MMA

I just need to express how damn sexy it is to be thrown around in martial arts practice.

I think if more women knew what was going on in their local dojo, they'd be in there like squirrels on a nut farm.

First off, mostly guys are there, like everything I do; girls get cred just for showing up, and eyed without really being eyed, because that's not cool in that setting.

It's a fucking good workout. You sweat 'til your upper lip drips, and it hurts the next day, if you were doing it right.

Some of the guys have put a lot of time into their art and have strength, presence and confidence that's not immediately apparent but shows up on the mats. I always like learning to see more than first meets my eye.

And then, if you're doing any jiu jitsu, you're practicing some pretty close grappling that approximates hugging and sexual positions pret-ty closely. But you only need to watch one octagon round to figure that out.

Very, very hot, in that way that doing intimate things in a completely different context (like with strangers, and great respect, in public), is super hot.

For me, most of all, it's the power I feel in being picked up (embraced), and thrown (flipped on my back) and controlled (conquered). Meow. Just slightly better than being able to do the same to a man who's bigger and heavier than I am, with the right leverage. Butterfly guard...

Into full mount. Hell ya.

In which I ask a rhetorical, unanswerable question:

Why do girls take this shit?

My girl is wrapped up with a guy who’s the right age on paper, but an absolute child on the inside. His tantrums are so juvenile I can’t even remember because the logic won’t flow.

Hang on, he threw a fit, slammed off to bed saying he wasn’t talking to you, and then he was upset the next morning that you went to your friend’s house without telling him, because he wishes you spent more time with him? Wait, what? Oh, you should have left a note? Really?

He’s got the usual symptoms: doesn’t feel deserving or up to being in a grownup relationship, but is too cowardly to bow out. He’s trying to force her to kick him out. He’s got mommy issues and doesn’t grasp the concept of paying a bill on time. He believes no one will ever love him, and he’s doing his damnedest to prove it’s true.

He works himself into a froth trying to get her to engage in the scrap du jour, but if she tells him she loves him and nothing’s wrong, shrugs it off, and keeps living her life, he will eventually reach You don't care about me, I’m leaving you! histrionics (because if she did, she would tell him to leave???), and drive off with a great screeching of tires. With half of his stuff. For about an hour.

Then he returns, grovels in shame and “understanding”; promises to never do it again. Rinse and repeat. Twice weekly.

Too bad he’s pretty darn cute. And useful around the house, when he feels like it. Although, that doesn’t go too far when he’s buying beer and smokes every day but has never paid the rent on time. Hmm, Offspring songs are busting unbidden to mind. He stomps around in a cloud all day, withholds sex, and throws furniture. It’s so weird, too, the way he’s playing the feminine role in so many ways. You don’t pay enough attention to me. You’re sleeping on the couch. You never tell me you love me. Isn’t that the girl’s line?

She’s tired. She’s numb. She lets him roll through his cycle, halfheartedly trying to divine what he’s really trying to accomplish through the whole process, although she thinks she’s tried everything. When he says he’s leaving, now she says Yes please. But he comes back, because he never meant to leave in the first place, he was just saying that. She’s so worn from being berated she needs a week’s sleep in order to see clearly.

I’m sick to death of this little shit, but of course I’m not with him. I’ve had my own mistakes. But I think if I were her I would have turfed him long ago in this process, and she hasn’t.

Why, oh why, do women endure this kind of life-shortening bullshit?

In praise of the guys we’d fuck in a hot second if no one would ever know. Ever.

But since that’s impossible, we don’t. The truth always sneaks out. He’s gotta brag to someone, and they tell someone, hey, guess what Joe told me, he has to be bullshitting, and next you know a guy who plays hockey with the guy you’ve kinda liked for four years but you’ve both never been single at the same time is blurting out Hey you know that chick...heard she hooked up with...at the bar after practice and your life is over.

But if we could....
I’d fuck my mechanic. He’s skinny and abrasive and smokes and his hands will never be clean, but he’s got the attitude of an assassin and the blunt manners of a woman-hating trucker. And that is somehow attractive.

The old man who sells me eggs off the family farm who has the body, posture, eyes and agility of a man 30 years younger. Wisdom and prowess are sexy.

The shy guy at the gym who’s attractive but so shy he keeps working hard on himself but fears speaking to women. You just know that giving him an inch of attention would turn him into the worst kind of desperate, clinging, soppy stalker. Miles of pain.

