Sunday comics.

Tank girl.

For almost ten years, we were together. She was my first love, my first partner, and we met when I was a rascal in my late teens, fresh from high school, spanking new to the bdsm scene, plying my trade as a carnie at Renaissance festivals throughout the northeast coast. She was a mid-20s United States Marine and sometime-stripper who had just finished a tour of duty in Hawaii and had daydreams of flying fighter jets. She had come to the Renaissance festival with her biker friend and her daughter. With an equally rascally buddy, I was doing my job: drinking heavily and teasing the living hell out of "the mundanes."

I was dressed in skintight black Capezios, boots, and a hard, leather jerkin with a lovely blade dangling from my waist. She was ogling me from a short distance, her friend not far behind. I had a belly full of mead and spicy, flirtacious wit, so naturally when I spied her spying me, I approached her as any self-respecting rascal would.

The blade swayed from side to side, its hilt clinking against the vessel of whiskey that dangled from my belt, the outline of my package as easy to see as sinners on a Sunday, as I approached her. Slinking close, she smelled sunshine-warmed sandalwood oil in my light beard as I took in her body language, full of approval, bringing my cheek to her ear.

"Hello, m'lady," I whispered, booze on my breath and faerie dust on my perspiring brow. "Prithee... do you come to the faire to watch the men in their tights?"

She laughed a head-thrown-back, saucy, ribald laugh, the laugh of a tipsy girl from Southie who likes her man to have a nice ass, and nodded. She gave me a "kissing stone," a small rock painted with a tiny, inviting red heart. Within the next hour, she was getting friction burns on her knees as she rode my cock on the upstairs floor of my rustic merchant's booth, amid my camping equipment and collection of medieval costumes.

Not long after we were done, her biker friend had her turn, suffering my carnie friend's pair of leather wrist restraints as he bound her to a rafter and had his way with her in the same room. They never stayed in touch afterward, but what started for my new friend as a sexy, drunken Renfaire fling would become my first longterm, primary relationship.

Had I more courage at the time, I would have married her. I should have. I almost did.

Before Kara, and even before The Grrl who influenced the development of this blog, there was Diva. I keep referring to her in passing, so on the event of her birthday, it seems fitting to share a glimpse.

I so loved Diva.

She's a dirty blonde vixen who has always managed to fuse the allure of whitecollar elegance with bluecollar spirit. One moment, I'd be enjoying watching her sip champagne from Baccarat crystal over braised quail, and the next minute, she'd be belching in the car like a Plymouth longshoreman after a trip to the package store. An occasional stripper (for which she very nearly faced a "conduct unbecoming" charge while on active duty), she wasn't exactly an innocent when we met. Still, in our time together she found herself introduced to a panoply of adverturous play and shared ecstacies that, I smirkingly know, lasted within her well after our relationship ended.

I introduced her to kink. When I wasn't haggling to buy men's wives or children during my hysterically drunken Renfaire taunts ("Oi, m'lord, two pigs fer yer wife thar... my, but she's a purdy one, neh? Lesse her teeth now... oh yeh, yeh, two pigs an' a chicken then, wot say? Tis a good chicken..."), I was working at either an adult toy store in Greenwich Village or bouncing at the clubs, and it wasn't long into our relationship that she discovered exactly how much she loved receiving a good spanking on her beautiful ass.

Diva would squeal so satisfyingly when she was across my lap, and over time, she developed such a tolerance for OTK play that by session's end, her derriere would be fire-engine red and burning throughout the night. She became so enamored of having her hiney whupped that, after we broke up, I was amused to find sex-networking listings from her on various internet sites where she openly sought "the attitude adjustments I so deserve."

She drove from Boston to New York once to surprise me when I was on-duty at a club. She strolled in as I was supervising a scene between two lesbians, and by the end of that night, I had her dangling from the chainlinks suspended from the cieling as I tortured her with horsehair whips and riding crops.

Once, while visiting her, her brother accidentally walked in on us as she lay sprawled on the living room floor as I hovered above her, slowly dripping hot wax onto her pretty B-cup breasts. Oops.

At another club, after spanking, paddling, and restraining her on a St. Andrew's cross as I pinched her nipples with clamps, I took her into a blacklit booth where I pressed her hands against the wall and fucked her from behind. As I drove deeply into her, tugging her adorable ass against me hard and fast, masturbating voyeurs moaned and stroked both their cocks and pussies as they jockeyed in position for the finest view. When we were finished, Diva told me later about the streams of anonymous semen that found itself splashing along her leg while I pumped her senseless.



We had friends among T-Bears MC, a kink-positive women's motorcycle club, and with them we became part of the clique that founded the Boston chapter of the National Leather Association. It was Diva who, during a relaxed party at our pad, came up with the name for its newsletter, Scarlet Leather, which it retained long after the group redeveloped into the New England Leather Alliance.

