Urban Roguery: Six years of shameless decadence.

With this year's Halloween, I'm pleased to say that I've been enjoying sharing with you for six years now. Happy anniversary.

As some longterm readers know, this blog has gone through a few shifts and changes. Starting as a way for me to reconnect with my kinkself while involved with The Grrl, when that relationship ended it became a means for me to simply express and share and playfully record some of my experiences. Perhaps I was exploring some latent exhibitionism.

In time, the blog would also become a valve for me as a writer. Committing to it has enabled me to steer more attention toward my written work in general, and this in turn has led to some very nice successes in the last year. Being accepted into publication through Cleis Press was a big milestone for me, and the networking that I've been enjoying since then (hi Jon, Kendra, Meava, Rose Red and others) warms me deeply.

On these anniversaries, it's been my habit and pleasure to share a little update with you about some of the people you've been reading about. So here goes.


~ It frustrates me a little to say that while Ami and I remain excellent friends, we've hardly seen one another over the last two or so months, mostly because her work keeps her out of my area. As with several other partners, we live in different cities. She took me out to dinner for my birthday though, which was nice. Recent plans to meet over coffee didn't work out however, and part of me is concerned that we may drift apart, especially since the nature of relationship she seems to want is far closer to a friends-with-benefits thing than an affair. She doesn't respond passionately to saucy textmessages, and I try to not overthink that. Up until late this summer, I did do a lot of overthinking when it came to Ami.

But her two-year old nephew, who phones me to leave voicemail messages saying "I'm leaving you a message" totally cracks me up.


~ After more than a year since we'd last seen another, I ran into Molly at this year's Toronto Leather Pride event. She was with her new (open relationship) partner, a dapper young fellow with conservative looks despite the Satanism pendant that he wore. (Yeah.) We shared pints together and caught up on old times.

In the last year she's become quite the mover 'n shaker with one of this city's polyamory social networks, coordinating events and generally representing. Not long after seeing each other again, she literally invited herself over to my pad for dinner, and a... shall we say... very wet evening followed. The next day, we found ourselves attending an intimacy and communication workshop together that was really enjoyable.


~ The Tomboy is in a world of bliss, and she deserves every moment of it. She dropped the unemployed dude who was sucking the marrow out of her existence, traded him for a successful military history writer and consultant, and is totally gaga over her new Harley and the long roadtrips that she's been enjoying with it. She recently hosted a paintball competition for her son's birthday party, which I'm sad to say I had to miss. Similarly to Molly, she's become quite the mover 'n shaker in her region's kink community, also coordinating events and the like and making a nice name for herself.

We don't get to stay in touch as much as I would ideally like, but I think that's mostly because we're in different cities and have crazed lives. Still, I regard her as among my bestest friends now, and feel privileged to have her always-beaming, always-conspiring self in my world. She fucking rocks.


~ While Cupcakes and I reached a detente and decided that we could remain friends, to date we really haven't communicated much and have not acted on ideas to get together socially. For my part, my experience there either reminded or taught me about a few important things that I desire, and do not desire, in an affair or relationship, and I suppose that feeling is respectfully mutual. And that's ok.

Cupcakes reminded me, in a roundabout way, of the many differences between living an (honest) polyamorous life and living a (dishonest) monogamous one. She reminded me that its entirely different paradigms to, say, be open and straightforward about having or wanting multiple partners with whom love (not just sex) can be expressed freely and joyfully, and being involved monogamously with one person while having otherwise hidden partnerships from that person. She reminded me about the power of choice, and the repurcussions about choice. And she reminded me about the importance of integrity.

Still, Cupcakes desires, and deserves, happiness. My wish for her is that she can have it without someone else inadvertently being stung.


~ Diva began marketing sextoys as part of Athena's Home Novelties, and I can confidently attest that she's aptly skilled to do so. Back in the day, she did this when we were together with another company, Undercoverwear, hosting parties in our home.

She isn't single anymore, although I know nothing about her new partner. She was, however, recently in a nasty motorcycle accident that left her foot broken as the (drunk) driver who sideswiped her sped from the scene. The tough, kickass woman that she is, she managed to retain control of her bike and stop safely, despite the agony. Her bike was totaled, the driver remains uncaught, but she's alive and healing.


~ I ran into Dean at an open spiritual service, and many hugs followed. She's engaged to a mutual friend now, and I think this is awesome. She's also been increasingly more active in the northern Ontario kink community, which I also think is awesome. I'm really pleased that she's happy.


