Flirting for it.

The scene: She's a dusky blonde in 70s style torn jeans. She's boarding a streetcar, and she has a young mulatto boy in tow. He's a black dude who is passing by on the street. Both are in a hurry and going in opposite directions.

Blonde: Hey!

Dude: Oh, hey!

Blonde: Haven't seen you in a while!

Dude: (laughs) Uh, yeah.

Boy: Mommy, can we sit here?

Blonde: Wow, yeah, you should call me! Really... I miss it. You still have my number?

Dude: Hell yeah!

Blonde: Alright then!

Bedtime stories.

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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.

Dear Life,

It's been way to long since I enjoyed a black lover. And with the Caribana Festival coming this weekend, I know I'm going to suffer immeasurably.

Love,
Rogue

Women at work.

Big ones that got away.

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

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


The Exchange Student

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

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

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

Oh, it breaks the heart.

The Flirt I Will Never Forget

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are... gorgeous."

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid move.

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

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

Bree

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...Because I stopped.

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

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

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

And, sometimes, I see her in my dreams.

The Black Jack Stroker by California Exotic Novelties.

When I was a kid, my father took me to see the 1983 Charles Bronson vigilante/cop film 10 To Midnight. Dad was a big action movie fan, a very typical guy in that regard, and always could be depended on to see the latest gun-toting, car-chasing, machismo-riddled strip of celluloid. Mom was good for occult thrillers and James Bond. Either way, I would happily munch on my Whoppers with the hit men, demonic spawn, spies, and man-eating sharks.

(10 To Midnight also featured a very nekkid Ola Ray who, in addition to being Playboy's June 1980 Playmate of the Month, thrilled me because I was dating a Nigerian at the time. The sight of her mocha self in the requisite shower-scene-as-the-crazed-killer-looms-nearby definitely caught my attention.)

But what stands out in my memory, even more than Bronson's snubnose .38 or Ray's beautiful brown tits, is the toy.

Psychopath Warren Stacy (played by Gene Davis) is a sexual predator. During a raid on his apartment, he's found in his bathroom with a large, bizarre apparatus that (to me) looked like a small fire extinguisher tank with some kind of J-shaped red rubber or plastic tubing attached to one end. The whole thing must have been two feet long. Later, while interrogating him in classic bully-cop fashion, Bronson tosses the thing on the table before Davis with a clatter, shouting, "You know what this is for, Warren? It's for jerking off!"

And then it hit me. My junior-year-high-school brain met my burgeoning, straining libido and stars burst in my head. The tank was for suction. The tubing was for his cock.

"Holy fuck!" I thought to myself, a malted milk ball held in mid-crunch between my teeth and my tongue. "They make machines to suck it??"

I very probably jacked my tender, young dick that night and burst my load into the stratosphere just with the thought of having such a thing. It did remain in my fantasies for years to come. I mean, just think of the fucking convenience.

But, and perhaps only until very recently, sextoys for men has had an element of shameful taboo associated with it. While the adult toy market easily and readily sensualizes the buying experience for women, sometimes relating the ownership of a vibrator or dildo with personal sexual empowerment and independence, most marketing strategies have yet to bridge the ambivalence that many guys might have. Many men still inwardly believe that to purchase or use a sextoy somehow conveys the message that "they have to" because they're "unsuccessful" with women. Owning a sextoy becomes connected with shame and self-effacing embarassment. This, in turn, enables interrogating police officers to hurl these toys at suspects, shouting things like "You know what this is for, Warren? It's for jerking off!" because it will emasculate him into submission out of his own shame for having the thing in the first place.

This, of course, is absolute bullshit. This is also one of the ways how patriarchal culture actually works against men, because this sort of shame robs us of wholly enjoying what would otherwise be a perfectly fun experience. Sure, it's perfectly possible that anyone (man or woman) can and may use a sextoy because a date didn't present him- or herself that Friday night, but that doesn't have to mean that this sort of bodyfun is mutually exclusive to being with a partner. And what's to suggest that someone (man or woman) couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't enjoy using toys while with your partner?

So imagine my personal glee when, after fantasizing about blowjob simulators since my teens, I had the opportunity to review one.



California Exotic Novelties is among the most successful and prolific adult toy manufacturers to be found anywhere, and frequently collaborates with respected sexperts and well-known adult performers to develop and market their wares. A woman-owned company, they contribute to breast cancer research. They very probably made the cheesy (but clever) boardgame you or your spouse got at the bridal shower.

