Lights, Camera, and... Action?

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A Case for More Communication

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Christmas Night Musings of Aloneness, a la Bridget Jones

(Ed. Note: In my semi-drunken/contented state last evening, I wrote this and spontaneously published it without editing it. I awoke, and suddenly thought "what have I done?" and then saved as draft, suspecting I might've been too open. I've since received some very thoughtful, considerate emails, which leaves me thinking I should keep it up... although I'm not too comfortable with that, but it's really great to get comments like those. Thanks. If you interpret this to think I'm really lonely, then don't -- I'm not. I'm just aware of my aloneness, and that's an altogether different matter. Without further ado...)

Steff is drunk. Why, a Christmas tradition, no? GayBoy and I get together each Xmas eve to drink, and eat, and be merry, and to watch an "anti-Xmas Xmas movie." What is that, you ask? A film that contains Christmas, but is not about it. For example, Gremlins, Die Hard, etc. This year? Bridget Jones' Diary.

Some days, I feel like Bridget Jones. I belt out alongside classic "Ain't you lovin' me yet" type songs, just like Bridget. I flap my lips and say the most inappropriate things at the worst times, oh, so fucking often, really. "Flippant" is an adjective which often precedes my name. I have gotten into boatloads of trouble for saying what occurs to me in each and every job I've ever held (but fortunately, they love what I've said, though 'unsuitable' for business -- go figger.) I watch cheesy films, drink a little (much), and sometimes wallow in my singleness. I often deliberate before a date about whether it will result in getting laid, and whether I should wear the sexy panties, or should I wear the "granny" panties that will hide my figure under my clothes, but be oh, so unattractive should said clothes be peeled off in a heavy makeout session on the floor.

BJD is one of those "time of the month" classics with obscene insights into the single girl. I remember working in the bookstore, and whenever someone was looking for a gift for a 25-40ish woman, I'd simply open the book to any random page, scan it, read a short snippet, and presto, sold. Why? Because it's true. Because as many good things there are about being single, there's ultimately something shitty about not having a warm body next to you in bed. That's not pessimism or cynicism, it's realism. There's something blissful about having warm skin within reach when you're under the covers, and we all know it. That smell, that feel, that knowledge... it's all so very good.

And there's no worse morning to wake alone than on Christmas, as Armistead Maupin wrote in his San Fran classics, Tales of the City. But you know what? 24 hours passes, and it's Boxing Day. Presto, life goes on.

Although there's nothing I want more than to not be single right now, I have to say, I'm all right with it. I'd love to wake up on Christmas with some 6'+ god of sinewy pleasure lying next to me, with an orgasm on order, but there's something appealing about rolling out of bed on my own, to a hot bath and a pot of coffee, and not one iota of bullshit to deal with, lazy clothes at hand, and the ability to be my "worst" self on a day that really deserves laziness.

You all read this blog for whatever reason you've found to be here, and that's great. Welcome to it. I write it for my own reasons. In a lot of ways, this is a journey to a new place for me, regardless of where I've been before. That place isn't really something I'm comfortable sharing as of yet, and I'm proud that I know where to draw the line when it comes to divulging the secrets of Steff, despite my quest to become vulnerable at will during this past year.

I'm caught up in the spirit of what I consider to be this season, that of self-reflection, but also, that of willing change -- what with New Years and its resolutions fast on our heels. While I've been reflecting plenty on here of late, there's been far more screaming in my mind that I've kept to myself, and will continue to do so, for the short-term, at least.

Whatever the stressors, whatever the frustrations, there's something unforgettable that I love about this season, single or not. I love the feeling of being conscious of my values, of knowing my wants, my needs. I love the spirit of giving that comes this time of year. I'd love to share that giving in every way with a man who deserves a little getting, but since I can't, I'll have a hot bath instead, and maybe indulge some dirty thoughts I've been nursing.

And y'know what? That'll be just fine.

Merry Christmas to All...

...and to all, a good lay.

I'd had designs on fashioning a naughty Santa tale, but I've not had the time to sit down and pen one, nor has a fantasy popped into my mind I care to share. No, the only fantasies I've had have been about a punk rock boy of late that I have designs for. Sigh. But this Santa guy looks pretty frickin' edible to me. Only thing missing's his candy cane.