~ I'm somewhat chagrined about the way things seem to have been developing with Kara in recent months. In the last year, we had talked about the possibility of seeing one another for occasional kinkplay, but that idea would later get shot down. Talks about possibly meeting as-friends for dinner have yet to transpire into anything real, but that might just be because our schedules are so loopy. Maybe it's because she's with a new partner, maybe it's because I still owe her money from when she saved my ass during my still-too-recent year from hell, maybe it's because way back when she told me that she was the type to often end relationships quickly and firmly, but she seems to be drifting deeper and deeper into a non-communicative past. It does sting.

As a friend, I miss her. I miss her extraordinary kids. I finally, recently learned that I should stop textmessaging her to simply say that I miss her company because, well, she doesn't respond.


~ The Feline could be doing better. She continues to pursue her reiki work and animal activist interests, but she also keeps connecting with men who seem to value her only for her (admittedly, outstanding) oral skills and little more. Tragically, she lost two of her beloved cats in the last year, and that's affected her gravely. I worry about her.


~ Unexpectedly, I saw Morgan while working recently, and it was a treat. We talked about getting together "at our haunt" over a meal to catch up, though to date we haven't set up anything. I should amend this.


~ Ever true to form, my ex-wife Heidi remains a moral road accident. In the past, she worked hard to drive wedges between myself and some of our mutual friends and continues to lie to and leapfrog between the men in her life. I understand that she continues to battle her breast cancer, for which she continues to nevertheless have my support and encouragement, though I have no idea how or whether this has affected her pursuits as a boxer.

I continue to faintly hope that one day she'll wake up to the profound, lifelong damage she causes people and that we can begin again as friends with history. I'm not holding my breath though. To do that, she'd first have to find the courage to admit where she's gone wrong, own up to the nuclear fallout that that admission would bring to her, and grow the fuck up into an actual healthy human being. Meanwhile, whatthefuckever.


~ Several past partners have completely dropped off the face of the earth to me.

First and foremost: The Grrl has a whole new life, new cats, and as I understand it, a new partner whom she loves very much. She's back in an excellent and trendy part of the New Jersey/Pennsylvania region, where she continues to make art, pursue her reiki practice, connect with social justice and intentional community causes, attend hardcore concerts, and live life as best as her fibromyalgic limitations permit. She recently became an aunt. She was briefly hospitalized over the summer over a neck injury which required a brace, but she pulled through. She loves to travel, and sometimes I wonder if she ever passes through my area without my knowledge.

I miss her. I wish we could rebuild things to a better friendship, but it is what it is. It's stupid and it's sad.

Shayne, oh Shayne. Sometimes it's hard for me to believe that I haven't seen her in more than two years now and how much of an impression my affair with her has left on me. Yet, despite once-upon-a-time protestations that it would never happen, she chose to burn the bridge toward just friendship. I continue to completely not comprehend, much less simply know, her reasons why.

To my knowledge, she's thoroughly happy, which I'm glad for. She and her once-new man are married now and her glorious son is about two years old by now, I think. She's developed a wonderfully beautiful Tumblr account dedicated to him, filled with supportive, nurturing, lesson-teaching messages and images for him to read and enjoy for when he's older. I suspect that she, with all of her charm and creativity and warmth and insightful spark, is an extraordinarily incredible mother. Knowing her as I do, I'd wish to have her as my mother, were I an infant again.

I miss being available to her for counsel and companionship. There was a time when I would have loved to have her and her husband as guests in my home.

I miss her. I wish we could rebuild things to a better friendship, but it is what it is. It's stupid and it's sad.


The Tornado is probably still skimming the surface of life, struggling with her issues, and I hope she gets the assistance that I truly believe she needs. I'm reminded of her when I use the French coffee press she left at my pad.

Little Ginger moved to Saskatchewan, where apparently she's found work connected with the local government. She's deleted the dating profile that I first encountered her through.

The Raven is still single and continues her work in coordinating an alternative school and is engaged in grassroots efforts to halt climate change.

The Valkyrie has been exploring some kink-related dating sites, but to my knowledge she remains single despite connecting with a Daddy Top at some point.



Some slightly-related updates:

~ In a bizarre way, Hannah has re-entered the periphery of my world after more than two years. It turns out that the number of mutual friends we have has been increasing exponentially over the last few weeks, and I saw her at a recent hot tub party hosted in the Ontario boonies over the summer.

Because there's been some unusual skittishness from her since we last saw one another (quite by happenstance on the street), I had already sent her a friendly, polite note to let her know that we might run into eachy other again, and that I intended to respect whatever boundaries she might have. (I had previously expressed my interest in possibly dating her again, you see, and she turned me down in a perfectly relaxed and cordial way.)

