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The things that amuse me.

To make a little extra cash while enjoying a healthy workout, lately I've been moonlighting with a large moving company run by a group of Turks. Occasionally, it also affords me a chance to drive a rig back home to New York or elsewhere, which is always fun.

But imagine the smirk on my face when, while unloading a truck of its contents, I spied something interesting affixed to the support beams in the storage warehouse. Yep, a pair of delicious, medium-sized magenta panties with black lacy trim. Oh, those wacky Turks.

And later that same day, I found myself moving the home of an award-winning Toronto documentary film-maker and his live-in, rail-thin, statuesque, raven-haired niece. While loading a bedside table from her boudour, I couldn't help but notice that the drawers had not been completely emptied and its contents packed elsewhere. I was about to notify her of this when, while absent-mindedly opening the drawers, I gasped in cock-hardening appreciation instead.

Inside, along with a small electric blanket and a paperback, was a Hitachi Magic Wand. It wasn't difficult at all to picture her long, slender legs splayed wide on the same mattress that I would later bag and carry into the truck. It made the heavy lifting so much more endurable.

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.

Her initiation in fire.

"Are you ready?"

She blinked as she adjusted her weight uncomfortably in those geeky clodhopper shoes. The pillory that her wrists were restained in left her arms at an oblique angle and forced her to bend over just slightly, making balance a hard thing to maintain. I smirked, stealing a fast glance to growing crowd around us and behind her. The poor thing.

Standing beside her, dressed in a long black coat and wearing a glistening black leather cap, I gently patted her tartan-covered derriere as she wobbled slightly on the tiny podium that held the pillory in place. The room was packed with minglers and dancers and voyeurs as the industrial music thumped against the walls, and as precious little had been happening in the scene until now, we had collected a small and growing crowd. It was in this setting that Kara, my sweet, found herself clad in a schoolgirl uniform, subjected to this public scrutiny, and felt the coarse material against her smooth, round behind give way to open air as I raised her hemline. For the first time in her life, her lovely ass was being exposed for complete strangers to see.

Kara was at her first playparty.



It was schoolgirl night during this particular event, and Kara had impressed me by collecting the pieces for her attire all by her sexy self. Uncomfortably half-bent over, her crisp white shirt and smart little tie made an interesting contrast to the medieval device to which she was affixed. I raised the skirt higher.

The first few cracks of my hand were playful, love taps to warm her up and alert her senses to this new experience she was submitting herself to. As my palm warmed as well, I smiled to myself when I remembered that this was the same woman who sometimes had to make the effort to say the word "fuck" in a sentence, and here she was being publicly exposed for a spanking.

I cocked my wrist and began smacking her delightfully pert ass in quick succession, thoroughly enjoying the feel of the space between her blushing cheeks against my palm and flattened fingers. She squeaked and wriggled, her wrists pulling at the secured wooden holes that held them in place. I alternated cheek to cheek, and paused from time to time to caress her bum and enjoy the growing heat that I was responsible for. And then, in the spirit of the evening, I reach into my toybag and withdrew the foot-long wooden ruler.

The edge of the ruler was sharp and unyielding in my hand, and as I brought it down from on high, I enjoyed how the lightness of it betrayed any false sense of leniency that its size might suggest. This fucker stung, and Kara's squirming body responded as might be expected. She jumped slightly, the podium clacking as her shoes came back down upon it, and as my strokes continued with each just slightly harder than the last, she was practically leaping into the air and begging me to shift my target to another spot on her precious behind. I didn't.

But I did show her some mercy. I paused. I caressed her angrily red ass with a tuft of soft rabbit fur. I caressed her shamefully exposed flesh. I removed my coat and hid her face from public view by using her bent head as a coathook to hang it upon while I sipped my drink for a moment or two.

I noticed then that others had started to play elsewhere in the club, and I was reminded from playparties past how sometimes all it took was one couple to have the cojones to get the energy started, and everything else would fall into place.

Beside us, a giggling teen trio set a svelte little blonde on a spanking platform, and as she crouched upon it on all fours, her male partner raised her skirt as well and began delivering some staccato strikes of his own. A female partner laughed (in that way a newbie might be expected to) as she held her friend's head in place. It was cute. Me, I enjoyed the sight as I relieved my coat from its hook, raised Kara's head, and allowed her a sip of something cold to soften her lips.