We were social butterflies (or wasps, if you prefer) then, movers 'n shakers, the Kind Of People You Wanted To Know. I did workshops at NLA meetings about riding crop use as sex toys; Diva dropped trou to help me demonstrate. I drove our black Ford conversion van as we trekked to another private playparty; Diva knelt on the van floor as our brunette BBW friend, Jacqueline, opened her legs to receive Diva's expert tongue.

And her tongue was deliciously expert. Diva was superb at sucking cock, and knew all about that balance between a firm, wet grip of the fist while also offering a tight, sucking, pouty pair of lips. We would embrace for vast stretches of time, orally spooning as we lay on the bed on our sides, her head at my waist and my hands at her head as I vigourously pumped my cock into her willing, wanton mouth.

She would crawl on all fours, clad only in a teddy, onto the center of the Oriental rug in the playparty host's parlour. There, in the center of a circle of chairs occupied by voyeurs, men and women alike, she would bend her head to the floor and raise her lovely ass high to receive whatever spanking, paddling, cropping, waxing, icing, clamping torment my naughty imagination could muster. How she loved being tormented upon her ass.

Diva's ass. Diva loved to have my cock, deep and thrusting as she perspired under me, inside her ass. How she would hiss and growl as she felt herself get taken, how she would gasp and loudly whisper "Hot! So hot! So... hot!" as my fiercely pumping thrusts burst my cum deep into her body.

Three times I shared her with other individual men, where she was
DP'd each time until she gasped and rolled her eyes back and dropped limp with ecstatic oblivion. One man was a celebrity, of sorts, whom we knew. Another was a bodypainting artist we met at the Renfaire. The last was a mutual friend who was about to wed a woman who detested anal sex, and we gave him something to remember.

At least one orgy, four couples. More playparties. The couple who rented a 1-bedroom apartment just for their swinging trysts. The couple who wanted to simply see a demonstration of my Topping skills as the sound of Gregorian chant echoed throughout their basement dungeon. The teen couple, both redheads, also from the faire. Picking her up after a shift at the stripclub. The afternoon I fucked her on a hillside in the snow as friends nearby sought for us. The night beside the lake as I took her from behind, knees on grass, as a crowd of nude, ribald men and women danced naked around the bonfire to the thrumming of drums and song, our visage barely visible by the glow of embers under a starry sky.

I have written a great deal about my lovers in this blog, but after some thought, nothing I have written to date can come close to the quantity, the quality, of adventurous sexplay that she and I had explored during our tenure together. I've had lusty, imaginative daydreams about exploring nearly as much, being nearly as active in the kink community again, with a partner as I had enjoyed when Diva and me were the Thing we were.

But, yes, it ended. Maybe it was the 7-Year Itch, or maybe the planets simply went kerblewie out of alignment, or maybe it was just time, but we eventually drifted apart. I moved out on Christmas Day. The ripple effect among our circle of friends was vast. I pierced my right lobe (the left ear had been done when I was sixteen) to mark the monumental change in my world.

I would never have admitted it then, but losing Diva was one of the best things to ever have happened to me. For all my sexual exploration and streetwise education, I was a kid then who didn't really know shit about women, relationships, communication, the vulnerability that comes with love. Diva, in her own way, taught me those things, as she taught me certain life-affirming maxims that are tattooed to my forearms. She showed me how to appreciate women who have cajones.

After our breakup, she raced motorcycles for a time and travelled to Europe. Her landscaping business flailed in the recent recession, and she's since moving on to become a corrections officer. It's a career choice that I think she'll do fine in.

Oddly, she's single. Her last boyfriend strung her along for the longest time, never getting the message that all she really wants is a steady, committed partner with whom she can build and share. Maybe her attitude gets in her way, because she's as openmouthed as she is openminded.

We didn't talk for the longest time, but we're friends now, and call on rare occasion. Her mid20s daughter, whom I raised with her during our relationship, calls me Daddy to this day and had her second child by her good husband, a Coast Guard seaman, within the last few years.

I loved Diva very much, and I still do, in a fashion. She's clan. From time to time, like on her birthday today, I think about her and send her good vibes.

Happy birthday, beautiful.

I still have the kissing stone.

Sunday comics.

The Tomboy, or my relationship bootcamp.

I recently shared a photo essay with you where I featured a series of black&white images of past partners and their lovely bums. For fun, I later added a wee poll to collect your thoughts on which images you liked the most. Most of you responded (with an honourable mention for Shayne and the Grrl) to the Tomboy.

Her name is Reese. A soldier in her mid30s, she was the first playmate to message me through (wait for it...) a dating site. I was still in post-Grrl angst at the time, and apart from a five-star-hotel two-night stand with a computer technician from Vancouver, she was the first woman I had sex with since that breakup. It was therapy.

