Urban Roguery: Six years of shameless decadence.

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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

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


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

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


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


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

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


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


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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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



Some slightly-related updates:

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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


Thanks for listening. And thanks for reading this blog.

Just a friendly note to the spammers.

Goooood morning.

You know you're going to be in for an interesting week when, as you walk down your driveway on an early Monday morning, you're greeted by a pair of teeny black panties right in your path.

Where I was.

I'm sharing this only because, in some way, it's bizarrely topical.

I enjoy Toronto. I enjoyed Boston. I enjoyed going to university in New Brunswick, a neat little burg in New Jersey. But in my heart and spirit I am and will always remain a New Yorker.

I have family members who came treacherously close to losing their lives ten years ago today, and it was only by a stroke of luck (or the calling of a Wall Street vendor's hot, salted pretzel) that saved them.

Like my mother did for years after John F. Kennedy was assassinated, many people are reminiscing about where they were at this moment, September 11, 2001, 8:46am. If you're interested, here's my story.

I was still with Heidi, the ex-wife, living in a fine house in bluecollar, rightwing Oshawa, Ontario. I had just recently acquired my Landed Immigration status from the United States, which meant that I finally able to legally work in Canada. While taking steps to finish the last few credits toward my university degree here and pursue some solid work, I sought for and grabbed the first quick piece of steady employment I could get as a short-term cash fix.

I found myself working in nearby Pickering, Ontario, co-managing an adult DVD rental and sextoy sales outlet for a small company called Adult Movie Warehouse. Not exactly the sort of work I would want to make a career out of, but I had experience in the adult field from my youth, working in sextoy outlets in Greenwich Village. And the owner loved me.

I had just opened the store for the day and was piping Howard Stern's radio broadcast. (Yes, yes, I know.) His program had just become syndicated in Toronto, and I was psyched to enjoy his material again after growing up hearing him on WNBC in New York when his career was new.

I was reorganizing adult DVDs in the store aisles when an elderly Asian fellow came in to browse. Stern and his crew had just begun interrupting their usual schtick to bring some news. It was at that very moment that I actually found myself trying to explain to this smiling, elderly Asian man that, very sorry, but no, the kind of porn he was looking for was not only unavailable in our store but was completely illegal in Canada. He grunted his disapproval and walked out as I stood on the floor, blinking a lot over this conversation that never, in all my previous experience in working in sex-positive environments, did I ever expect to actually have to have.

And then my ear tuned closer to Stern's broadcast, and it soon became very clear that this wasn't going to be one of his typically inflammatory shows. In fact, he and his crew actually proved themselves to be outstanding investigative journalists during the next few hours as they scoured the streets and relayed information live on-air.

I spent the rest of that shift mostly alone in that adult DVD store, standing behind the counter with my eyes wide open as I listened to all the details about what was happening Back Home.

Tits from space.

In Ontario, public toplessness (i.e., for women) was legalized in 1996 with the case against Guelph student Gwen Jacobs, who successfully argued that her walking down the street without a shirt did not in itself constitute a sexual or "indecent" act. This legislation has since become an important backbone to related matters large and small, such as a mother's right to breastfeed in public and nudist/naturist events such as the World Naked Bike Ride. The Topfree Equal Rights Association helps women in Canada and the United States who encounter difficulty going without tops in public places and serves as an educational resource on this issue to the public. Arguably, events such as SlutWalk and even the Dyke March during Pride festivities also reinforce a woman's right to do what my former partner, Diva, would call "taking (her) tits out for a walk."

But that hasn't stopped certain, localized places and events from, well, getting their tits in an uproar about tits being in public. Recently, organizers of a Toronto beer festival insisted that Jeanette Martin replace her top after removing it only to reveal a black lace bra on a hot summer day. In the past, representatives of the city of Oshawa had expressed its willingness to ignore the provincial legality concerning toplessness should any such shenanigans take place in their community. As if a local bylaw could supercede a provincial ruling.

Enter the Raelians. A spiritual association established by French auto racing journalist Claude Vorilhon in the early 1970s, Raelians believe that life on earth was created by extraterrestrials. They advocate world peace, human cloning, genetically modified organisms (the GMOs in your produce aisle), the idea that only persons of high IQ should govern world affairs, and that divine supercomputers record and process the DNA of the global human population.