Today, I became blonde again. It's been a long, long time since I was blonde, and I'm a different person now. I'm absolutely adorable tonight, and it feels awesome. This was my splurge today and for the first time in a long time. Feeling good about yourself is one thing, but feeling adorable's MUCH better.

So, merry fuckin' ho, ho, ho. :) Have an awesome holiday, my friends. (Oh, and there's a decent new-ish posting below this, please make sure you have a read!)

*When I was but a little girl, I made Santie Claus a candle holder, a cup, and a saucer out of clay, and painted it all red, yellow, and green. I left the candle holder and a candle burning on the table, with a cookie and some milk in the chunky, ugly cup and saucer. Santie, naturally, loved the milk and cookies, and he even took the time to hand-write me a letter, with each letter alternatingly red or green, telling me what a wonderfully behaved girl I was. (What happened?) The letter's long gone, but somewhere in this apartment are the cup and saucer, which I had long believed had been transported to the North Pole by a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer. Sigh. Oh, the cruel shattering of illusions!

New Obscenity Laws in Canada

Once again, Canada leads the pack. Back in 1969, Canada's new prime minister, Pierre Elliot Trudeau, said that the Canadian government had no business being in the bedrooms of Canadians. Consenting adults -- male, female, straight, gay -- could do as they wished, because where there was consent between the parties, no harm.

That is the prevailing thought behind the some new rulings that will be redefining the parameters of what can and can't transpire due to "obscenity" here in Canada.

The gist of this? Swingers / sex clubs, the Supreme Court of Canada now says, are legal. Why? Basically because by way of entering the swinging establishment, where sex usually transpires quite openly, all those within the premises have essentially consented to the acts being committed therein. Go on ahead and visit Montreal, visit a swingers club, and have a little sex while you're at it. It's legal.

(About Montreal -- the Paris of North America: There's a show filmed here in Canada called Kink, and each season it's set in another Canadian city where it follows the lives of a few participants as they go about their kinky existences in their little kinkdoms-- from boring homosexual sex through to leathers, whips, and all the pain you can eat. Slings, anyone? Easily the kinkiest place in Canada is Montreal, where fetish is a rite of passage. God, I love my French-Canadian heritage. ;)

There are reasons I'm profoundly proud to be Canadian, and the level of personal freedoms is far and away at the top of my list, of which this is simply the latest example -- most recently preceded by the legalization of gay marriages. Whether it's smoking pot anywhere I want in this town (although still illegal, it's largely ignored -- we are this continent's Amsterdam, kids, and owners of the best dope in the world, sez High Times) or knowing that I could perform any sex act I want (except possibly bestiality, which obviously is not exactly my bag, since I can't even handle hairy backs, let alone fur), there is no doubt that the border between Canada and the United States is where my world changes, drastically.

So, here's a thought: Your life is only as good as the freedom with which you live it. Whether you have extreme views on sex, drug use, or just everyday rights for everyday people, voting is crucial to the well-being of your life. It's no secret, I don't like George Bush. At all. I dislike the politics I see coming across the wires from our Southern neighbours, and it saddens me to see what seems to be an erosion of freedoms in a time when "freedom" is what the fight's all about. Ironic, methinks.

But the point is this, your supreme court shapes the land in which you live. Hell, look what it's done for my country.

Bush was elected on a fiscal platform, and because he pulled patriotic strings. I'm not sure many people sat back and thought, "Hmm, will he be the right guy to pick Supreme Court judges that will shape my freedoms for the next four decades?" Well, fortunately/unfortunately, that's the case. Not one judge, but two, and with three years to go, who's to say what's next? You think you have an opinion on his choices yet? How could you, when they've got a lifetime in their offices? Some twenty, thirty, forty years of deciding policy that will impact the lives of every citizen. Food for thought, indeed.

Perhaps this is another fork in the road of our two countries. Now, me, I'm no swinger, and it's unlikely I'll ever be. I'm an old-fashioned romantic with a fondness for orgasms, that's all -- and a fondness for freedom.