The Black Jack Stroker features "robotic suction action" with "the perfect fit." It consists of four primary separate parts: a rubber manual pump, the battery-powered suction and vibration controller, an interior sleeve, and the plastic casing which includes fist grip and vibrating egg. Made in China, its overall length is 12.5 inches (32cm), the business end being 6.5 inches (17cm), and 2.5 inches (6cm) wide. It weighs 21 ounces (.6kg) and is powered by four C batteries to provide its individually-controlled vibration and pumping functions.

The important feature, as far as your cock is concerned, is the interior sleeve. The dead-black, well-shaped lips could seem a little ominous (unless you're into goths), and they're very, very firm. The sleeve's interior also has dozens of round nodules to enhance sensation, but certainly there's nothing to simulate warmth, moisture (unless you use water-based lube), or the action of a swirling tongue. Made from TPE, it retains some heat and is elastic, but (if your sense of political correctness wants to know this) it was probably fashioned by a nasty chemical corporation like Monsanto or Dupont. But does it feel good on your dick? With lube, not bad.

The suction comes from your manual use of the pump. The pistoning effect really does precious little toward contributing to that apart from the visual stimulation, and the repetitive, mechanical noise this feature makes is not quiet at all. This also means that to really enjoy this toy, both hands are required to operate the pump (and keep a finger handy near the quick-release valve) and hold the entire thing steadily on your cock. Once a rhythm is in place this wouldn't seem so bad, but the sleeve remains attached to the hard plastic casing only by virtue of a 4cm grip curling over the casing opening. Even a moderate amount of lube, plus some vigourous thrusting or stroking, can easily make the sleeve detach from the casing. This can be frustrating to deal with, probably requiring the user to ignore the topmost handgrip to the Stroker and hold it by the base to keep the sleeve in place. Fucking annoying, really. Why is it so difficult for male sextoy manufacturers to come up with a design that doesn't include multiple, separate pieces that each have to be manually (and distractingly) secured?

The plastic casing is made from ABS, a recyclable thermoplastic also used in protective headgear, auto parts, pipes, and tattoo ink. Other parts are made from PVC.

The vibrating egg is affixed to the interior top of the plastic casing, and its effect on the head of your cock can easily make you see stars when properly combined with that good, if labour-intensive, rhythm. That is, if seeing a wire in there doesnt give you heebiejeebies. When all the component sensations (suction, pistoning, the lips' grip, the nodules, and the vibrations to the cockhead)are running smoothly, the Stroker can be pretty sensational when it wants to.

Does it completely simulate a blowjob? Not exactly, no, because it doesn't have a tongue and your lover doesn't have a vibrating egg down her (or his) throat, but it's still a interesting experience that had me shooting the first time I tried it.

But after then, I was quickly reminded that the Stroker is being marketed as a novelty. Hell, it's in the company name. Marketed as a novelty, manufacturers absolve themselves from a lot of quality control (and, in the case of toys made with phthalates, possibly safety).

The truth is that, for me, the best blowjobs eventually become a little vigourous and passionate. I like to thrust. Once the 'novelty' of finally satisfying my teenage oh-my-God-you-mean-they-make-things-that'll-suck-it fantasy had been met and I was moving past the newness of the toy (say by the third time), my body brought me back to wanting to thrust and fuck that little, firm, goth-black, elastomer mouth. I set the phaser piston on stun, the photon vibrator on kill, found my rhythm with the manual pump and held that sleeve in place by the base while giving this sucker a real Mythbusters-level road test.

And I promptly broke the goddamned thing.

klik whirrr wheeez All gone. Bye bye. So sad. On a downstroke, I simply oversuctioned, overpistoned, overjacked the big bad Black Jack Stroker until it too seemed like a crestfallen, whimpering, sniveling suspect on the other end of an interrogator's desk. It was defeated.

Would I recommend it? Actually, yeah. Compared to other strokers I looked at, this one seemed more comprehensive and fun to use, even with the headaches. The Blow Job Stroker seems to be more high-tech, and gadgets like the Solo Slider try to do the job is a handier, simpler fashion. But I wouldn't expect to be too vigourous with the Black Jack, and I wouldn't expect it to replace the fleshy passion of my woman's mouth, tongue, hands, breath, warmth, zeal, hunger, and whimpering.