The deadbeat guy who just got out of jail, doesn't have a job, is in his thirties without a thing going for him, but has a gladiator’s body, a rich, rolling laugh and a baritone voice with a quick wit and bold, smiling eyes. I could see my legs around his waist, but it’ll never happen.

The fat guy who covers his insecurity and preempts mock by putting himself on the end of some of the jokes he produces in a steady stream. Smart, funny, hardworking guy, lots to give, kind, generous. Unsuitable in the extreme. Can’t do it.

The scruffy dirtball contractor who’d go to the bar in his workclothes, with a smile so wide it bursts out his eyes, whose hugs are so transparently desperate, flirtatious, and hopeless at the same time. Sexy despite his body skinny from drinking, teeth ruined by tobacco, unwashed hair and beard. He epitomizes “will stick it in anything he can”, and all he probably gets are young/stupid/wasted girls (pick any two). But there’s a real appreciation of women there, and a flicker of hope of someday catching the attention of a good one. If no one would ever know, I’d kiss him like I loved him and give him the night of his life, but it’s impossible.

Randy Couture. Oh, wait a second... wrong list.

What does this say about sexual selection? So two of them might be pity fucks but those can still knock you up. All these guys are absolutely terrible options for hunter-gatherer pair bonding. Isn’t that where our most primitive urges are supposed to come from? Will. protect. child. Hunt. mammoth. WTF?

Sk8r lust

I still call it Sk8r lust because of the first time I understood this concept like a flash of light: I didn’t want the boy on the skateboard, I wanted the skateboard.

In my younger days, a glimpse of almost any guy on a skate would seize me with a raw and desperate wanting in my chest.

Even full of hormones and vague, scattershot lust, I knew that there was something next level about how strongly I could feel for a guy on 4 wheels, click click click along a sidewalk, gliding to airborne out of a pipe, practicing something new in the park with stubborn intensity. Hair tumbling over a forehead beaded with sweat, eyes bright with awareness, legs and arms long and sinuous with fine balance muscles, ubiquitously loose clothes that would bounce up exposing lean and rigid lower backs and ripped bellies ... oh, how skaters stopped me in my tracks.

That power, that balance, that refined skill that only comes from long disciplined practice. In just seconds I’d be overcome with something stronger than love, much stronger than my common sense. I knew that intensity of feeling was dangerous. And I knew it couldn’t be true, either. The skateboard was incidental- that could be any guy- sweet, shy, asshole, egotist, who knew?

I’m surprised it took me so long, but I still remember exactly where I was when I realized that I didn’t want to be WITH the guys on the skateboard at all. I wanted to BE them. There was something they had, and I wanted it.

I never became very accomplished on a skateboard, but I did in another sport, and I got there. The skater lust faded as I gained confidence, power, respect, technical skill and the success that comes from the grinding, painful, persistent and solitary practice. Then hockey player lust followed sk8r lust, until I got to be a good enough player myself to go in the corners with the boys.

That stab of want that’s far beyond the context or merit of an individual still pops up at times. A guy will capture my imagination and I’ll desire to be a part of him with an intensity that I recognize: “sk8r lust”. Now I know the question to ask: What is it about him that I want for myself?

How to dance with girls who love to dance

A tutorial. Note: this is not "how to dance with drunk tramps". This is how to dance with one of the other girls.

I love to dance. I love to dance expressively, and sexy, and to share my appreciation of the music with likeminded men who also love to dance.

However, there are so many ways that guys fuck up when they try to dance with chicks. I get it, you want to express non-verbally you’re attracted to her, and you want to get her attention quick, before another guy does. Still, there’s a right way and a wrong way.

The Wrong Way:

Grabbing. This is not an opening move! Do NOT grab her hips, or her hands, or especially her waist, when she is in full dance stride. This is disruptive, throws her off balance, and is supremely irritating! I immediately hate anyone who breaks my groove like this. Your attention is not important to me when I’m going off. Dancing with abandon is.

Yelling. Usually follows grabbing, and consists of spewing a cloud of beery breath at her face or ear along with a few brilliant words like “You’re really hot”, “What’s your name?”, “Great party, eh?”, or the best “Looks like you’re really enjoying yourself.” I was, motherfucker, now get the fuck away from me. I don’t care how cute you are. Do. Not. Interrupt me with your pearls of wit while some hot dubstep is raging.