So, swing away, kids. Montreal's where it's at. Coming soon to a Canadian city near you, perhaps.

New topics?

Readers' Stuff Wanted!

My writing's been a little self-involved lately (just like me). Life's been coming at me at warp speed of late and I'm feeling a tad discombobulated. I'm wanting to write a fun, dirty little Christmas story, and if a little time should avail itself to me, then I shall. I'll show you a bad Santa.

But I want to hear questions, conundrums, and other stuff from you people. You can comment, or you can get crazy and email me.

Getting What You Ask For

Words hurt. What we say can hurt others. It can traumatize them. It can lead to unthinkable acts. Without a doubt, words can hurt.

But what we don’t say can often hurt us every bit as much. Unfortunately, as you read this, lovers all over the world are having unnecessarily bad sex all because of words they’re not saying.

Words like, “Honey, not so hard.” Or perhaps, “Can you move a little to the left?” Or quite possibly the worst phrase of all to overlook, “I think we could use a little lube.”

I’m making light of it, to be sure, but honestly, I still feel the best way to dial up a sex life is through talk. I’m not suggesting getting into a discourse on the pros and cons of ratifying Kyoto or anything, but rather, an interactive discussion on whether things are working or not. But let’s come back to that.

I recently received a happy package in the mail from my Secret Santa. In it was a copy of the Better Sex Series on DVD. This was Volume One: Advanced Sexual techniques and Positions.

Now, personally, I didn’t find there was anything really new in the DVD, but I really was glad to watch it. I’ll be keeping it around. It may come in handy with a future lover. It’s a “how to” video that explains a whole lot about sex, and I think it’d probably be useful for any new or even intermediate couple. It echoes a lot of things I’ve always believed.

There was a lot of great information included, everything from how every person’s body will respond differently to stimulation, to the uniqueness of different cocks and vaginas, and a myriad of useful position and technique advice. Great stuff.

It also highlighted the necessity of communication. The program’s participants appear to be real couples who occasionally suck at acting (in that they’re just trying too hard to say the lines right) but they sure as hell have it going on in bed. The couples talk on-screen about aspects of their sex lives correlating to whatever topic might be showing at any given time, from cunnilingus to come, and then you see snippets of them getting it on in rather elegant, if sparse, and nicely lit surroundings, illustrating how hot their sex really is.

(An assumption one might draw if they excelled in naivety would be along the lines of, “Dude, they talked about it and then, whammo! They had frickin’ hot sex! Talking is HOT, dude!”)

There are scenes, though, that illustrate beautifully what kind of dialogue can be used to really spice up your relationship. How? It’ll give you a roadmap for your partner’s pleasure zones. Here’s some questions I think ought to be asked in these scenarios, and some are variations of ones asked in the DVD:

“How do you like having your clit rubbed?”
“What part of your cock is the most sensitive?”
“Is there something I don’t do that you wish I did?”
“What part of your body do you think needs more attention?”
“What do I do that you like the most?”
"What do you like the least?"
“When’s your favourite time to have sex?”
“Please tell me when I’m doing something that doesn’t feel right.”
“I wish we could keep doing this longer...”

You obviously can surmise that having information on any of the above questions would give you a little more insight into your lover. I mean, haven’t you ever had that experience where, when you were younger, you had certain beliefs (political, ethical, spiritual, philosophical, whatever) and you happened upon a book that somehow encapsulated everything you ever believed, and you suddenly just had this totally invigorated worldview?

Not everyone knows that feeling, but I do, and those that do, I bet they know what I’m saying here. If, say, you have an inkling that the way you tickle your lover’s anus when you’re making out, playing naked in bed, but it’s one of those sorta odd taboos you’ve never really spoken about, so it’s almost like a guilty little pleasure when you sneak a little tweak for kicks, right?

But let’s say it finally comes up in conversation. They somehow look up at you, all abashed, and guiltily confess, “I gotta say, I get so, so, so hot whenever you do that thing to my ass, but I’ve been too embarrassed to admit it... and I’d like a little more.”

One little statement, that’s all it takes. I couldn’t care less if assplay is a notion that gets you off or not, but you see my point. Confess your desires, inquire as to theirs, and start fulfilling them. What part of this is so hard to understand?