And because they're also militantly sex-positive (so much so that sometimes they get into trouble for trying to supply condoms on Catholic school properties), they're also the people behind the international Go Topless Day event. Through this event, the Raelians and their supporters hope to make August 28 "National Go Topless Day" in Canada (the 20th in France and the 21st for the United States). So, tomorrow, organizers had planned to converge on Ashbridge's Bay Park in Toronto and filed for a permit with the city for same. And were denied.

"We're women who just want to be equal with men," responded Sylvie Chabot, the event organizer, in today's Toronto Star. Citing that when asked by parks representatives if "women participants will be topless" via email, Chabot retorted that such a "question is discriminatory (and) it (would be) like asking, 'Will black people partcipate'."

City officials have not detailed as to the reason for their decision other than to state that "the nature of the event" was "ascertained," and have so far refused to elaborate. There is no specific prohibition concerning toplessness in city regulations on acceptable conduct in public parks.

However, some sources have suggested that Go Topless events are employed as recruiting opportunities for the Raelian faith group. And, given that Go Topless events at least associatively link toplessness with the Raelian advocacy for sexual freedom, it's also conceivable that the perception of a pro-sexual element could be undermining its stated intention to simply promote gender equality. That the Toronto swinger's club Oasis Aqua Lounge recently stated support of the event through Twitter might contribute to that possibility. Nudist/naturist sites and events often are largely family-oriented affairs, and as such commonly seek to disassociate themselves from a sexual undertone.

Not to be deterred, Go Topless Day organizers have since stated that they intend to hold their demonstration anyway, but adjacent to, rather than in, Ashbridge's Bay. It's going to be an interesting weekend.

The word of the manor lord.

I swear. I was minding my own business, when all of a sudden...

"Awwwwww how can one be a dom without dominating someone? Bring it on... Ur about as dominent (sic) as a baby boomer with a golden spoon in it's (sic) mouth..."

Oh, for the love of God.

(And, for starters, I'm first-wave Gen-X, not a Boomer, thank you very much.)

Remember Little Ginger? Probably not. The naked truth is that she was barely a blip in my dating life.

Short recap: A late20s curvy redhead in the campus security biz with Toronto police aspirations and supposedly submissive interests. We connected through a dating site. She plied me with praise and longing. I wasn't entirely convinced, cynic that I am, but I took her out for a relaxed night of pub food and improv comedy anyway. As a date, it was actually really fun. Yet after some more banter she decided that she couldn't pursue anything further.

"I'm just a little girl who came in her pants too soon," she would tell me. Fine, I shrugged. It would have been nice to turn her sassypants over my knee, but no big deal. Little did I know how much she would genuinely deserve to have those sassypants over that knee after all.

So, this post is also something of a rant.

(Side note: Hey, Maeva? Remember when I told you that normally I wouldn't get all pissy about a partner/almost-partner on the blog? Well, this'll be one of the exceptions.)

"Maybe I just have to stop being friends with you. Your statuses are always 'I am enjoying this, with this, while doing this' and it is the most decedent (sic) thing in the world!!! They don't really inspire common ground, insite (sic) discussion, or encourage rapport. It actually makes me think of a Marie Antoinette, or like a lusty lord partaking in only the finest of his land."



Hrm. A 'lusty lord partaking in only the finest of his land.' Yes. Yes, I can handle that.

Bring me my cognac, wench.

But let me explain.

After my one date with Little Ginger, months ago, we became Facebook friends. Like so many others with Facebook friends, we stayed in touch on occasion at best, and when we did, it was usually me trying to make some kind of supportive remark when she would rant about whateverthehell she felt like negatively ranting about.

I "liked" her photos. I gave her life-goal advice when she asked for it. I was, in short, a perfectly nice and mentorship-minded kinda guy. She would eventually move to Saskatchewan (God knows why), and I figured our "friendship" would simply remain a cordial if distant one. Fine.

Now, about my Facebook: I have two. One reflecting this blog (which I may or may not continue), and my "real life" me. Some of you (and don't you feel special?) are Friends with me on both. On that profile, I rarely-if-ever cite anything related to this blog, and seem to use my "status update" thang to be inquisitive, reflective, seditious, satirical, meditative, sarcastic, or... God help us... positive. Little Ginger is right: many of my status updates there reflect moments of joy, decadence, and pleasure.