But throughout these past few years, I never completely understood what the problem was. For me, there remained an unexplained vacuum, something that clearly bugged her and even seemed to stand in the way of us being friends. It was just too weird for me to ignore it indefinitely, and if we were going to be rubbing elbows among mutual friends, I needed some semblance of mental closure. At a comfortable and opportune time during the party, I asked her what was what. It turns out that I apparently strongly remind her of another man who, for whatever reason I didn't dare ask, was a Bad Scene.

Ok, yeah, that disappoints me. I'm me, and as a person, I like her enough to desire friendship... but what can ya do.

We saw one another again within the last few days at a Halloween party. She was with a partner, a gentleman dressed nicely in Top fetwear. Her costume, a wood nymph, won first prize. She seemed a little more comfortable in my presence this time, actually responded favourably to a cordial Facebook friend-request, but I may continue to give her polite distance.


~ Remember how I've shared about the Women Downstairs? Serene has begun recreating herself with a hardcore weightloss regimen, and she's looking outstanding. Not too long ago, she stopped me to share that she recently enjoyed attending an all-lesbian bondage party where she was soundly fisted while hanging in a restraint swing. And all I wanted was to borrow a cup of sugar.

Lacey eventually moved from sharing space with her to another part of the house once things between her and her Airline Attendant became more serious. They married this year, they're ridiculously happy, and have begun growing tomatoes in the backyard. Replacing Lacey as Serene's housemate is the Elf, an incredibly lithe shorthaired blonde whom (I have on good authority) has a thing for big black cock.


~ And speaking of airline attendants, Tari and I briefly talked about the possibility of reconnecting if her job ever brought her to my area, but to date that hasn't occured. We remain close friends despite not having seen each other in years.


~ I never had the opportunity to date Rollergirl, and as far as I know, she eventually reconnected with Mr. Lucky, which is something she wanted all along anyway. In fact, despite the occasional correspondence through Facebook, we have yet to even actually, physically meet.


~ Life circumstances prevented me from coordinating a private spanking party event at my pad this past summer. But I'm determined.


~ I've mentioned at least two male friends on the blog.

Bodybuilder eventually forgave his wife for her unmonogamous infidelities and reconnected with her. He's been enjoying successes in his career field and seems to be happy.

Flute, mentioned in a recent post, has been dead now for perhaps three years. We had the kind of friendship that seemed to come into play whenever there was crisis in our lives concerning the women we loved, with the Fates directing us to one another when one or both of us was having a hard time. He seemed to know when I was stinging, and he'd call. I'd seem to know when he was stinging, and I'd call.

Then one day I got the sense he was stinging, and I didn't call. Life, maybe. Work, probably. I'll get around to it. In a minute.

And then I got word that he chose to end his life. It was over a woman. Again.


Halloween, called Samhain by some, is about a lot of things. For some people, it's about dressing the kids in Batman costumes and dishing out Reeses' Peanut Butter Cups. For others, it's about going to fetish balls and dressing to the nines. For still others, it's about reconnecting and remembering those we have loved who have taken a journey ahead of us.

Flute will be among those I'll be remembering this Halloween, this Samhain. He was a good, loving man and, like so many men who have trouble handling radical change in the face of lost and unrequited love, did not deserve the pain he had to work through and that led to his unfortunate choice.


Thanks for listening. And thanks for reading this blog.

Wir sprechen verschiedene Sprachen.

The apparent, simple truth is that once I began sharing August's experience with Cupcakes, she and I needed to have a time-out to do some debating, listening, sharing. This is healthy.

Suffice to say this: after what seemed (and, to be fair, to both of us) to be a really nice start, a lot of miscommunication and misunderstanding followed. I did something that, to me, was a no-brainer that inadvertently rattled her cage, and she said something unrelated that, to her, was a no-brainer that inadvertently rattled mine. Oops.

We discovered that we differed on some pretty basic and important personal paradigms. Somehow, perhaps in our shared interest in primary relationships, we simply didn't have enough Talking Time (or, more likely, Time for Talking Time) to really dig under our skin and learn one another. As a result, perhaps some mutual assumptions about each other were made. Oops.

But it became clear that we simply speak different languages.

Later, thanks to all this poor communication, we seemed to view one another with slightly skewed lenses. Unfortunately, a little interpersonal drama resulted over a few days. Oops again.

We talked. We gave ourselves a time-out. We talked more, and we listened. And we've agreed that we're better off as friends, and this also is ok.

No more oopses.