Not much, I gather. It’s just hard to do. At first. One day, you just come to realize that being vulnerable may get you a little more hurt more often, but wow, the dividends it pays in most of your life is frickin’ killer -- especially when it comes to sex. You’ll find that the more you open up, the more you will be rewarded in kind. When that happens, a synergy starts to build between you. There’s something there, more tangible, more open, more adventurous. It’s like you’re finally receiving permission to act.

What’s more, it’ll start spilling out into other areas of your life. You’ll feel more comfortable being open. It takes a while to find the right people who are receptive to it, but once you do, then you need to find a way to get them talking.

And if you can’t get them talking, then at least try to get them to watch something like the Better Sex series. There is help out there, kids. It’s a matter of finding it.

Beyond Fat Girls

Labbie wrote a piece about weight and self-image recently. I enjoyed it. Then, later the same morning, I was watching my previously-taped episode of “Rescue Me” in which firefighters, Probie Mike and Sean, are making their way up the stairs to the flame-filled fifth floor, talking about a recent date, which ended in the Probie getting laid with this apparently model-thin chick.

“It was like her hips were cutting into me,” he said, continuing, “I’m afraid to get on top of her. It’s like I hear this cracking sound or something.”

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I’m part of the bonus-lover plan. Yeah, I’m carrying extra, for sure. I’m told “I wear it well” and for the first time, I believe them, most of the time. But I do know I’m cute, at the very least. I’ve got punky short light hair and green eyes with a sly grin, and I’m pretty comfortable with myself when I put an effort into lookin’ like a cutie. And hey, I even get a little approval streetside.

I’ve written before about overcoming insecurities in order to love yourself for who you are. It’s been a long road for me. I was always very sexual, but I never really believed it about myself until the past three or so years. This year, though, has been the year of the my greatest emergence. I am what I am now, and I know it. The journey has been a long and interesting one, the journey of becoming sexual, not just seeming sexual. It’s fabulous.

My weight always held me back. I always tried to say the right things. I always tried to toe the line and be the proper chick, so I wouldn’t offend too many people. I played it safe. One day, I realized that I felt like a fake, and I started saying exactly what was on my mind. I stopped appeasing everyone. I slowly started to work on my self-image. Simple things, like trying a new kind of clothing, pushing myself in physical exercise, losing a little of the weight, talking to someone seemingly out of my league. There are days I forget how to be the Better Steff, days I forget about being the strong, proud, sassy chick I know I am. It happens. But it always passes, too. I suspect, however, that there’s something universal about that.

The biggest part of my transformation came from finally accepting myself for what I am, but more importantly, realizing that my faults and weaknesses weren’t nearly as sizeable as I had feared. I learned to look at myself as someone on the street might; if I met that woman, how would I judge her? Not nearly so harshly, I thought.

In finally being open enough to talk about my body image with the guys I have seen or considered in that way, I realized that the men I’d found seemed to nurture a very different impression about weight on a woman. They felt exactly as Mike the Probie would -- that a woman with a few extra pounds was someone you could play a little more roughly with, someone you didn’t have to worry about harming if things might escalate a bit between you.

Soon, I realized something great: The thing that I always thought held me back in the bedroom was the thing bringing me exactly the kind of physicality I enjoyed -- sometimes rough, always unrestrained.

It’s interesting how perspective can alter your enjoyment of something, but there’s an incredible shift that occurs when you really begin to embrace yourself in your lover’s presence.

I think this is part of the dilemma that lays behind the number one complaint I hear from women -- their inability to orgasm at all, or the difficulties faced when eventually achieving one. We’re so wrapped up in our body images, trapped in our insecurities, concerned with public perception, and inundated with the pressure to come, that we just can’t enjoy sex. It takes years for women to get past this shit, and I personally believe that it’s why we do not peak sexually until the average age of 32.

I happen to now be 32. If any of my friends had known the kind of sex I was already having in my early 20s, their perception of me would have been wildly different. In that regard, I was definitely advanced for my age.