Why? Because, in my view, life can rob us of those moments in an instant if we allow it too. Call me an avatar to Dionysus, but I sincerely believe that hedonism is a life pursuit in any way we can make it. I sincerely believe that there is no strife, no struggle, no strain that can't be transcended to save our own emotional and mental health with the right application of good food, good drink, or a good screw. I'm a sybarite.

Am I enjoying a great wine after a hard day at work? Status update. Jesus, those ribs on my barbecue were amazing. Status update. Ami gives me a lime macaroon that, just the previous morning, was still in a bake shop located in Paris? Status update, baby.



Little Ginger, it would seem, really disliked it when I made these status updates that were, shall we say, pleasant. Go figure. And so, completely out of the blue, she began spamming my Facebook wall and filling my inbox with these offensive little tirades. Now, why the hell would she do that?

Little Ginger: "Maybe I'm just being a hater, or cynical... Probably I am. But I am also an aggressive douche and I don't know why I have to be nice all the time and ur statuses whenever I read them make me want to punch you."

blink
blink blink

Me: "I don't understand this sudden, unexplained, unnecessary, unprovoked, undeserved hostility from you."

What the fuck is she talking about?

Me: We went our separate ways, fine. The truth is that you barely know a thing about me and you decided to cut and run before you ever had the chance. Now, that's your choice. But I still don't understand why you're suddenly behaving like a morose little churl..."

Skip ahead, skip ahead, skip ahead. I keep trying to figure out where all this is coming from, what the problem is. But, gradually, I realize that I'm simply wasting energy. And then, rather than actually respond to my very-confused, very-real questions, she flanks me and drops the above-noted shell about my being a Top.

Ohhh..., I realize. That's what this seems to be about. Now I'm annoyed.

Me: "So this is about my approach to kink. You, child, have never had the privilege of my space in that department. You fucked up your chance.

Little Ginger: "I fucked up my chance?"

Yeah. Because you were, as you put it then, 'just a kid who came in her pants too soon' just at the sight of me on our date. Our, remember, first (and only) date. Our, remember, non-kink-related date.

And then I figure it out: Little Ginger is trying to be a SAM. She's just trying to stir up trouble, drama, unnecessary bullshit. Christblood, but I hate SAMs.

And that realization changed everything.



WARNING:
Do you see this black leather bracer
now adorning my left wrist?
Do you see the set of restraint keys
now tinkling at my left hip?
Do you see the black cotton kerchief
swaying from my left rear pocket?
Good.
The remainder of this post is written in Topspeak. Hup to.

So here is why I'm including her stupid little tirade on this blog. Little Ginger had thrown a gauntlet.

Now, again, remember: Little Ginger and I have never Played. She has no clue what I do in a Scene. She is not criticizing from an informed place of experience into what I like, what I do, or how I do it. Apart from a little flirting, we never had a conversation about kink, bondage, or anything even closely related. In fact, I'd be surprised if she had ever been inside a functioning, real dungeon or blackroom or playparty... ...Because if she had, I am certain that someone would have given her some fucking idea of how to (and how not to) behave.

In short, Miss Sassypants here don't know shit.

Kinkster Rule Number One:
Barring the near-unrealistic situation where you are genuinely placed in mortal danger, you treat the Tops, the Dominants, the Mistresses, the Masters, with respect. You shut the hell up, you do it, and you like it.

Does this really need saying?

Why? Not only because They know how to fuck you up. But because They hold the keys to the tools that you will be subjected to, even if representationally. Because They are the ones who are investing time and love and skill and nurturance and protection and affection and patience and money and effort into your sorry subbie ass in order to bring you to the forbidden ecstacies that you motherfucking went to Them for in the first motherfucking place. Because, when you have the privilege of being social and in public around Them, They are the peers to your Top or Dominant or Master or Mistress, and to minimize Them minimizes yours. Because, if for no other reason, acting like a stupid little guttersnipe reflects poorly on you, your training, and your Top's choice in you.

Because it's about discipline. Disrespect a Top, especially your Top, and you disrespect yourself.

Me: "As far I'm concerned, a smartmouthed little snipe (which is the way you're behaving right now) doesn't have the privilege of criticizing someone who've been active on that scene for more than 20 years. You know nothing of what I've done, and continue to do."