We took a break, and I removed her from the pillory. The crowd parted to me as I led us to the bar, where I held her close as we watched others dance. We might have joined them on another night, but we had come with a specific purpose in mind, and call me oldschool, but I'm not usually one to Top and dance in the same night if the energy doesn't have just right vibe for it.

Maybe it was because of the venue, but this evening's party seemed to be overrun with poseurs and wannabes and urban whitebread kids looking to see a thrill rather than be part of one. Definitely not my preferred scene, and definitely a far cry from the cauldrons of sociosexual decadence that I've grown accustomed to.

But that didn't stop me from giving it the ol' college try at least once more before I was ready to call it a night. A few drinks and some schmoozing with old friends later, and I was leading Kara to a spanking bench not far from a second, and larger, bar. Nicely situated in a corner, the drag queen and her entourage who hung out nearby showed Me deference as I led Kara there and moved aside. Few others were playing seriously at this point, and I nodded to the drag queen as she showed her respects to this club veteran and His pet.

The drag queen took my coat as I collected some ice from the bartender. A small group of drinking fratboys there, very out of place and visibly uncertain of themselves in this environment, would have been a problem had it not been for the steel glance they received from me and the small wave of leatherclad fetishists that followed me back to the corner.

Kara received a long, lingering kiss. Not only had she been courageous enough to attend this her first playparty, but she had been carrying herself with complete decorum, respectful deference to my friends, and submitted hrself to desired public spanking without a whimper of complaint. Her safeword remained secure. Within herself, she observed and experienced with open mind and trust, and for that I swelled with pleasure and pride to have escorted her into this place and Top her. She was due for some reward, and for that reason more than any other, I would keep my eye and ear on the alert in this not-entirely-ideal venue while also bringing her another step closer to her desired ruination at my lustful hands.

I set her into position on the spanking bench, her head near the black wall, her skirt-covered rear toward the bar and the crowd surrounding it. A useful semicircle of space cleared itself between us and them. The scene was set.

I caressed Kara's shoulders as she relaxed. I blindfolded her. I whispered my evil plans into her lovely ear, and she nodded with a gasping, open mouth. I set my cup of ice on the floor nearby and raised her skirt over her pantied and still slightly-red bottom. Bringing my palms to her ass, I pet her flesh gently before beginning a new wave of cracking, audible smacks.

The fratboys stopped their nervous giggling and shut up. Their smirks faded where mine began. Their young men's eyes began to glaze over and their jaws dropped slowly as they took in the sight of my lithe girlfriend's ass receiving attention. Soon, they were gently eased aside from the scene entirely as fellow fetishist folk moved to get closer looks. I didn't miss them. A new wall of black, respectful and appreciating, surrounded us now and gave me the headspace to open up more and relax in my delicious use of my lover.

It wasn't long before Kara's ass was again a radiant shade of red, contrasting to the lilly-white schoolgirl panties that she wore under her raised tartan. Scarlet lines ran down the length of her thighs where my fingernails had raked. I tugged her head up from the cushion she rested her chest upon until she knelt upright on the bench platform below, and gave her a sip of water before undoing the buttons on her crisp white shirt.

I removed it, set her back in position, and undid the snaps of her bra. Setting its straps at either side of her, her back was now fully bared. Kara was completely dissheveled now, virtually topless, her skirt rolled around her waist, her panties tugged upward to fully reveal her ass, her bobbysocks and shoes the only articles of clothing completely untouched. She panted as she rested her weight.

I reached into my toybag. Her skin glowed seductively in the flickering light as I lit the handful of small red candles that I had withdrawn from there, placing one between each finger of my right hand and raising them high above her bare back. Kara flinched as blood-red droplets rained down upon her, and I could faintly hear her hiss and moan under the constant, thundering music. From the corner of my eye, I could see wide toothy smiles from the audience that surrounded us, and most especially from a pair of zoftig PVC- and rubber-clad women who squirmed with yearning interest.

I filled my other fist with ice from the cup below me, and Kara alternatively winced and shuddered as she felt a tapestry of sensation. Her back and bottom were flecked with crimson dots and fiery streams, and the moving light made the small rivulets of icewater on her skin shimmer like crystal. Kara's face was contorting in confused ecstacy, her mouth open wide in a silent groan.

I paused to look directly at our audience. Many of them looked back, their faces full of enjoyment, while the gaze of others remained riveted to Kara's writhing, seminude body. The gothettes, the PVC-clad women to my left, looked particularly happy.