I began having bondage with sex at the relatively young age of 19. I had sex in very, very public places the first time at the age of 18. By the age of 21, I had no qualms having sex in a semi-public private room where anyone could walk in without warning (but I’m secretly glad they never did). Voyeurism, for me, was a two-way street, and I liked to travel on it. All that said, though, and I still never really embraced my sexuality until this year, my 32nd.

Sex, for me now, is better than it has ever been -- and not because of my lovers, but because of the roles I’m willing to play, the brazenness I bring to the bedroom, because of my changed perspective. My god, had I even begun to suspect it would be like this, I’d have ditched those insecurities years ago.

The rewards of youth aren’t nearly as great as we’ve all been led to believe. Sex improves with age, despite the hundreds of millions of dollars the pharmaceutical industry spends to make you believe otherwise. Sex isn’t just about hard cocks and screaming orgasms. It’s the one language that transcends geography. It’s an otherworldy experience you can share where you need nothing but skin and sweat and stamina. We’re so hung up on needing to be hard, needing to come, that we’ve forgotten everything that happens in between -- the places in which our mouths can linger and toy; the dexterity and flexibility of the hand; the thrill of warm, sweaty skin against our own; the scores of peaks and valleys found in that symphony of gasps and moans.

With age and maturity and realism, we’re able to begin letting go of those hang-ups. When we allow ourselves the freedom of being beautiful to that one person, we find ourselves experiencing things we never thought we’d feel. And that, that’s the ultimate goal to have in any sexual relationship: the absolute ability to lose all apprehensions and fear, the evolution of trust and willingness.

If only it were that easy. It’s hard. Very. But the reward is worth the struggle. Oh, so very.

A Nibble Here, A Bite There...

Food and sex, two of my favourite things. The two, really. Perhaps I’m secretly male. Maybe a hermaphrodite. The Caramilk secret of Steff. Who knows.

Anyhow, suffice to say that I don’t really get into porn, so I settle for Food TV. Oh, my freakin’ god, the goodness. Tonight’s a good Food TV night, and since I’m sexually frustrated and sort of on a diet, it just makes sense. I have a couple observations to make.

One. I was watching a pissy British cooking show, and I was marvelling at the importance of communication in the kitchen. If a chef wants to successfully pull off a night of cooking that results in totally satiating his clientele, then he absolutely must do a few things well. First off, he really needs to know how to season. He’s got to keep it just spicy enough. He needs to know how to control the temperature; when to kill the heat and bring her to a simmer. He needs to engage in conversation when necessary in order to know exactly what’s going on in all regions of his domain. I won't insult your intelligence by explaining the commonalities between a good chef and a good lover. You can do the math.

Two. There are as many kinds of restaurants as there are breeds of sex.

• For starters, the slow’n’easy ones that cater to all your little desires and never, ever rush you.
• Then there are the always-safe, purely utilitarian fast food restaurants where you get in there quick’n’dirty, like one of the masses, and when you’re through, it may not set your heart afire, but it whetted your appetite and you will have gotten exactly what you were expecting.
• Don't forget the avant garde, with the crowds who follow the trends and seem to be around for a while before fading back into the masses, something for a time, and good while it lasted, and definitely always interesting, but somehow never really real.
• Then there are the ones that leave you stunned at their constant reliability and seeming perfection. They’re the pinstripe suit of the restaurant industry; always classy, always fulfilling, always reliable, and always safe, but in a reasonably good and comfortable way.
• And who doesn't love the exotic? The ones that take you to a place you’ve really only read about, who tap you into a different culture and a different flavour, in every sense of the word. The ones that leave you somehow feeling just a little more cosmopolitan because you’re there then.
• Who says you can't go home? There are the down-home, c’mon-in-and-sit-awhile establishments that keep you feeling like yes, I really can go home and thank god, I can leave. It’s good for awhile, but then you remember why you left in the first place. Something different was necessary.
• Finally, there are my favourite, the unassuming ones you always have your suspicions about, but leave you utterly surprised at how masterful they are, even in their simplicity. They’re the quiet, out-of-the-way ones with a casual, confident appearances that belie the full intensity of their real deal.

It’s a beautiful world of flavours out there, and I unfortunately have far too great of appreciation for each.