Little Ginger: "Domination starts with mental engagement before you even step near the bedroom- you were far too accomidating (sic) to be a true dom. Or maybe with the very submissive women there was not even mental fight- but I guess what men like right? The easy target?.."



A "mental fight." Right. I do this because I like to have "mental fights."

My "targets" aren't "easy." They are sophisticated, educated, articulate, imaginative, freespirited, liberated, emotionally mature, sexually conscious women whom have had the courage to embrace their fantasies and the awareness to do so in safe, sane, consensual ways.

Some of them can even spell.

Me: "I see. So you seem to think that Tops must, I suppose, behave like ignorant, brutish neanderthals. I was "accomodating" because... what? Because on a relaxed, social date, I took you for food and laughs instead of a bruising? Because the communication we've since shared was me being supportive to you?

You so unimpress me. I thought you were more sophisticated than this... If bullies who deride, insult, threaten, abuse women in their daily lives are your vision of Top males, I am confident you'll find your love match in a prison. You'd be wading through dangerous waters if that was your expectation out of a First Date with someone you'd never met before."

There's a long pause before she replies.

Little Ginger: "It's just talking, and mind fucking. I do it all the time. I eat men I just met for breakfast. I would love for one of them to rise to the occation (sic)......"

Me: "If that's seriously what you seek, what you are, then take some advice: It isn't cool. It isn't sexy. You are deluding yourself if you think it makes you attractive or desirable to be around. You have a lot to learn... about yourself, about people, about communication, and as far as I'm concerned, certainly about kink. Rational, intelligent people aren't interested in mindgames. And this is why, and how, yes, you fucked up your chance. Are you really that inexperienced?"

And then she responds with something that's actually almost lucid.

Little Ginger: "I am not talking mind games, I am talking about handing people a thought which ignites a touch. Put people into a mind state where a look can rise lust, the sound of one breath can make you stiff and the trailing of a finger tip can release you mind into a state or the ultimate submission to pleasure..."



Hrm. I actually can't disagree.

But, for me, I see several vital steps missing.

How would someone like her expect to reach that plateau with a partner without first developing a sense of trust, of communication, of intimacy? Little Ginger, it would seem, expects to be bullied into a dominant/submissive dynamic. And her way of "criticizing" my gentlemanly approach to our date seems to be to taunt me into exacting retribution.

SAMs, at least one of Little Ginger's apparent stripe, can be such a headache.

So, on that, let me take this full circle.

What Little Ginger is doing is asinine. If I were to respond in the way she apparently expected, to get furious and threaten her with divine wrath, that would be playing right into her hands. That would be making an ass of myself. That would be me abdicating my own sense of Topspace self-control, my own Topspace discipline unto myself.

Not that I think that divine wrath is undeserved. Yes, it is true: back in the day, I could easily see someone like this little guttersnipe getting what she justly deserves. Publicly. And yes, the police would have damned likely been called afterward... but that still wouldn't stop the response from happening. My past mentors would have wiped the walls with Little Ginger and used her for community bullwhip practice over Chambord shots afterward.

(Corrine? Buzzy? Linda? Pam? Miss you guys.)

But, you know, the 80s are gone and committing actual physical assault isn't exactly cool anymore.

So. Ginger? I have a better idea.

How about I not backhand you and do something else. Because, you see, all you've done here is demonstrate to Me exactly how unworthy you are of My time. No, I'm not going to spank you or paddle you fiery red or cane you or hogtie you next to a jar of red ants or "rise to the occation" in any way that you would like to expect.

Why? Because, you ignorant little trollop, you're right about at least one thing.

I am the lusty lord who partakes in the finest in His land.

And you, you pretentious little cuntswipe, are far from the finest in My land. Because, yes, My Topspace is about My pleasures, My joyfullness, My taking what I wish from the courageously pliant and seductively beautiful and happily playful sirens and pets and playtoys and stray kittens and bottoms and waifs and curvy belles that cross My path and please Me so. Because my Topspace is about My fun, and they who enjoy My efforts unto them do so for their fun under My company, and because you and your childish little tirades are not fun for Me or for Us. I am too experienced, too sophisticated, too way ahead of you to even see your presence in an otherwise empty room.