"She would love for you to do that to her," said the taller one, a vampiric brunette in a black corset, motioning with a smile to the blonde BBW beside her. A wonderful invitation. But I was with Kara, we hadn't discussed any such possibility beforehand, it was her first night out, and we were mid-scene.

"Maybe next time," I replied with a smile, enjoying the sight of the blonde go crestfallen.

Yet they inspired me to show a little Top largesse, Paddles-style, and I crooked my icy finger and summoned them closer with a smirk.

"Do you trust me?" I whispered into Kara's ear. She swallowed and nodded, her blindfold still secure over her eyes. "I love you." She got an icecube to chew on and suck in reward.

The Gothettes stood around the spanking bench with me as they received a crash course in safe waxplay before I armed them with more red candles from my bag of tricks. So it was that Kara, my sexy schoolteacher clad in her sexy schoolgirl uniform, received hotwax attention from this dastardly trio of kinksters in a thumping Toronto nightclub, her reddened and virtually bare ass exposed to a crowd of slack-jawed onlookers, her back and shoulders scattered with scarlet droplets as we three consensual conspirators smiled and laughed and tortured her for our own amusement and pleasure. Our hands held the candles high over our heads, their glow radiating against our black leather and PVC clothes as we stood in that unholy circle, the red drops drizzling down from our perverse trinity. How Kara squirmed and wiggled as she felt fire and ice in a blurry, constant wave upon her submitting and tender skin.

When it was over, the Gothettes were breathless in appreciation, and Kara was breathless in sacrificial bliss. The crowd of onlookers had grown thick and impenetrable, but soon even they slowly melted back onto the dance floor or around the bars as I cleaned my worthy pet up and restored her shirt upon her.

The drag queen returned my coat. The door crew shook my hand as we left. I brought Kara home, where she fell into a long, deep sleep.

The mice will play.

Serene, one of the happy dykes who lives below me, is away on holiday in Cuba with her partner. Lacey gets to have their pad all to herself.

I'm coming home during a break in my workday. The door to Serene and Lacey's place is directly next to mine and at the top of a flight of stairs. I'm sliding my key into the lock when I hear a feminine voice, saucy in tone.

I hadn't realized that Serene and Lacey's bathroom was so close to their front door, because the sound of a running shower is loud and clear. The bathroom door must be open, just on the other side. Lacey is showering and her lover is speaking to her, taunting her, completely unaware that she's being heard. Oh, the grin on my face.

Airline Attendant: Well! Look at you, all tramped up in the shower!

Lacey: (over the noise of cascading water) Mmmm mmmm!

Airline Attendant: ...I'm gonna stick my finger up you. Stick my finger up you and lick you and suck you and buzz you...

Lacey: Ooo...

I picture Lacey's girlfriend leaning against the doorjamb, pulling a shower curtain aside to get an eyefull of Lacey's strong, blonde form. I picture Lacey's lover as a saucy brunette, her head tilted naughtily, biting her lower lip or keeping the tip of her tongue aainst her teeth as she audibly teases Lacey with her plans.

Airline Attendant: ...I'm gonna buzz you, baby, buzz you like you've never been buzzed before...

Lacey: (laughs) Oh, yeah!

She trails off with a laugh, singing a song to herself. The shower continues to run as I turn my key and go inside my place. I'm left smiling, wondering what vibes lay awaiting Lacey in the side table next to her bed.

And now for something completely different.

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.

April foolishness, or three tales of sexual stupidity.

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Suus vapulus puga.

Dean is a trim, eagerly kinky, early40s bisexual mystic with a penchant for good coffee, corsets, and trance drumming. Her sensual breasts boast nipples that easily come to attention, her flat tummy barely tells of her children, her kisses are hungry and devouring, and she has the cutest pert little ass. We've been casual acquaintances for years, friends in the same spiritual community (such as it is), and after she made The Pass at me, we began dating late last month.

Dean reminds me of the statues and frescoes featuring the fine women of ancient Rome. And, yes, this ancient portrait of an Egyptian noblewoman during its Roman historical period really does look like her.

Maybe it's because, like myself, she has some experience doing ritual work that sometimes elicits an ominous glamour from oneself. It's partially because of her spirit, partially because of her taste in jewellery, but a lot of it is because of her hair. Dean's short hair is almost afro-like, with tight and dark-auburn curls in what would be called a "pigeon hole" fashion thousands of years ago. She would, to my eye, lk completely at home wearing a sheer stola with gold necklaces and lapis earrings, lounging comfortably amid the sound of lyres during the orgy, wine at hand, figs and olives served by naked Egyptian slaves.