That being said:

Here, I'm a writer writing a blog about sexuality, relationships, and the occasional playful (or not) tweak about the dynamics of dating and social structures. When I'm not writing to get us off or be playful or make a point about something, I try to do this as honestly as possible while also maintaining a certain sense of decorum. (Yes, Virginia, decorum, even as I tell people about how much you like to call me Daddy when I pull your hair as I fuck you from behind.) This blog is a personal, ideally sensual endeavor, and many are the people who may be written about here whom I care for and love, in varying degrees, and in almost all circumstances I make my best effort to share with respect and levels of appreciation.

That doesn't mean that I won't write something that stings if I believe that, in doing so, I'm trying to make a point of reference that others (hopefully, and yes, including me) can learn and benefit from. But you get the idea.*

There was a moment when things could have gone either way between myself and a certain pastry I know. I may not be licking her icing again anytime soon, but for the time being, it's entirely possible that I may share future references to her after we attend this or that or somethingorother as friends. Which is how we planned on starting out as anyway. Who knows.

Cupcakes? I'm glad we talked. Kisses.



* Oh. With the possible exception of my ex-wife. Sorry folks, but I've earned that one. Heidi? Burn in hell. Kisses.

My foolish sweet tooth.

Once again, I didn't follow my instincts.

She was a reader of the blog, a sexblogger herself, and found me through a fetish networking site. She was going through a breakup at the time and had moved nearby from another city to the west, and she approached me to see if I'd be willing to escort her around the Toronto fetish scene. It sounded like fun, and I've come to really enjoy meeting blogreaders lately. She wanted an opportunity to make new friends, start over, and move beyond whatever it was that her previous Top partner had apparently stung her with. She was missing "kinky submissive goodness."

Me, I expected that we'd make platonic good friends, and having her on my arm would give me an excuse to go to all those local fetnights that I've allowed other elements in my world to keep me from lately. Win-win.

For eight months, off and on, we chatted through the fetish networking site. She was full of compliments about my writing, and eventually the flirting began. It became more personal. I already knew that she had also connected with a new Top Daddy, and since both my being largely poly and the fact that she hadn't really become Serious on my radar yet, I had no issue with that and told her so. After all, if nothing clikked, there was no reason why we couldn't stick with the original plan and just be buds exploring the local vibe, right? Sure. We set up a date for drinks.

Over a perfectly pleasant Indian meal, we discussed ourselves, our desires, mutual interests... the usual on-a-date thing. We talked about her past experiences amid the fetscene in her previous city, and she bemoaned the drama in her post-breakup experience there.

(Oh, the irony. ...But I digress.)

Gradually, our datetalk seemed to shift from comrades-in-kinkdom-looking-to-attend-stuff-together to potentialities-in-seeking-primary-partnership-in-life. Was she asking me if I was interested in pursuing a partnership with her? I rolled with it, enjoying myself.

Cupcakes is an early30s mulatto brunette BBW with a passion for shoes but yet, curiously, is also hugely podophobic. (I would later tease her that the worst BDSM punishment I could ever put her through would be to blindfold and restrain her as a circle of men and women gently touched her body with their bare feet.) I was initially intrigued with her background in French literature, her mixed race status, her desire to submit.

And, yes, it's true: the possibility that maybe there might be something here beyond dating, beyond even fucking, appealed to me. I do enjoy being single. But it's also not been since Kara since I had the compatible opportunity for More. Cupcakes appealed to that sweet tooth.

While we were relaxing on the couch in her small apartment, I was looking into her dark eyes when I moved closer for the first kiss. Her lips responded lightly, and as I brought my hands upward to her head and nipped at her ear, she began to slowly melt under me.

I enjoyed the texture of her tight, small, black curls as I held her head and nibbled upon her neck. Her gasps were moist in my ear. Her groans were soft as I tugged her hair from behind. Her nipples began to harden under her lacy top, and when her round, firm breasts were revealed to me, they were capped attentively.

When I found myself kneeling on the floor before her couch, tugging her jeans down to reveal the equally lacy black panties under them, my cock was straining inside my jeans. I removed my shirt, parted her thick legs, and began to taste her. The panties were tugged aside, and I nipped at her thigh as a very lightly sparsed mound opened itself up before me. I swabbed her with my tongue. She gasped and cooed appreciatively.

After a short while, I was eager to see her ass. Turning her down and around, she rested her knees to the floor and bent comfortably with her tummy on the couch. I tugged the panties down and off an ankle, and knelt back as I enjoyed the sight her her womanly round derriere. Opening her up, I continued to taste her from behind, but soon switched to lay down on the floor itself with her thighs to the sides of my head, holding her hips gently as I lowered her pouty cunny toward my mouth. She was warm and rich and definitely moist, and her scent soaked my light beard and lips as she gently rode me.