So, no. Your peurile attempts at admonishment are ridiculous. I, and those with whom I share My pleasure, are out of your league.

But you will be disciplined.

My pleasure, My discipline for you is this: to light my Gurkha from the smoldering embers of the burning bridge now between us, then to turn My back to you, strolling away with pleasure and decadence and command in my heretic's heart. We grown-ups have more important things to do.

Dismissed.

Go.

The tapping at my chamber door... only this and nothing more?

This is a rant.

Can someone fucking please explain this to me?

I see your profile. I drop a friendly note in your direction, you read my profile, and soon we're in this really creative, articulate banter. It's really nice. It's really good. We're relating, we're laughing, we're finding common ground on matters social, political, sexually conscious, and more.

"There's a part of me that wants to simply write a short note saying that I like you too much already," you write.

We arrange a date. We open up even further, Really Talk, and Listen. We discuss everything from social politics to raising children to our relationship war stories to my father the artist to your crazy exes. Just-some-wine on the pub patio turns into late lunch. I'm finding that I'm so distracted by how amazing you are, how truly cosmopolitan you are, how much I'm melting at the sound of your laugh that I actually ask you if you eat meat when we had just ordered a plateful of wings. We enjoy me making fun of myself after that brilliant move.

Late lunch turns into More Real Talking in the park. I am utterly floored with your sharp intelligence, the likes of which I haven't seen in years. You've written textbooks, for chrissakes. You've started your own fucking alternative school! And while the look on your face suggests to me that, ok, my background in kink may not be a place you'd be interested in going, the fact that your first response was to ask deconstructing questions about the why's and wherefore's behind my interests in it really twisted my brain in terrific directions.

Up comes the First Kiss.

"I so want to jump your bones right now," you say. The Second Kiss follows. But we've been out for much longer than either of us anticipated. Life beckons.

I suggest we leave something to look forward to. Your face tells me this was a Good Reply. You get on your bicycle, and I totally enjoy the sight of your round, pert behind under the sundress you're wearing as your leg swings over the frame and you settle on the seat. I have no doubt that it would smack firmly against my pelvis as I took you, hard and deep, from behind.

As much as I enjoyed your hair, as long and dense as the mane on a Peruvian paso. And this from a guy who fetishes shorthaired women. With your thick eyebrows, the black whispers at the nape of your neck, your hair told me what feral treats I might find under your navel, and in the back of my mind I imagined having opportunity to press my face against a rich, musky forest before curling my tongue around the round, red, thrumming, tender marble that I want you to have responding to me.

As you rode away, I realized that I had already become completely smitten with The Raven. That doesn't happen often.

...And then it had to come screeching to a halt.

Ok, you did say that you'd be away for a while. Fine. Ok, you did say that you've had some really, really bad "relationships" and you'd need to take your time. "I had trouble getting close to my cats," you said.

But, call me crazy, I didn't expect that meant you'd want to completely avoid contact after our date. No calling, no texting, maybe some emailing. ...Huh?

"Less is definitely more," you said.

Ok. So, I'm very much the support-my-partner type. Ok. So, yeah, if you Really Need This, I'm willing to help out. Uh, sure.

But, I gotta say this: there's a part of me that's wondering: what the fuck. You tell me that I'm the first guy you're interested in having a second date with after your last ten dates with dudes. Great, awesome, thank you, love to know it. But... was I wrong to tell you that, yeah, just maybe, I'd become smitten with you? I mean, isn't that, in the big picture, the desired goal? Is it possible that I somehow pushed you away because I decided that I Really Fucking Like You?

So, yeah, I'd still enjoy seeing you again. But, you know, it really sucked to have to suppress all that keen excitement that I was feeling the next day. Yeah, I am supportive, I'm doing it, but somehow that just didn't seem fucking fair.

Sometimes I think I'm too patient for my own good. I just don't get it. This one, I really just don't get.

Abundance.

Lately, I've been shaking my head about something.

Describing bodytypes can be such a minefield, and God knows there are plenty of people out there who have trouble doing so with tact and grace, if not simple politeness. There are also those who, being at opposite ends of a spectrum, can either speak with beaming appreciation or horrible viciousness.

I'm talking about larger women.

