piqued and my poor neglected bottom tingling, I am taking a chance here and responding to you. I truly enjoy a proper over-the-knee spanking. It's my kink, what can I say."

"You can say, 'Please, Sir,'" was part of my reply. She liked that.

Morgan is a lovely, trim, intelligent, late30s brunette with the most charming freckles and sultry green eyes. She's both amusingly coy and passionately hungry. She possesses a balance between elegance and rawness that both intrigues me and keeps me guessing. She's new to dominant/submissive play, having had only one major partner in that territory that I know of, but that partner was not her spouse. Morgan is being a little extracurricular with her pleasures, and I'm respecting her choices as well as her need for discretion. She introduced me to a bohemian little bistro in my area that serves excellent tea. I introduced her to her g-spot.

My ad, originally placed before things with Shayne had begun to rekindle, had specified that I wasn't looking for sex. I wanted it clear that my priority was to find an intelligent, self-aware, sexually-sophisiticated bottom partner with whom I could indulge my Topspace and OTK fantasies. But it wasn't long before Morgan's emails elicited more from me.

"There's nothing quite like having made a bottom putty in my hands after giving her a sound spanking," I shared with her, "and watching her beet-red ass slink to the floor so she might service me and demonstrate her appreciation for having received her necessary correction."

"I happen to be a big fan of cocksucking," she replied. "I'm thinking some very salacious things... imagining the taste and feel of your cock for one..."

We met in the bistro for fruity sandwiches and Earl Grey. She was cautious when we spoke on the phone the day before, reminding us both that we might not clik after all, and that either one of us might not be attracted. As I strolled into the bistro and saw her smiling to me from her table, I sensed from her expression that she did not dislike what she saw. I liked her smile, and the hippie way her straight, dark hair flowed across her shoulders.

"Please share with me some of the fantasies that you have about being spanked," I had emailed.

"I fantasize being ordered to bend over and the various ways a proper spanking can be metered out, though not necessarily because I've 'misbehaved.' I like the idea of being taken over a man's knee and his firm hands kneading my flesh and various degrees of spanking. It's a pain/pleasure thing. I love the afterglow as well. The sensation lasts hours later."

Those sensations began in my parlor when she leaned in close for a kiss. She relaxed in my arms, her eyes half-closed, her breathing rapid as she held me and parted her mouth open passionately. I bent down, raised her shirt a little, and bit her tummy. I showed her around my place and we found ourselves in the den, enjoying my snake. We relaxed on the futon, and from our kisses, I soon slithered an arm around her and tugged her across my lap. The moment had come.

We were breathless, me feeling her weight on my thighs and knees, she still dressed in her black top and snug bluejeans. Her bottom was nicely shaped and perfectly framed in denim, showing strong lines and a sensual delve between her thighs. I paused to enjoy the moment, firmly wrapped my left arm around her waist, and made the first strike with my other hand. She wiggled as strikes followed, and squirmed when I would pause to simply squeeze her cheeks and caress her covered ass. It was fun, and my heart was beating faster. Reaching between her thighs to cup her mound, I could feel her warmth and excitement through her pants.

I tugged her by the belt and reached under her to undo it, the button, and the zipper to her jeans. I tugged them down over her thighs, revealing her pert behind covered in sheer black panties with cute black polkadots. She picked those undies especially for me, she said. How sweet. Sweeter still was my view when these were lowered as well, and the spanking continued as I throughly enjoyed the sight and feel of her delicious ass. Morgan's quiet gasps enriched me, reminding me of why spanking a partner turns me on, and her ass was gradually reddening darker and darker as I indulged myself at her tender expense. Her skin rippled just slightly, the occasional view of her winking rosebud heated me, but as she squirmed more and more readily, my cock hardened in my jeans and strained agonizingly.

I stood, peeling her pants and panties off. Kneeling on the floor beside her, I grasped her bottom in my hands and parted her open, revealing all of her secrets to me. She responded coyly, her eyes a little wider, just shameful enough to spur me on in possessing consensual control of her form. She went limp and gasped as she felt my tongue between her thighs and sliding deeper to probe and explore her.

Her ass was raised sexily in the air as I knelt above and behind her, gently feasting on her, pressing her lovely ass to my face, and tickling her rosebud with my tongue. This, I learned, was a first for her, but not the only one she would have that afternoon.

Morgan was panting and sitting upright as I sat on the floor before her, soaking my hands with Astroglide. She seemed nonplussed at my wanting to use lubricant at all.