Soon, I knelt up. I caressed her broad back, massaging her shoulders as she whimpered into the cushions. I moistened and began sliding my fingers inside her, probing her Gspot as I fucked her with my hands. My fingers teased, slid, twisted, cupped, fucked. When she finally came, I was stroking ribbed flesh within her body as she shuddered and quaked beautifully.

I stood and stepped to her bedside table, where a small stack of condoms already awaited me. Selecting one, I tore the package open with my teeth and continued to watch her, on hands and knees over the couch, as I rolled it down the length of me. I brought my knees to the carpet, held the base of my cock with my fist, and slowly guided it inside her thick body. She looked at me from over her shoulder, her mouth open, her breathing heavy. I ran my nails along her spine. I massaged her shoulders more as I started thrusting inside her. I gripped her wide hips and pumped, feeling her phat ass against me. When I started to grip her coiled hair and tug her head backward slightly, she cried out and shook once more.

I brought my pace down, smiled, stood up, and peeled the latex from my cock. She was still shaking gently and panting into the cushions when I reached for the wineglass on the floor and drained it.

Bringing ourselves up to the couch again, I coiled my arm around her waist and lay her across my lap. Her arms and head lay on the armrest of the couch as she realized what was about to come. She had already confessed to me that among her needs was to be spanked regularly, for "maintenance," so I saw no reason to let a fair opportunity like this go to waste.

I held her as we had a Time-Out moment to discuss what would be coming next. I gave her her safeword for the evening.

Once she was comfortably settled, my caresses to her bum shifted to gentle pats. Gradually, pats become slaps. Slaps became strikes. Upon one asscheek, then the other, I alternated and changed where I brought my palm to her submitting body. But knowing that she already had experience and desire in this kind of play, I didn't linger on gentility for very long. Soon, my palm was noisily striking across her seam in crisp, short strokes, and I smiled to myself as I felt it across my fingers. It had been a while.

She began to shudder again, and so my grip around her waist tightened as my other arm continued to alternate the intensity of my strikes. But this time, it wasn't an orgasm that was swelling up inside her, but tears. When the sniffling little thing was reduced to soft sobs, I gradually came to a stop.

The energy shifted. My first thought was that, like other subbies I've enjoyed back in the day at the BDSM clubs, she was of the kind to desire this sort of release. But, no. A nerve had been struck, she had been brought to a place she didn't necessarily want, and so the only thing left to do was to hold her and caress her and try to help her feel safe. Listening. Confirming the thought that, ok, this didn't go right. More listening.

This happens sometimes. And, in my experience, a healthy Top endeavors to handle it as gently as possible, as nurturingly as possible, especially with a new partner.

The silly tart hadn't used her safeword, and this elicited a strong but nurturing response from me. Lesson learned. "I need to trust that you'll alert Me when you've gone into an uncomfortable place, because I may be thinking that you're otherwise enjoying everything that's happening. I observe, I see, I'll make a call if it doesn't look like fun for you, but that doesn't mean I expect to do without your responses, baby."

Cuddles. Relaxation. Wine. Talking. Soon, we were discussing more about our shared interest in having Primary Partnership in our lives, and we each opened up about our respective backgrounds. The time went by enjoyably.

I would be spending the night. Her luxurious bed awaited us, and I smirked as I saw the Hitachi wand still tussled amongst burgundy sheets. Stripping, we slid under the duvet together and held one another.

She wanted me to read to her.

But that's another story.

And to my even later surprise, this otherwise lovely "night out for drinks" wouldn't become what it seemed like it could have been.

And that's another story too.

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.

Love letters from Hell.

Where do I begin?

I've been ruminating on how to proceed with this post for some weeks now. I've asked myself if it was worth writing about This at all, whether or not I just wanted to Let It Slide and Leave It Be and pick up the reins of this blog from the here, the now, the this moment. After all, This isn't entirely hot 'n sexy reading material, so is it counterproductive to include This in the blog?

No, I've reasoned. Because it's sexual elements are present, they've affected me some, and more to the point, it's truthful. In addition to everything else, this blog has been and is about the truthful. And, very probably, I want this off my chest before I keep going with whatever future post I choose to share here. The earth sign in me, the writer in me, just won't let all This get ignored.

Fine, then.