Now, while it is true that, in my case, my first preference leans closer toward slim-to-average sized partners, that doesn't mean that I haven't had some spectacular experiences with women of the curvier or even BBW tribes. And yes, I do think that personal sexiness often has more to do with attitude, confidence, character, wit, and style than simply whether or not her dresses are size 8 or 18.

But I have noticed that it's the leaning-toward-the-larger of the species who seem to most often find themselves attracted to me. Or so it seems. And for some reason, lately the Fates have been blessing me with several new friends in my local kink community who meet that decription (hi, guys).

When I asked Aphrodite for abundance, maybe she decided to respond with a playful smirk?


Oh. And this sensual creature is my online colleague Coy Pink.
You really should check out her blog too.

Ami.

"Hello, buddy," she said, talking to my semi-hard cock.

She stretched herself out on the futon, raised her head as I stood beside it, and took me into her mouth. My shower could wait.

Oddly, that moment was somewhat foreshadowed by the flirty dating-site messages we had been exchanging back in March. In them, sometimes I visually 'put her' in the position of being in my bedroom, seeing me with a towel around my waist that would... oopsie... drop to the floor. She was amused, we would chat more, and eventually began to date. Or something.

Ami is a bit of a departure for me. There's much that we simply don't have in common, and frankly I thought our first date was something of a wash-out at the time... until, after a walk through Chinatown, she turned to kiss me.

It was a nice kiss. The kind that awakened my then-largely-unused cock straining hard in my jeans after only a few moments. The kind of kiss that, after dealing with so much angst in the previous months, felt Really Fucking Good.

And it's with a little bit of surprise when I say that things just seemed to gradually happen from there.

Ami is an ever-positive, in-many-ways-innocent, articulate, curvy brunette mid30s grad student with a penchant for bicycles, couch surfing, and sumptuous breakfasts. She is, hands down, one of the gentlest souls I have ever known. It actually surprises me that, given all of her intelligence, straightfoward confidence, and disarming sense of total kindness, that her dating life hasn't been more vibrant.

That's also a nice way of sharing that her sexual experiences have been very limited. Granted, that sometimes means that my own sharings with her may not always be, shall we say, as receptively mindblowing as some other past experiences I've had, it's still totally true that I have a personal thang for corrupting the innocent.

That her vibe and looks often leave me mistaking her for a woman ten years younger than what she is doesn't hurt.

Her slightly Rubenesque form features a very friendly pair of 38Ds, and after partnering with so many tomboys in my life (God love 'em all), Ami has given me a new appreciation for bigger tits. Hers fit perfectly in my grasp, and when I'm clutching them from behind her and gently giving them the massaging squeezes that she adores so much, her flesh only just barely peeks out from between my strong, outstretched fingers. And how she does love to have her breasts squeezed this way, especially if I'm nibbling at the nape of her neck or gently chewing on her ear.

Her tummy paunch is a cute and enjoyable palmful when we're spooning to sleep. She tells me that her massage therapist criticizes her bottom, but I keep saying that's nonsense. And, in a way that makes perfect sense in my brain when I think of her relative innocence, she sports a completely natural, completely carefree garden of coarse, dark fur that feels totally glorious to me when I'm gently rubbing my cheeks against her just before I begin to taste her essence.

And I've been tasting her essence frequently. In fact, I think my giving her head is the most frequent play activity that we've been doing. She is definitely not complaining.

During one of first dates, as we cooked together in my kitchen, random kisses quickly turned into a fun quickie session that eventually had her bent over one of my kitchen barstools. Her strong legs were sumptuously splayed apart as she bent over and across the seat of the stool, her lovely round ass before me. She had no choice but to gaze forward into the sunshine that brightened the deck as I squatted behind her and opened her up like a book.

I've written before about how one of my favourite activities is to discover, learn, study, enjoy the sight of my partner's anus. To me, there's a total intimacy in the sight of how she's crinkled, coloured, shaped there. Like fingerprints, like labia, the shape and contours of my lover's asshole are unique to her, and I enjoy the forbidden pleasure of learning hers.

And when I first gazed upon Ami's and began to give her light caresses there on this occasion in my kitchen, she bent over a stool, I immediately subconsciously knew that she had never been in such a position before. In such a vulnerable position before. And that, when I began to gently rim her, the gentle gasps for breath that I was hearing were very likely being accompanied by widened eyes that I could not see.