Or, perhaps even better, waiting in the sacred brothel for one proud and broad-shouldered senator in particular to come by, offer his coin to the Goddess, and take her at his casual leisure.

Or siezed by the cohort as spoils of war, and dragged to the conquering general's tent as his battle-weary guard stood drunken sentry with knowing smiles on their scarred, muddy, clean-shaven faces.

She was ravenous when we enjoyed the dilled salmon that I had prepared for our first dinner together, but twice as ravenous when we were necking on the futon. Her open-mouthed kisses on my neck and shoulders, her caresses down my back were a welcome treat. How long had she kept an eye on me? The first hints of the cleft of her ass inched its way toward my fingertips as she writhed in my arms, my hand enjoying the small of her back. I learned quickly that Dean was eager to do a lot of catching up in her world, she celebrating her divorce from a restrictive and problematic man.

How could I refuse a friend in need?

She very matter-of-factly draped herself across my lap when I tugged her from the back waistband of her black spandex pants. I already knew that Dean was into spanking, but this almost seemed too casual, and soon I discovered that my Topwork was definitely cut out for me.

She settled silently, comfortably, across my knees. Enjoying the sight of her teeny butt, I began with a series of light to moderate swats that I started to enjoy just fine, but seemed ho-hum to this so-called 'beginner.' Hrm. A few swats harder, said I to myself, should change that. Nuthin.

Now, I can enjoy giving an over-the-knee attitude adjustment just fine without being altogether concerned if my pet is relaxed and quiet. But this was one of our first dates, and I'd be damned if I'd let my badass self watch this little vixen get a smacking without so much as a fucking peep. Like, puh-leeze.

So it was with humourously annoyed determination that I reached under Miss Utterly Silent's waist to lower those pants. Firm, perky, petite assflesh was my visual reward, and now my hand began raining down for true. The parlour echoed with the lovely sound of skin to skin, smack upon smack as I delivered not my most brutal punishment, but certainly something I thought worth taking note of.

Dean's fine derriere was reddening nicely... but still not a damned sound from out of her.

Well, fuck this, I sez to myself, and stood up, laying her across the length of the futon as I reached for a hardcover book from the case nearby. No kink newbie was going to be that quiet on me, goddammit, and so I raised those four hundred hardbound pages well above my shoulder and brought it swiftly down with a loud, dull, satisfying crrummp!

"AH!" this little witch finally cried. And so I continued, crummmp after crummmp until she was wiggling satisfactorily. I stopped suddenly and opened the book.

"Part of me didn't want free," I read aloud. "Part of me wanted to sink into the golden glow of her, and be lost." I closed the book and used it again and again to swat her ass before stopping once more.

"I traced my tongue along the edge of his belly button, bit softly into the skin on either side, let my mouth work lower until I could go no farther without bumping into him, straight and firm, and perfect, pressed against his stomach. I slid my mouth over the velvet tip of him as I dropped my body to my knees."

Again I closed the book with a thud and used it once more to redden Dean's wayward ass and thighs. Yet now I was inspired.

"Hold that thought," I said with a laugh and strode to the toybox in my bedroom. I returned with my favourite leather slapper, which had not seen use since the previous winter. Dean had re-hoisted her pants and was sitting with a faint Mona Lisa smile when I reached for her ankles, tugged her feet upward and her knees at her shoulders, holding her legs high while she slouched downward on the cushion.

Holding her in position with my left, my right hand cocked the slapper far behind my back before I delivered the first of several very audible swats to Dean's rear upper thighs. Oh, she wiggled and she whimpered and she cried out now alright, and my wide-eyed grin must have been as comical as it was sadistic. Swat. Swat! Swatswat! SWAT!

SWAT!SWAT!SWAT!SWAT!

"Aw, the poor baby... what's the matter? Does it sting?"

SWAT!SWAT!SWAT!SWAT!



Dean writhed and cried out, reaching out to catch the slapper as it showered torment to her covered legs and failing miserably. My ears echoed with the sound of leather on spandex and flesh, and when I finally stopped, I felt perfectly satisfied. I stood back with a smirk on my face as she whimpered and pet her sore wee Roman lady's puga.

And the book? Laurel K. Hamilton's Seduced By Moonlight. Somewhat appropriate, no?



(*Latin: "Her beaten ass.")

Some light shopping.