Especially if she were, you know, Ola Ray.

She makes abstinence sexy.

Toronto radio personality Fearless Fred recently featured Claire Brosseau on air to speak about her new project to entirely give up on sex with men for one year. The "boy crazy" early30s Toronto comic and actor is sharing her experience in the blog, The One-Year Manbbatical.

Until May 2011, she plans to restrict herself to "no sex, kissing, flirty texts or emails or conversations of any kind, dates (including lunch and coffee), handholding, pictures, suggestive status updates or tweets. No looking at dudes' websites, Facebook or Twitter page more than once per day, inviting boys to (her) shows or going to theirs, or making any decisions based on dudes (including gigs, outings, number of drinks consumed once realizing said boys are in the same location."

But, as she said during her interview, "man-shaped objects" are still ok, as her newfound path has been more about reducing attempts at finding love than sex alone. "If I have an afternoon of flicking my bean, lovely flicking my bean, say with a lovely battery-operated object, I want to go out and pick up dude, so if I refrain from that, I'm slightly more composed. I can watch porn, and though I find porn very romantic, it hasn't been interfering. My porn habits have not been interfering with my manbbatical."

You have to love a woman who talks about flicking her bean on the radio, regardless of the circumstances. But not that I'm waiting to see her trip up (I think what she's doing, and how she's doing it, is interesting), but the newly-abstaining darling has already tweeted, "say what you want about lebron james. i'd still make sweet, sweet love to him."

You'll find Claire's updates on the blogroll posted here.

In the happy countercultural house near the park.

I nearly panicked. A backhoe has been parked in front of the house, and as I looked down from the bedroom window, I heard a cluster of people talking around the glorious tree in the front yard. Was the city taking our fucking tree down?

False alarm, it turned out, but not before I texted Serene downstairs. She's been in this pad the longest, and between that and her (excellent) no-nonsense attitude, I appreciate her gentle but self-sustained role as resident quasi-matriarch and delegatrix. Sometimes we switch between playing Good Cop and Bad Cop when dealing with the maintenance crew. But I digress.

Earlier, as I sipped my tea in the quiet morning, I smirked to myself as I faintly heard Serene and her lover, the always-laughing black Becka, enjoying themselves beneath me. Serene has unapologetically told me before about how loud she gets when she cums, and between her and Lacey with her lover, I enjoy some audio entertainment on occasion.

You see, I live in a house full of lesbians. Sucks to be me, huh?

I'm on top. Serene and Lacey are below me with Becka as a regular visitor, but come next month, Lacey and her airline attendant fiancee Pamela will be taking the space on the main floor. They'll be replacing the breathtakingly delicious, shorthaired Sam, who has been the cunt-throb (ok, and cock-throb) of the house. A new woman, a spritely little pixiechik whose personality I have yet to learn, will be replacing Lacey as Serene's housemate. Confused yet? Add to that that sexy, outdoorsy Australian Lacey also happens to be Serene's ex-lover.

Me: No, wait, I'm mistaken. Our tree is fine.

Serene: I was just getting dressed to come investigate. Ok.

Me: You mean I missed out on seeing you dash outside in your Wonder Woman underoos? Dammit! ;)

Serene: LOL! Indeed you did. I have been known to go out in just my robe many times. I wonder what the neighbours think. Don't care tho! :)

Me: *winking shrug*

Serene: Did you just feel the house shake?

Me: That good, huh? ;)

Serene: :D

Meanie.

I'm waking up, nude, enjoying some organic chai tea and catching up on Twitter. I run into my sassy sexblogging colleague, the Collared Coed. Some of you may remember how she received caning discipline upon her tender, submissive ass in support of a charitable cause. Such excellent servitude.

collaredcoed i'm not submissive because i'm Asian. i'm an Asian girl who happens to be submissive.

UrbanRoguery What is it with me and schoolteachers now?

UrbanRoguery @collaredcoed And we love you for it. Now get back on your knees, wench.

collaredcoed i'm mad because i read a comment on a BDSM blog that says "i think all Oriental women have to be submissive." who even says ORIENTAL anymore?

collaredcoed @UrbanRoguery are your extracurricular activities getting you into trouble?