I liked that.

And so I slid my fingers inside her drenched, furry pussy and made her cum as I stood behind her and gently stroked my cock with my other hand.



But whether or not things with Ami are "relationship material" has been unclear. What were we doing? What were our parameters? Where did we want this to go? I've certainly enjoyed her company, and continue to, but for quite some time I didn't have my finger on the pulse. (G-spot yes, pulse no.) Our thang lacked clarity. Are we just-dating? Are we FWBs? Is she interested in romance? If I tell her that I lower-case-L love her, is she going to freak out or suddenly get distant? That kind of ambiguity makes me insane.

Ami, who commutes to and from the city frequently, has nurtured a slightly gypsy-ish grad student lifestyle. She housesits for the friend who's currently in Paris. She crashes on another friend's couch because it's close to campus. And recently she started spending enough time at my pad that it became a no-brainer for me to give her a set of keys and empty some drawers so she could move an amount of her stuff in my place and stay whenever she wanted to.

Ain't I cool? God, I frighten myself. cough

But her teaching and study schedule is intense. Despite a hot beginning, we've only rarely been able to spend "quality time" together lately. We'll share the same bed, but time and energy for fucking comes and goes. Eventually, I started to ask myself what it was that I was doing here, what it was that she was looking for, and it started to piss me off. Critical mass was approaching, and with a gentle nudge, I made sure she knew that a Conversation was soon becoming necessary. I needed to know where she stood, where she wanted to stand, and that she knew the same in return.

A relaxed sushi picnic in the park later and I had the clarity I needed. And, thus far, it seems that Ami and I are definitely in the friends-with-benefits camp. I sought clarity, and I certainly got it:

"Basically," she said to me after she listened to my mind, "I decided to get involved with you because I sensed that you'd be good in bed."

blink Oh.

Um. Ok.

I can handle that. Sure.

We finished our homemade miso soup in the park and went back to my place.

Love letters from Hell.

Where do I begin?

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

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

Fine, then.

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

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

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

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

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

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



The Tornado


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ever.

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


The Feline


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

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

Right?

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

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

Yeah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

But all that is another topic.

Cruising.

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The doppelganger.

It's been two years, so I guess she made an impression (he typed with a playfully sarcastic smirk).

I recently spent a day cruising throughout the city, something related to my job, when on the streetcar I saw her.

...Wait. No. But she could have been her sister.

The asymetrically cut, short blonde hair. The huge, dark sunglasses. The slightly zoftig, womanly bod. An apple butt. Her round face. The tattoos. Even the freeflowing print sundress and the way she smiled in my direction as I looked upon her.

And, as a coup de grace, the fact that she was queer. I hadn't noticed her partner, but as she left the streetcar, the sensual kiss that she gave the delightfully geeky, close-cropped brunette with horn-rimmed eyeglasses as they parted for the day.

Her entire image, her entire vibe, was Shayne.

Yeah, it's been two years. And yeah, she's in an entirely different life and world now, and I heartfelt-mean-it when I say, "Hey baby, go you."

Maybe I shouldn't miss her so much. After all, it's also true that had her moments of being utterly arrogant, condescending, closed-minded, and petty. She broke a pretty important promise and, true to form, found a way to justify it to herself to do so. I should probably be pretty pissed.

But, you know, one difference we have is that I'm not really one to amputate a limb just because I found that the ring I was wearing didn't completely work for my ensemble. Part of the intimacy that we shared was how I watched her suffer, deeply, with how she wrestled with her sense of identity, path, and voice in the world. Perhaps it was because of how she suffered and struggled, not despite of it, that I initially began to fall for her. And it would have been idyllic for me to simply remain as a friend and soundingboard for her in her life.

And all these thoughts came rushing back into me this past week when I saw that lookalike on the street, rushing back like a heavy wave that had long been back out to sea.

It makes me smile to feel the tightness in my chest still, to know that to see her virtual sister as a passerby make me stop, gaze, and remember. Like it was yesterday.

Yeah. I love and miss you, Pix. Still. And I'm ok with admitting it. Still. Yeah, yeah, I know I "shouldn't." All that get-over-it (whatever) and go-forward (I have) and giving-you-power (yeah, you wish) crap. Fine. Just call me crazy.