She was literally hanging in a tree when I picked her up on our first date. Clad in jeans and a diving Tshirt, she made no bones about the fact that she was a casual presence, and if I expected heels and garters, I'd be sorely disappointed. Little did she know that most of my women friends were of the punk, dyke, bohemian variety, so we got along just fine. In fact, we were inseparable for the next four days.

Like the Grrl (and me), the Tomboy was polyamorous. Unlike the Grrl however, she was very physically active in a wide variety of esoteric sports, possessed the energy of a caffeinated dynamo, and had the build befitting her training as an infantrywoman.

Among my favourite memories of her include the time we went to the annual carnival. As we stood before a game of shoot-the-pop-cans-with-the-pellet-gun, Tomboy ignored the sexist tauntings of the hawker. "Give it a try... if you can, little lady." A crack markswoman, Tomboy readjusted the sights on her popgun and downed can after can after can after can to the hawker's silent disappointment. She got the giant green froggie.

I wish I could say that sex with the Tomboy was as great. Sadly, for me, her repetoire was severely limited. While she felt comfortable enough to expand her horizons with me, including her first anal experience (which she was amazed by but never quite got over her anxiety to try again), there was a laundry list of activities she simply had a boundary over. Further, her sexual energy worried me, as sometimes she seemed to behave as though she were used to only being sexual with men who didn't give a crap about her at all.

"Ok, I came, I'm done," she said from under me during one night. I had been fucking her as she lay on her stomach, her legs pressed together so that her cute ass was high and tight against my pelvis. "You can finish now," she added, and turned her head to the side as if to wait for me to do just that.

I was so shocked that I almost got up and left the bed. I did stop, actually, but I didn't leave. It was one of the unsexiest things I had ever heard, and it prompted some deep conversations later. With the Tomboy, her zeal for sex never quite seemed reconciled to her distant, aloof energy during it. In a few months, I grew tired of feeling unfulfilled by my partner. While the Tomboy was gradually making "improvements" (in my view), that didn't stop me from playing the poly card and eventually begin seeing someone else as well.

Stef, about whom I'll write in the future, was sexually the complete opposite to the Tomboy. What frustrated me then was that while the Tomboy seemed to have her life together except for the sexual compatibility, Stef was very sexually compatible but had no life. It was a very annoying dynamic for me at the time.

Eventually, exit Stef. I started to withdraw from Tomboy. Codependence. High maintenance. Distant, fragmented sex. The writing was on the wall. I would soon discover Shayne through the same dating site, and I would learn what loving happiness would feel like again.

But not before one sexual evening with Tomboy that actually does stand out in my memory. A friend, fellow soldier, and fuckbuddy of hers, Ethan, was visiting. Tomboy was torn because Ethan had expressed interest in some play, but it was a night she and I had reserved for ourselves. When I casually suggested that Ethan could "join us if you desired it," the look on Tomboy's face was precious.

It hadn't been since days (and nights) with Diva that I had been in a male-male-female threesome. Gentleman that I am, I yielded a lot to the guest as Ethan and Tomboy coiled on her large bed. A well-built guy with short dark hair, Tomboy was bobbing her head on his long cock (something she learned to enjoy after all while we were together) as I took her from behind. Ethan and I traded places every so often, and she squealed with squeezed-shut eyes as he slid his dick into her. The highlight of that evening for Tomboy was when Ethan revealed his bisexuality to me, and I indulged in a very very rare escapade of sucking cock myself. (Surprise!) Taking his girth in my fist, Tomboy was gasping as she jilled herself, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, her hand a blur between her thighs, as she became totally engrossed in watching me blow him for a while.

(Oh, get over yourselves, guys.)

If dating the Tomboy was a rebound for me, somehow I managed to keep my heart on the steady. The disparity between our emotions become more and more apparent, with me never quite going past the friendship, friend-with-benefits stage, despite dating her for almost a year, and Tomboy secretly hoping for a matrimonial proposal.

The bottom line was that, over time, I saw how there simply was no daily-life compatibility for us. Had the sex been great, had she not possessed certain elements that estranged me, maybe I could have considered things longer. But in the end, I simply had to accept that as far as primary partnership was concerned, there wasn't a future. I learned a lot about what I did, and didn't want, by dating her. That's not entirely a bad thing.

I tried to wean her gently. Soon, the poly card came into play on her end, and she met an unemployed yoga instructor who caught her fancy. Once she started beaming with new-relationship-energy again, I made the break. She didn't take it well. Her LiveJournal became interesting. But time has passed since then, and we remain friends. She's good people; she's just too whacked for me as more than a friend.

The irony in submitting this post about her right now is that not long after I strike the key, I'll be biking down to her regiment's mess hall to have a few beers with her, her still-unemployed yoga instructor, and other buds of ours. I haven't been there in months. It'll amuse me to enjoy my pint in the knowledge that I've shared about her here.

She does have a cute butt though, no?

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