One of the neat things about dating my new friend, Dean, is how she's at a juncture in her life where she's breaking barriers and opening herself up to things she's sought, desired, fantasized about for some time. She has that in common with the Schoolteacher, but unlike her, Dean doesn't have an uberconservative "real life" that would be endangered if, say, someone saw her nekkid ass on FetLife. This, with her own go-gettedness, seems to give Dean a vigour as she pursues her more prurient interests.

And I seem to be the kind of guy that such women enjoy dating. I can handle that.

Before stopping for a nibble in the Gaybourhood recently, we rubbed elbows among this city's sensual, leather elite during Northbound Leather's latest meet&greet social. I had picked up an an excellent leather shirt and Top-standard-issue officer's cap during last visit at one, and many has been the time I've smiled to myself while spotting Northbound's wares in sex shops and during fetish events while travelling in the States. Having this glorious temple to kinkdom in one's home city is a lot of fun.

Dean made a beeline for the corsets, and selected a very sexy black leather halter that framed her 36Ds sensually. Followed by a black (it's always black with Dean) waist cincher, she made happy smiles for the rest of the night.

Me, I was in nirvana. I wasn't really planning on shopping for myself... oopsie. Northbound is one of those places where you'd never expect a "bargain basement" vibe; it's simply too elegant, too upscale, too sophisticated. But between sips of wine, winks with Dean, and glances at our staffperson in the sexy PVC nurse uniform, this particular meet&greet included irresistable, almost below-wholesale opportunities to get some goodies:

o A pair of unforgiving, 5mm thick, 40mm wide, solid aluminum, bolt-secured collars later, and I was hunting for pairs of ankle and wrist restraints to match. Oh, how these will feel after I remove them from the freezer! Some forgivable scratches and pits. Standard retail? $350 Canadian.

o A 7.5cm wide, jaw-raising black leather collar with triple D-rings, perfect for affixing wrists just at the neck, also 5mm thick, and complete with padlock and keys to secure with. A little wear, as though it has been affixed to a wall display or secured on a mannequin. At least $90 CA.

o A deliciously ominous head harness featuring a studded, 25mm wide, 3cm deep open-mouth tube gag made from leather-covered aluminum. I would have been happier had the gag been wide enough to slide some cock through, but this is suitable for pouring liquids with a funnel. The leather needs some moisturizing, but nothing more than standard care would call for. Regularly $140 CA.

o And the two most unique finds of the evening, definitely from the "so inexpensive, how could you go wrong?" category: a pair of gas masks. The first is clearly from US or NATO military surplus: a black latex rubber, pig-jowled beast with goggle eyes, the sort of thing you'd expect to see your friendly neighbourhood riot police to be wearing. The second is much sleeker: a black rubber MSA full-face respirator with bold aluminum faceplate framing, probably intended for safety while working with chemicals or other caustic substances. Both masks lack filter canisters or tubing, but that's easily amended. In conservative doses with a willing partner, I imagine that a little smoke would make for a fun scene, and when I'm not being kinky, now I'm ready for a casual chat with the World Trade Organization. $70 CA each.

I'm due to review a toychest soon, so it was fun to pick up some new items to fill it with. I spent just under $150 Canadian on all of these fun and bizarre trinkets. I am a happy kinkster.

This is completely gratuitous.

I enjoy porn. So do you.

But, perhaps unlike others who make picture catalogs of their sexblogs, 'sharing faves' and the like, I prefer to use a hot pic to enhance or illustrate something else in the story that I'm sharing with you.

So if I find myself making a small exception and simply offering a hot visual for the hot visual's sake, I hope you'll agree that it'll be worthwhile...

I think there's something worshipful, sensual, but also intensely hot about watching my lover's face when she climaxes. And, I ask you, is there anything more arousing than a woman in the fullness of her sexual, shameless confidence?

I can't embed this video, and the provider will likely keep it freely available for only a brief time, but trust me on this...

She wants you to watch. Give her what she wants.

And now for something completely different.

The Toybox: Lelo's Iris. Or, Shayne drives a BMW.

We were nude and sipping tea.

I sat on the hardwood floor at the edge of her bed, casually stroking her warm bare legs as we talked in the afterglow. It was another sunny morning in Chicago, and again we began our day with sensual and tender sex. We enjoyed the respite, smiling as we yawned, indecisive about whether or not we we done playing for the moment.

"You know," she whispered coquettishly to me, her head resting on the pillow, "this might be a fine time to explore the Iris..."