My, I wish I was doing a little dining this evening. Well, ironically, I could have been, but as geared to go as I may be, I absolutely know I'd let myself down. It's called honesty. ;) A smart night in.

Taking a Moment: A Quickie Posting

It's a Sunday afternoon, and instead of being on my ass at home or out in the world, I'm at the office. Not "the" office, really, since I'm just helping stop the Christmas bleeding for the goodly folk who owned my ass for five years, but still, here I am.

Last night was the annual Christmas party for their staff, which entails copious alcohol and fabulous food. Last night? Oysters, lobster. Precisely what to give an undersexed sex writer: An aphrodisiac. I so thank you for the added frustrations.

Add to that, I spent the night with a gay man. My best friend, GayBoy, and I crashed at his loverman's pad after too much drinking.

I laid there on the Ikea couch, staring at the citylight pouring through the horizontal blinds, the lines of light playing on the cieling, and thought about earlier in the night...

My recent endeavours writing about smut has become a popular conversational topic among people I'm catching up with, and last night was no different. Sex became the evening's topic, and naturally, when I was out on the sidewalk with some of the boys, talking, they proceeded to let me know about the men's washroom in the oyster bar.

"The Centipede" became the most-talked-about piece of art -- a black & white abstract close-up of a woman's vagina. It turns out there were more than a half-dozen or so close-ups of vaginas in all their assorted beauty (eye/beholder) adorning the men's washroom's walls.

And in the ladies' room? Pictures of squid. Oysters. Other seafood.

So, this begs the question: Where is our equality, huh?

Not that I'm saying I really needed any additional sexual frustration last night, but I'm a little baffled how a supposedly upscale place in one of the posher neighbourhoods in downtown Vancouver gets away with seafood in one washroom, and nicely done porn in the other?

It's an interesting statement about men, particularly the autographed, framed photo of a porn star / stripper named Portia, inscribed, presumably, to the owner of the establishment. It read, "Shaz -- I'm sorry to hear about your upcoming wedding. I was so looking forwards to riding your hard cock."

Naturally, the boys insisted they play guard and keep the coast clear long enough for me to go and soak in the ambiance of the boys' room. It was great for a laugh, and goes to show how divided the sexes are still. To each their own.

The guys I was with, one gay, one whipped, and one probably bi- (any guy who can belt out an Ethel Merman impression about a credit card has no goddamned right claiming to be heterosexual), all claimed they found the "art" a little disconcerting.

Either way, I could care less. I don't think there's anything wrong with it. Yeah, maybe it objectifies women, but you show me one fucking thing that doesn't, honey, and you got better eyes than me. Fodder for dialogue, that's all.

Now, I see nothing really wrong here, but what do you all think about it? Does it make an interesting statement about the sexes today?

The Saga of J: Part Three

Well. It's been a few months in the offing, but here it is. The next installment of The Saga of J. (GayBoy and WhippedBoy, do NOT pass "Go". It's one of those postings.)

I've had a lot of people on my case about this one. Honestly, it was hard to write. I must've started it a dozen times. In the end, it's written in a completely different voice. It had to be. This was this experience that essentially transformed me sexually.

You can read part one here, and part two, here. You'd be a fool to start here.

So, without ado... By the way, part four? Partially written, but don't hold your breath. Probably two weeks or so. Not three months. It's down to time, now, not inspiration/approach, which is a good thing.
_________________
bound and blind. an auspicious start? perhaps, but for a newcomer to the biz like i’d been then, it was daunting and unnerving.

j. had left some minutes before. the music playing now had switched off from the familiar depeche mode to something more stripped down and bare, demonstrative of the position i found myself in, bare, sedate, and throbbing ever so gently.

periodically, in my manmade darkness, a clatter or a thump could be heard from the kitchen down the hall from where i lay. from what i could tell, he was rummaging through the cupboards for... things. food, perhaps. what else, i had no idea.

it was all so new, so mystifying, and now, so teasingly delayed. my nerves began to taunt me a little. if trust had ever been an issue, now wasn’t the time to think about it. i couldn’t have done a thing in my defense. my ankles, bound. my wrists, bound.

a scent was wafting towards me. a candle, perhaps? some mockery of strawberry, a suggestion of vanilla. aside from that, i had nothing to go on, thanks to the blindfold.

then, a padding of feet and a creaking of hardwood. “miss me?”