UrbanRoguery @collaredcoed Silly frosh. I'm the one who makes the trouble. Now bend over my desk while I select a cane.

collaredcoed @UrbanRoguery straight to the cane?! i don't get the wooden paddle first? you're a meanie! -pouts-

UrbanRoguery @collaredcoed My, you're an impetuous one. I said I was -selecting- a cane. And you had best look to the floor when you speak, if at all. Now strip.

B.J.'s BJ.

Teasing my sexblogging colleague, Debauched Diva, about her chocolate cravings over Twitter this evening, curiousity found me peeking online for references to foodplay just for fun. Because, you know, I'm online at home again. Yeah.

Sitophilia. Vore. Nyotaimori.

Hey, I love sushi...

But apart from teasing so-sexy-Shayne once about what I'd do to her with five pounds of strawberries (which are still in my goddam freezer), it had me thinking of real events in my past where I've used food during sexplay. I had poured Frangelico into The Grrl's mouth (and along her lips) when I had her tied up... I'm certain there was at least one time when I had painted my Diva's breasts with Nutella and feasted from her nipples while we were on the waterbed... And then there was the huge May Day party I had hosted years ago that featured goofy and ribald games among the guests, including blowjob simulations with peeled bananas and cunnilingus simulations with halved Twinkies, fifteen or so couples lined up in a row (and no one with their respective partners as one saucily held the food object before the other)...

And then I remembered B.J. Yes, that really was her name.

We were friends in high school. Barely more than acquaintances really, the sort of 'friends' who found themselves riding the subway together with the same pack of kids but were never in the same classes because I was in a grade ahead of her. B.J. was a quiet, thickly curvaceous, wavy-haired blonde Latina with a pleasant wit. We would hang in the school cafeteria amongst our mutual buds, sometimes skipping classes together when our shared pack made excursions into Greenwich Village or Chinatown.

But, in those days, dating was a new and weird phenomenon. I was drooling over other girls at the time, and had had sex with very few. B.J., barely known to me at all, never really registered on my radar.

But I guess I registered on hers... because then she took me home.



I had come from tae kwon do practice when I spotted B.J. hanging outside the school with a few other girls. Since we were accustomed to riding the R train together to and from school, she approached me and asked if we'd go together. Sure, I shrugged, and it was probably one of the few times that we actually talked, as it was after hours and we were alone while strolling toward the subway, backpacks on our shoulders. I'm sure we continued chatting during our 30-minute train ride, and she asked me to come with her to her place when we reached her stop. Maybe she liked something I said...

I thought nothing of it, really. As far as I knew, I was simply getting to know more about her and in the most platonic way. If she had been flirting in my direction, I was clueless to it. What did I know? I was a kid. And I certainly didn't sense anything would be up once we got there, where I met her father, who was busily practicing on their large, loud, upright piano in the main room of their Brooklyn apartment.

She said her quick hello to Daddy, he greeted me in cordial but broken English, and then he returned to the ivories as we scooted to her room. Perfectly normal. B.J. and I talked about homework. Perfectly normal. Homework shifted to smalltalk as we sat on her hardwood bedroom floor. Perfectly normal. B.J. suddenly leaned close and kissed me, full on the lips, open-mouthed and steamy. Whoah.

My head raced to catch up, but by the time I realized what was happening and was just beginning to wrap an arm around her back, she stood and excused herself out of the room. For a few moments, I was left on the floor, blinking my eyes in stunned perplexity, my eager teenage cock having a much clearer idea of things than my head did. The piano playing stopped as I overhead B.J. and her father discussing something in Spanish. It started again as she strode back into her bedroom, closed the door, and opened the jar of honey that she had collected from the kitchen. She dropped herself into my lap, held my head, and resumed her passionate kisses.

Clearly, my high school friend had something on her mind.

Her warm and searching tongue probed my mouth, darted across my teeth. I held her tight, still completely surprised by it all, but now also aware of the heat coming from my hardening shaft as it lay pressed firmly along my bare thigh under my tight jeans. B.J., being a pleasantly thick girl, had firm and very large breasts under her top and bra, and my adolescent heart thundered in my chest as my hands explored them. She, in turn, reached down to my waist, and her breathing quickening into a gasping in my mouth when her fingers found and started petting the length of me from over my jeans. She felt my heat, my girth, and she started to shake as she gyrated her hips on my lap. We were fully clothed and very hot, all the while the apartment echoing with her father's piano playing two rooms away.

B.J. slowed down and started to pull away, telling me she was getting nervous about being discovered. Instantly, I realized something: so long as we heard the piano, we knew where her father was. At that, her eyes widened gleefully, her kisses resumed again, and she started pawing at my crotch for true.