"If I'm going to do to you what I'm going to do to you without this," I assured her, "I'm going to hurt you." She blinked and nodded. I smiled as I began to enjoy this privilege.

It's like being the man to take a lover's virginity. It's a privilege, sometimes an honour, and something that will always be remembered. As a man, I'm especially touched when I realize that I'm about to enter uncharted territory with a lover, and most especially when it's about a part of her own body that life hasn't given her previous opportunity to explore. Few other things could be so intimate.

I looked into Morgan's eyes as my dripping fingers began to part her orchid open. She had the cutest little dark racing stripe, barely wider than a lock of hair, her pussy otherwise completely bare and punctuated with a dark, adorable rose-bullet anus. Biting my lower lip in appreciation, I slowly entered her and gradually twisted first one, and then two, fingers inside her depths. Morgan panted and gasped, crying out when I'd surprise her with a few licks to her tiny button, but when I started to curl my fingers upward she completely melted before me.

Morgan's g-spot felt lovely against my fingertips, spongy and firm, and I held my hand in place as she got used to the sensation. Slow curling of my fingers followed, spreading them and closing them, wiggling them and stroking them, probing them and pumping them inside her tight and wet tunnel. Her eyes screwed tightly closed and she contained her screams as her chest heaved in her deep pants and gasps. I marveled at her sensual yielding, this woman who had been trying so hard to maintain some composure so far during our encounter. I twisted and pumped my fingers inside her as she rode the waves and sailed on currents she had not known before. She came in my hands and was in languid ruin when I finally withdrew from her quivering pussy.

We took a break. We talked. She lay along the length of the futon, nude before me as I sat, still dressed, on the floor. Her pretty ass was directly in front of me, and soon I was caressing and giving it light spanks again. Yet my fingers were still soaked with lube and her cum, and so what to do next only seemed obvious.

In the most relaxed, casual way, I touched her anus with a fingertip and slowly pressed to wiggle it there in slow circles. She rested her head on her hands and yielded to my touch, originally (and unecessarily) self-conscious about herself. Her eyes closed, her mouth parted, just as I began to feel her sphincter wink open and clutch the very tip of my index finger. Her warmth and the strength of her muscle moved me to probe further, and soon I was sliding into her tightness.

Very gradually, very slowly, but with more lube and eventually faster and faster, I soon had three fingers halfway inside her bum and was fucking her firmly with them pressed together in a cone. I twisted them and pumped them into her ass as she gasped and squealed before me now, but only for a brief while before withdrawing two of them and then slowing down once more.

"Well," she laughed after I withdrew two fingers, "I can safely say that never before have I been fucked in the ass like that!"

Morgan's body was relaxed enough, lubed enough, and had been opened enough, that my index finger alone was easily sliding fully deep into her now, and I enjoyed this little pleasure for some time. Her asshole felt heavenly.

Another break, and then we found ourselves in the bedroom. It was time I undressed, and still my attention was riveted to her bum. Things were stop-and-go for a while as we learned one another, and soon it became apparent to me that Morgan simply loves to be taken, no muss no fuss, no discourse no idle chitchat. She enjoyed my thickness in her mouth, and I enjoyed raising her ass in the air as I briefly fucked her there. But soon I had other ideas.

There's only one time when its perfectly reasonable to ask a woman her age.

"You told me it's going to be your birthday soon. How old are you going to be?" I asked.

She looked at the cieling and tried to stifle a laugh. "Um... thirty-two," she lied. I looked at her. She smirked.

"Um... twenty-seven?"

I looked harder.

She looked down and demurely whispered. "Forty."

I smiled wide as I yanked her across my lap again. I locked her ankles in a pair of leather restraints. It was time for Morgan's birthday spankings, and she squirmed petulantly as I held her fast in the crook of my right arm. Her lovely, bare ass was framed just under my shoulder, and my left hand rained smack after smack after smack as I counted off the previous years. Yet, unfortunately for Morgan, this was a moment when my gradeschool education failed me (seventeen does come after thirty-one, right?), so the poor, crying, whimpering dear likely received forty strikes with plenty of accrued interest.

She laughed when I took and showed her pictures. We relaxed for a while, and soon it was time for her to go. I've made a new friend.

Her spouse, the man who does not indulge Morgan in her wanton desire to be taken and spanked, forgot her birthday.



images George Nick, personal collection