I smiled wide and my heart skipped a beat. Bringing the Iris was one of the highlights of my visit, an early holiday present for my naughty lover. She had asked for it specifically once upon a time, and I was happy to oblige her. Earlier during this trip, I enjoyed her as she explored with her Mini Corsair, and during a threesome with one of her former partners in the past, I was privileged to watch her fuck sexy Annie with her G Twist. But this was a treat we both had been eagerly awaiting.

Similar to the Gigi and the Liv, the Iris is among Swedish manufacturer Lelo's finest products. Sculpted like a burgeoning flowerbud, the Iris is made from phthlate-free silicone at its play end, which is specifically designed for G-spot fun. It features a sensually curved and girthy shaft that houses a merry-go-round of varying vibrational tones, timbres, and speeds, allowing for an incredibly versatile experience.

We enjoyed the charming black case that toy came in. Being silcone, the Iris shouldn't be extensively exposed to direct sunlight, so we also appreciated the sleek black sleeve it could be discretely held in as well.

Tempted as I was to join in on Shayne's play, as she brought this treasure to her happybits, it didn't take long before I realized that I was observing sheer carnal beauty. I simply couldn't intervene, and relaxed on my haunches, occasionally caressing her, as I remained riveted to her lovely, contorting face as Shayne entered her own jilling nirvana. The subtle movements of her body revealed to my eyes that she was experiencing waves and currents that I had rarely, if ever, witnessed a lover enjoy before. Clearly, she liked this girltoy.

So, naturally, after she had crested in her ecstacies, I solicited her collaboration in sharing this review with you. "Homework!" she cried out happily. I have no doubt that she enjoyed the necessary study sessions.

"I have gleefully been speaking of "her" as the "Cadillac" or "BMW" of vibrators," Shayne wrote to me later, "and let me tell you why."



"I still can't count how many settings this little puppy has. She goes from quiet-little-butterfly-kisses strength of vibe to something-like-lion-in-a-cage to V8-under-the-hood-roar. I prefer closer to the roar."

Shayne and I both love the fact that, despite its powder-blue and white colour, the Iris is really very green. It's completely rechargable. It also comes with a warranty, which is virtually unheard of for sextoys. Lelo knows what they are doing.

"The first and best thing about the Iris is that she's electric. I go through so many AAA and AA batteries with my other vibrators (and they aren't even as perfect as the Iris) so imagine how often I'd be running to the corner for another pack of batteries if she weren't electric! Huzzah! She recharges really quickly and holds a charge for a long-ass time. I haven't plugged her in in over a week and have used her several times for maybe a total of ninety minutes and she's still purring as smooth as ever. A beautiful thing.

"The Iris is also gorgeous to look at: befitting a queen, she's sleek, classy, and sensual. I'm happy to leave her on the bathroom shelf to dry after a rinse because she's just so pretty to look at.

"One of the settings I like best is an alternating setting. This vibrator has the capacity to vibe either at the base, or at the tip, or both simultaneously. Being the eclectic lady I am, I really like the setting that alternates tip, base, tip base and back. It really adds to the rocking motion that I've come to love on the Iris.

"My favorite method of use: first I use the vibe in the tip over my panties to get me revved up. Then, when I'm wet and hot, I pull the panties off and put the setting to steady (no pulse) in both the base and the tip at max vibe and slide her halfway deep into my cunt. I hold her there and rock my pelvis to simulate thrusting while I flex my kegel muscles and rub my clit in those nice circles you've described. I pretty much stick with that until a first shuddering clitgasm happens, and then I back off, take a breather for a minute, and switch to the alternating vibe. That's when I start thrusting by hand while still rocking my pelvis."

During our play, one of the things we noticed was how both the shape of the Iris and the way it needed to be held was visually similar to a man stroking his cock. We both smirked over the genderfuckery about that.

"Remember that awesome jack off motion? That's where this comes back. I jack myself off then, fucking my cunt and grazing my hard clit. I flex my muscles to really milk the sensation of being fucked. It's pretty amazing and it makes me cum really hard.

"One of the very few drawbacks to the Iris is that it's easy for your hands to slip and change the setting when you're holding it. A lock mechanism of some sort would be great. So would a handle; I declare all vibrators should really have some sort of handle, as that's definitely one thing dildos have going for them."

Later, when Shayne enjoyed a bath, we also learned a second, minor drawback: unlike her Mini Corsair, the Iris is not waterproof and must not be submerged.

"But that aside, this is just one of the beautiful stories of the Iris. I'd fucking marry this thing if I could!"

And there was a time when I thought she might marry me. Ah, well.