My world fell apart around this time last year, and longtime readers of the blog would certainly have noticed how things around here became really inconsistent. Preplanned photo essays keep some momentum going (I hope), but beyond that, all of my energies had to be devoted elsewhere for a time. I remarked on it all recently, but even that hasn't satisfied the need in my chest to expunge all this by writing about it. So consider this post an act of exorcism, if you will.

I have never discussed the nature of my real-life employment on this blog. Suffice to say that the work I do is very intense, and often can be an unhealthy psychological environment. This time last year, and for various reasons that are entirely off-topic for a sexblog, I found myself taking my employer to court. I did recently win my case, but in the interim between late spring 2010 and late spring 2011, all of my foundations were, shall we say, compromised.

As one might imagine, being suddenly without as-secure work and dealing with its major impact on finances and stability can have a pretty debilitating effect on one's dating life. I did try to stay optimistic. Fortunately for me, I'm a stubbornly adapt-and-overcome kind of guy, and I did find new and creative ways to keep my personal infrastructure going, but that doesn't mean that the radical change in economics didn't cause it's own fallout.

Kara simply couldn't handle it, and it contributed to that breakup. We've remained friends, and while she did confess to me over a just-friends dinner at my place that she missed my own sexual vibe and potentially wanted to be occasional kinkplay partners, as time progresses that looks less and less likely. I'm disappointed, sure, but I'm at peace with this, and completely support the fact that she's with another partner now who (so far) seems to be making her very happy. Kara deserves happy. But from a blog-worthy perspective, that break seemed to mark a weird downward spiral in my dating world between last spring and this one.

Yes, I've already shared with you how I reconnected twice with the Tomboy during this interim, and how awesome its first time was. (Nothing happened during her second visit.) We also continue to remain friends, and while we only rarely get to see one another and she too is with a new partner (fucking goodbye, Mr. Unemployed Yoga Instructor), it seems pretty clear that maintaining a fuckbuddyship is something she's definitely into. I like that.

But there were two other partners whom the Fates decided to steer in my direction during this hellacious time between this spring and last, and now I've resigned myself to share their stories. But don't expect to be getting off on this, because in their own unusual ways, both also seemed to contribute to, rather than alleviate much of, the Issues of last year.



The Tornado


It was some months or so after Kara's departure before I had the desire (or finances) to enjoy a date again. But when it came, it came in the incarnation of an elusive, blonde early30s artist who, in the ridiculously short span of perhaps three weeks, completely shook my foundations. Not entirely in the best of ways.

That she got completely hammered during our first date should have been my warning. But did I listen? Nah. No, I was just happy to be fucking out again and to be introduced to what I thought was a joyful bohemian's world. She had trekked through France, tented throughout Canada (where her last partner dumped her), worked occasionally for art galleries, had owned (and tanked) her own studio. She introduced me to superb cheeses I had never heard of before. She entered my brain, and in the spiraling nonsense of my then-situation, she began to seduce me with visions of life as a blissful, neo-Communist poverty with spirit catchers and roadside guitars and plenty of wine to be had.

I went down on her. I fucked her. For a teeny, short moment as I continued to endure my righteous fight against my evil employer and made ends meet by returning to backbreaking construction work, I almost very seriously started to consider selling the last of my possessions and taking off with her to Europe. After all, as Chuck Palahniuk once wrote, "it's not until you've lost everything that you're free to do anything."

Dates always ended at my pad. Sure, fine, that's great. But my second warning should have come when, for one reason or another, she never seemed to want to have dinner in her area of town, or meet up at her place. Hrm. And then she lost that place.

Sure, ok, come on over, you can stay here for awhile, no problem. You say you have a new job at another local art gallery? Hey, that's great. You want to offer what per month, you say? Sure, yeah, right now that little extra cash would be very welcome, yes.

And then, dear reader, all it took was one night. One night. One night before I realized that depth of the mistake I had been making. One night before it became clear that I was being hoodwinked. I had already been asking myself if her constantly-changing stories about her past, her family, her sources of income, her goals, her plans were all as on-the-level as I expected/assumed/trusted (and why wouldn't I?) them to be. But no. As it turned out, whom I thought was the epitome of freespiritedness turned out to be an lying, alcoholic manipulator. (That became evident when she was caught trying to open a bottle of wine that I've kept in storage to age and had already asked her to not drink. All of the other bottles of tastiness had been sucked back by then, you see, and she wanted more.)

Yes. I threw her out. No. It wasn't easy. Yes. I made sure she had somewhere to go to. She was fine. Me, I was embarrassed at myself and learned something valuable.

If I've chosen you, I'll support you, I'll help you out, and sometimes I'll tolerate a lot of nonsense before I speak up. But don't fucking lie to me.