“well...” i muttered. “what else is there to do?” i grinned.

thunk. clatter, rattle. he set something down on the bedside table, next to where my head lay. it sounded like a tray with... maybe some dishes? nonetheless, a mix of sounds that told me one thing: there was more in store than i could know at this point. my mind began spinning through possibilities but was soon interrupted by a feathery finger tracing across my jaw. it dallied up over my chin and traipsed over my lips.

“it’s okay,” he whispered. “everything’s just fine. remember... i’ll stop any time you want. just say the word. do you want me to stop?”

i shook my head. deep down inside, stopping now seemed easier... wiser. but, oh, that curiosity niggling inside me. what would he do? there was just one way to find out. and now, it seemed i would do just that.

or would i? nothing was happening. silence, except for that dirty throbbing little bassline thumping in the background.

then, something cold, wet. a drop on my torso. something cold, moist, ever-so-slightly bristly, and curved was tracing up my belly, over my chest, then stopped on the edge of my lips.

“open,” he whispered, and i did. j teased it over my lips before placing it in my mouth. irregularly shaped and bristly all over, i cautiously sank my teeth into it. then... ooh, juicy. sweet. delicious. what is that, i pondered. chewing, i tasted a little more... oh, strawberry. a beautifully ripened strawberry. i smiled and swallowed, my apprehensions beginning to melt away.

until now, my body was as restrained internally as it was externally. i relaxed and shifted for comfort, at first, then for the tease. my legs fell into a slightly more open, available angle. yep, i thought, this could be all right after all.

( t o    b e    c o n t i n u e d )

( y o u   k n o w    i ' m   a   w h o r e   f o r   c o m m e n t s ,   r i g h t ? )

Words, words, words: To Speak or Not to Speak?

At 1:27 am I turned the television off and found myself alone in the dark. It had been a long time since I'd last just sat there in that darkness, that silence. The day had been long, frenetic, and while good as a whole, was the kind of day that prevents you from getting the shit that needs doing done.

Suddenly, silence. Calm. Through my large sliding glass doors, the clouds have that murky coral-tinted charcoal look of a dreary winter night. But the city behind that glass is absolutely silent.

Know that old joke, why do you keep hitting yourself in the head with a hammer? Because it feels so good when it stops, the guy responds. This was one of those moments. The throbbing concussive pain that has been my life of late had momentarily ceased to be.

My head-hitting has all been of the cerebral sort, though, of late. My mind’s been in overdrive and I’ve had no outlet for it. I’ve actually been writing some of late, I should confess. It’s been the literary equivalent of the quickie. Fast’n’dirty, when time permits. Stolen moments, hoarded words.

I’ve yet to go back and read any of it. Tomorrow, today rather, is a day off. My plans include laziness and self-indulgence, perhaps self-pleasure. That’s a double-entendre, kids, since sitting around and reading your own work is about as intellectually masturbatory as anything can get.

I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching about this sex writing gig of late, folks. I’ve had cause to do so. A recent opportunity arose in which I could try to do a certain quantity of writing in a certain form for certain people who happened to be of a certain religious persuasion. The opportunity would essentially mean I would receive a stipend weekly, with guidance provided in order to aid me in being completely self-sufficient (read: no more corporate whoring) over the next year. The only stipulation? Certain envelopes being pushed would constitute my possibly being uninvited from the party, and the cash cow going bye-bye. (IE: Big Brother and censorship rear their ugly heads once again.)

For a few days, I held off on writing or posting on here, the very politically incorrect "Cunt," because I wanted to toe that line. I wasn’t sure whether it was in search of simply getting money for doing what I wanted to do, or simply “holding back” with the same goal in mind. Holding back, I can handle that, I thought. It’s not like I really take it all that far, I thought.

Or do I?

But in the last couple days, I’ve woken the fuck up. I can’t toe a line. It’s hypocritical. Shit, man, I can’t even get within a sidewalk’s breadth of that line, dude. How ass-backward would that be?