She lay me back onto the floor. She dropped her weight on top of me, my legs pinned by her thighs at either side. She panted as she started to unbuckle my belt and unzip my jeans. My chest was shaking, my head spinning, completely disbelieving what was going on. We listened to the piano.

She undid my pants and yanked them down my legs. I reached down and under her shirt to cup one of her large tits. She squeezed the length of my dick from over my boxers. We listened to the piano.

She bent herself over, still kneeling on the floor and pinning me in place as I lay there, and tugged my boxers off of me. My cock sprang free before her reddening face, and without a moment's hesitation, she engulfed me with her panting mouth. We listened to the piano.

She reached for the jar of honey and, scooping a glob of the golden thickness onto her fingers, she started coating my cock with it. It was cold and sticky and actually somewhat uncomfortable, tugging my skin in ways I wasn't entirely happy with, but soon the excitement of it all got the better of me. There was no piano.

We froze. She spun around to look at her bedroom door and was about to leap off of me when... it started again. I tried to keep from laughing out loud, but I faked "real conversation" with her during the moment of silence. Sneaky, naughty me.

Soon, teenage B.J. was giving me a honey-dripping BJ on the hardwood of her room, the bobbing of her head slightly slowed by the thick stickiness of the sweet goo she had almost completely covered me with. B.J. lapped at my cock, feasting on the sweetness, feeling my thickness pushing past her full and honey-drenched lips. I taught her how to stroke the base of me with her fist, and I relished in the weight of her impressive breasts on my legs. Her long, curly hair teased my thighs. Reaching down some more, her young breasts spilled out of my hands.

She repositioned herself to grind her jeans-covered crotch against my leg, and I could feel her seething wetness and womanly heat. My head filled with thoughts of how drenched, how steamy, how tight, how hot she would feel if I could fuck her, feel my balls against her plump ass while her legs reached high into the air... and by then, she had consumed most of the honey from my cock and I could feel her sucking mouth and strong tongue more firmly. The sudden sensation, with my mind's eye hungering to fuck her hard, sent me over the edge as I exploded stream after stream of my cum into her honeyed mouth.

I can't imagine how much of me she tasted, if any at all. But she sucked me, swallowed me, and her mouth lingered with slow slurps as she slowly came down from her high. Her face was bright red with passion and exertion, and when she sat up again, her lips were puffy and swollen, slick with honey or cum or both. Her hair was wayward. Her top, halfway undone. The crotch of her jeans darkened with her own musky cum.

It was late. Her father pleasantly said goodbye to me as I gathered my things. B.J. and I talked in the apartment building hallway for a while before I turned to go home. The piano continued as I caught the elevator.

We never hooked up again, and I have no idea of what's become of her. But no one else has ever used honey on me.

The Queen of Spades.

Friday night and Queen Street is pattered with rain. Traffic weaves around the red streetcars, the wayward pedestrains, impatient as the taxis deliver their well-dressed cargo to the corner of the Gladstone Hotel. The evening is still early and already the bar appears full when viewed through the elegant windows, the lounge beside simmering with the young, the successful, the countercultural, the trendy, the wannabes.

Her sleek heels clik on the wet pavement as she crosses the street toward the hotel. Her hair is taut across her scalp, the long and swaying strands of her rich brown hair complementing the movement of her hips as she strolls. The sheer dark miniskirt is as tight as a drum's skin, holding her thighs in an embrace, accentuating her small and so perky derriere as its cheeks raise and lower with each sensual and graceful step she takes. She's petite, likely in college, and as the faintest smile is spread across her amber lips as she makes her way to the lounge.

Friday night and she's on a prowl. Is the man she's seeking awaiting her? Or has she come out on her own on this windswept, rainsoaked evening, seeking to locate and lure the male object of her desires? What sifted through her mind as she selected that small skirt, those sleek dark shoes, and painted her face in her mirror?

One thing is certain: her intention tonight is likely very limited, very select. Will the night come to the result she seeks?

Upon the rear of her bare left calf, well above the sexy heels that clik and clak on the rainy pavement and stark against her so very white skin is a particular tattoo that, to the appropriate man's eye who knows its mysteries, reveals much about what it is she seeks to fulfill her Friday night with.

April foolishness, or three tales of sexual stupidity.

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