Ever.

Our lives have since moved on. We are not in touch now. I bear no maliciousness toward her, wish her all the safety and tasty cheese in the world, but I'm enjoying not being in touch.


The Feline


Time passed. The Tornado and I did email a little before the ebbs and flows of things eroded the last echoes of contact we had. Eventually, I went back to the drawing board and, despite my continuing legal fight and its impacts, tried to find ways to reserve a few bucks to at least attempt to be social.

At first, I couldn't take the Feline at all seriously. I'm not saying that she sounded too-good-to-be-true, but unlike so many single men who use dating sites, I like to think that I'm sophisticated enough to know that, dude, no, women are not going to toss themselves at you right after a few emails.

Right?

(In writing this, I should make this caveat to the other single dudes out there: really, man, don't expect this to happen. You'll just look like an ass if you assume otherwise.)

Yeah. The Feline tossed herself at me right after a few emails. And phone calls. And textmessages. And our first "date" was me going to her bachelor (that a "studio" to you Americans) apartment. So she could suck my cock.

Yeah.

Reckless, crazy, unsafe, unwise. I know it, you dudes know it, every woman reading this really knows it. And yes, I'm a trustworthy person (I hope), so I'm sure that contributed to her complete sense of ease, and I'm respectful of it and glad for it... but, you know, still.

She's a petite, tattooed, mid30s holistic health practitioner with an even bigger penchant for cats than I have. We talked, laughed, realized that we share a lot of the same spiritual common ground. She found herself asking my counsel on a few topics, and we discussed. From the cluttered coffeetable, she produced a handful of pre-rolled joints, and soon I was basking in a very welcome haze of numbness and blissful misjudgment.

She quickly confessed to having a blowjob fetish, and it wasn't long at all before she was at my pants and moaning quietly as her wet mouth slurped and milked my cock. I was not unhappy. No. Not at all.

Nor was I turned off when she shared how she regularly blew at least one black partner who dropped by from time to time. And works at the same place I was taking to court.

(Yeah. I had visions of her mouth on black cock. And I liked it.)

But, dammit. Call it my own nerves at the time. Call it the weed. Call it the fact that, despite it being absolutely true that petite women are my first preference in a partner's bodytype (yup, miss ya, Kara), the Feline's petiteness was extreme enough that I was actually getting frightened for her. Does she eat? Holy Ravensbruck, Batman. But, in the end, despite her intensity and zeal and the deliciously serendipitous moment of getting blown like this, my body simply wasn't going to let me cum.

And we did hook up one other time afterward. I think I was giving it another shot to see if I was as wierded out as I was afraid I was. And, yeah.

You see, I can't really "use" a partner. As a bdsm fantasy play, totally yes... but then, we both know we're enjoying the element of use&abuse in a safe, sane, consensual setting. But there was just something about the Feline's condition, both physically and the relative squalidness of her space, that just made me want to stop giving her cock and start giving her vitamins and emotional support for... who knows what.

(Yeah, I can hear some of you guys. Shuttup.)

And that's where we are now: friends. And I like it that way.

(But, ok, sure, if she gains some healthy muscle and healthy opportunities and healthy wellbeing and then still wants some healthy cockage, we'll see...)

I need it to feel healthy, yo. That's just me.




Happily to say, my own circumstances has since vastly improved. As I noted, I won my case against my employer, and in the last month or so I strongly feel back on track with my own goals and the power to have them. This is good.

And now that I've written all This, I feel as though I can progress with this blog without having unspoken truths weighing on me. Yay.

Toward the latter several weeks of my 2010-2011 hell, I met Ami. We don't exactly have what I would call a complete "partnership," but what we do have is a really aware, occasionally-sexual growing friendship. Despite being in her mid30s, she constantly has me thinking that she's ten years younger, and that's both in her energy and in her sexual experience.

But all that is another topic.

Cruising.

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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?

Little Ginger.

I had seen her profile on a dating site, and the truth is that, after reading several of her responses to personality-related questions, had already decided that she was a little self-centered and arrogant for me. But, I had to admit, with the spiky short red hair, the thick build, and the sex-positive attitude, she was cute.

And maybe, just maybe, she reminded me of Shayne.

She checked out my profile in return, and liked what she read and saw. A few days later, she wrote to me.

"Your profile sounds like I made you out of clay. Any chance you like gingers?"

What's not to like?