Pretty goddamned, I’d say.

I think the biggest thing wrong in North American relationships today is our almost Puritanical approach to talking about anything sexual. We have so many hang-ups and inhibitions when it comes to sex. We got to get past this, people.

We refuse to talk about it. Or most people do, that is. It’s shunned. We talk about things surrounding sex -- the flirtation, the outfits, the seduction, the wining'n'dining, the commitment, the logistics -- but never the nitty gritty, the real stuff that affects us on an individual level.

Face it, the whole notion of sex conversation tends to be along the lines of the boring and uninvestigative, like, “Do you like that?” You know what rule number one in the world of journalism is? Never, ever ask a question which can be answered with a simple “Yes” or “No.” If you want to know your interview subject, you always, always investigate for long, thorough answers.

You’re trying to bring your partner the best pleasure they can possibly experience, and all you’ll ask is “Do you like that?” Jesus. And people wonder what’s wrong with sex today? Worse yet, even today there are a lot of women who will NOT even ask their man if they’re likin’ it. That's a whole other issue that I just won't address right now.

The human body isn’t one-size-fits-all. It’s complicated. We need to talk to each other. You wanna improve your sex life? TALK to your partner. Get to know what’s working and what’s not. Asking’s the only way to do it.

Be a scientist. Gather evidence. Learn. Study the subject in as many conditions as you can. Experiment. Document your findings. Verify. Rinse. And repeat.

So, then, I ask you: How could I possibly live with myself if I began to censor myself just for a meagre stipend so early in this game?

Throw a few more digits at me, though, and maybe we’ll talk. For now, no whoring’s good enough for me. Hand me that megaphone, will you? And go talk to your lover.

I’ll have a few more things to say about conversations regarding sex in the near future, a couple examples of ways to go about doing that, for those who are a little awkward on just how to find out what’s really working. It's so damned important.

Lazy Days of Lovin' Tip #1

Call me old-fashioned, but I think there's few finer ways to spend a Sunday than staying home, closing the blinds, and makin' sweet love all the day long. In honour of Sundays, this simple tip:

One of the easy things to do to make a night or day of bedroom sports better and longer is to plan ahead. Before your lover arrives for the hijinks, put a few bottles of water next to the bed, and a couple nice crystal glasses, if you like that kind of touch.

Me, I'm a pragmatic gal. I like sticking to bottles. No spillage. Very utilitarian. And fewer dishes. I know, I'm a thinker. Sheer brilliance, really.

(It's slightly more subtle, ergo more romantic, if you put obvious displays of fortification out of sight, guys. But gals, oddly, a guy might get a kick out of knowing you plan to be there for awhile, so leaving the bottles / glasses visible for him may just get him friskier. Note the emphasis. It ain't a certainty. I put mine away. I don't need any added advantages, anyhow. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.)

A Note from the Management

It's been a crazy week and I haven't had the time to write lately, but I tell you, I am bursting at my seams to do so.

I plan to make an extra good pot of coffee in the morning, settle in, and write. There's a few different things I may tackle in the next week or so: An ode to the always-fun quickie, some thoughts on porn, a review of a how-to-be-a-better-lover sex guide DVD, and a couple other shall-remain-unspoken notions.

Sigh. I've missed writing. Life's been chaotic, but I took the time to clean my desk yesterday, and that's always a great way to induce the will to write. Now, I need the time. Love a good, quiet Friday morning.

Thanks for your patience. Soon, the games shall resume. Fun, fun, fun. For now, off to work. Mmf. By bus, even. We've entered that 8-week period where riding the scooter becomes an exercise in self-mutilation as you toy with sub-zero temps and their windchill factors in the bitter fucking cold. So, rather than expose myself to sadomasochistic tendencies on a daily basis, I will take the lesser of the evil pills and hop on the bus with my iPOD on full blast. For once, being one of the masses isn't too terrible.

And it's really, really good fodder for writing. I've been in a rut. The rut's been shook. Thank frickin' god. Anyhow, like I said: Work. Speaking of necessary evils, and without ado... Thanks again for all the positivity and the mushy shit that comes with. How cool is that.