"I love men, real men, and I was so turned on by your profile because you seem to be the last man on Earth who understand what that means," she added later. "Open, confident, artistic and strong with power even, but as if you can wield it with contentment, integrity and grace. I also really like it when men look like men. *sigh!* I just couldn't leaf by your page. A nagging voice told me you wouldn't be intimidated by a girl who starts the chase."

Gradually, she grew on me. She opened up deliciously, and slowly I started to really appreciate the impetuous teeny firecracker that she is.

Little Ginger is a mid20s security guard with OPP aspirations and a Daddy fantasy. She could have been Shayne's younger sister.

"I like older men, though I have yet to really have one. Forbidden fruit maybe? I'm interested in the confidence, assuredness, and allure that comes with the grace and wisdom of age. I love the masculinity, eloquence and maturity which is supposed to come with age, which is why I just had to message you. I love the cut of your jaw, the beard, your eyes.

"I have a very deep sexuality that I have yet to explore. I feel like a painter who has been given a canvice the size of a postage stamp to create an opus. It would be nice to have someone who knows how to give, and draw out depth. I am still a bit shy and naive in this area, which is why I would so like to be drawn out."

But did I want to take this path again? Granted, I can totally enjoy being a Daddy to a perky sweet young thang. Granted, the idea of escorting said sweet young thang into the wonderful world of kink hardens my cock and tightens my chest. Mentor the little wench over my knee? Sign me up.

Sounds like a Top man's dream, no? But still something felt amiss. My psychic radar just wasn't convinced.

A few phone calls and I had her in giggles. A few textmessages later, and she was telling me how she was dying to press her face to my wide chest and drink in the scent of me. I knew she would drench at that, whatwith the essential oils I wear.

Facebook photos showed me the bulldog tattoo she proudly wears on her wide, freckled back. Her brastraps were also clearly in view on these pics, which probably prompted her to teasingly command me to stop looking at them when I commented. The po' thing. And, sure, in getting a sense of her look, I could easily see myself tugging her waist firmly with my arm as I rained my cupped hand down on what I was sure would be a pale, broad, sensitive, womanly ass.

But still this lingering sense of... nuh uh.

I picked her up near her pad, and her eyes widened when she saw me. We shook hands, a light hug, and we were off to a great little pub that's across the street from the comedy club I would take us to later. We played with dogs we passed on the street. Over onion soups and skewered shrimp, conversation revolved around the usual topics, and all the while I had the increasing sense that she was feeling overwhelmed. Unconsciously, and soon, consciously, I began to treat the evening as less than a date and more of just two people hanging out together. No spark. And to make it worse, the comics were mediocre.

It's disappointing when what should be a fun and terrific date turns out limp and uninspired. My first thought was that Little Ginger simply decided that she wasn't attracted after all, and being the Big Boy I am, was fine with handling that. We kept in touch over text, but her flirtations stopped. I didn't press it.

Eventually, she messaged me again. No, she insisted, it wasn't lack of attraction at all; in fact, she loved the way I look. But it seemed that, self-described naive girl she is, I scared her away not because of my Topself but because I was "too feeling." Huh?

You see, call me crazy, but I actually enjoy getting to know the person I'm dating. But, it would seem, because I actually was interested in getting to know Little Ginger as a person, plus me being the first "older man" she had gone out with, well, the little boo just got scared. I had asked her if she was ok, and I thought my question was me being nurturing. Seems all I did was spotlight her feelings of inadequacy. Oops.

"Ok, I need to come clean," she would write to say. "I had fun with you, and you are a great date. You came up with cool things to do and I liked talking to you, but I guess it's hard to take the fantasy out of the bedroom. Just picture me as an awkward teenager who came in her pants too soon... You were my first attempt... when I was nervous and you called me on it it made it worse... but you are cool."

Well, far be it from me to want to make a potential partner uncomfortable just by trying to appreciate who and what she really is. Yes, I like (and do) Daddy fantasy play just fine, but if "it's hard to take the fantasy out of the bedroom" enough for said potential partner to be open with me, well, hey, your loss, and I'd probably not really be interested anyway.

Later, Little Ginger would try to be haughty with me when I sought to confirm if I really had scared her away, as if she couldn't imagine that my own intuition sensed it far before she felt it necessary to explain herself. Can you say "overcompensation"?

While the date was reasonably fine as far as nights out are concerned, Little Ginger also reminded me that I'm a lot more sophisticated now than when I was in my mid20s, and all that 'confidence, assuredness, allure, grace, wisdom, masculinity, eloquence and maturity' that I do in fact possess will be better offered to a woman who is far more my equal than teenagers who come in their pants too soon.

"Take care of yourself: you're a good kid," was my last textmessage to her.

She didn't reply.

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.