Grinding. Otherwise known as invading personal space, or the Night at the Roxbury move. Your feet are not welcome between my feet, I do not want your sweaty body to come in contact with mine, and my ass does not want to meet your crotch. That’s invitation only. I’ve had guys sneak up behind me (and that did take some skill), coming hip hop close without touching, until I discovered them there with an accidental brush. I punched a guy once in fury at this ass ambush. This also covers hopping up on the speaker with her. No! She looks best on the speaker by herself. You’re only cramping her style up there and no one wants to see you. Admire from a short distance.

Getting in her face. Do not be the only guy facing away from the dj, planting yourself in front of her to show off your sweet moves, thrashing wildly with a big grin, often combined with talking, often featuring hip-thrusting. That’s invitation-only too. Especially do not follow her if she moves away from you. She’s moving away from you. You fail.

The Right Way:

Move beside her so you can catch her eye and smile and nod at her, wordLESSly implying “great track, great dancing, I love this too”. Watch for eye contact, watch slyly for her to check you out. If she doesn’t leave or turn away, STAY THERE. Move no closer. Dance your best. It really doesn’t matter if you’re a shitty dancer if you’re enjoying yourself.

When there’s a lull (there always is, eventually), turn, look her full in the eyes, offer her water, and bust the best line you’ve come up with in that time (you’ve had time to think it over). Try complimenting a specific feature of her looks or dress. “I like your necklace/boots/nail polish”. You can also start conversation if you grab her walking by. But try to say something not totally generic. Use something that indicates you've at least registered her hair colour.

Dance again. Be patient. If she doesn’t leave now, touch her accidentally. Wait for smiles, for eye contact, before advancing. Then edge a little closer. If she retreats, back off.

The first time you touch her deliberately should be really tentative, easy to escape, like gently touching her waist or hip for a moment. Not both hands from behind. That just tells her you’re considering doggy-style.

Follow her lead, be it leaning into you, turning towards you, or grabbing your hand. If she retreats, back off. If she’s into you and you back off when she does, she’ll come right back, and probably touch you. If she really starts dancing like crazy, give her room to do so.

For extra points (huge bonus), shield her from the other guys. Block the drunk thrasher with a wry shrug and eyeroll (“some dudes have no control”), put your arm around her and give the guy a “have some respect” look if she gets suddenly molested by a hip thruster, move subtly between her and the creepy teethgrinder who keeps staring at her. Do that and you’ve got it made. That implies not only some sobriety but awareness of her vulnerability, and lets her know that you’re not one of those guys.

If you’ve got smile and eye-contact go-aheads and you’ve gently touched her arm, back, or waist, then during the next lull, ask her name with a comment about how sexy and special she is, or even how great it is be dancing with such a hottie who’s such a good dancer. Then you can go for the eye-locked, hips moving together, focused on each other dancing, and let it get as hot as you can.

You may notice that this whole process could take a long time, and the key principle is to let it happen. This is right and good. There’s time. The shotgun method doesn’t get anyone anywhere with any quality women. That’s what everyone is doing to her, and you want to distinguish yourself. You want to be the only guy there who doesn’t grab her ass, invade her space, and attack her with bullshit lines.

Pick a girl and focus on her for a bit. If she tolerates you dancing by her, likes your vibe, and appreciates you being respectful, then the very least you’ll get is a hot session of dancing, being the center of her attention, and feeling like the man. If she doesn’t like you, you’ll know pretty fast anyways.

I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the guy who appears beside me who I know is attracted to me, but waits patiently and doesn’t touch me or talk to me. Sounds counter-intuitive, but I’ll be so thrilled to not be beseiged that I’ll be the one to talk first and pick up his hand to put it around my waist. I loooove those guys, that seem to understand. They’re few and far between, and I show my appreciation.

They just keep staying the same age...

Here’s one that didn’t get away.

We were working together, struggling with something ornery, when I noticed him staring at me over our hands. I looked back into his grey-green eyes, and I started to fall into something unknown that I wasn’t going to say no to.

Totally off my radar before that eyelock- shorter, younger, stockier, quieter than I would ever notice. Not especially hot, although he became the sexiest guy imaginable to me. He had a knack for keeping me talking, asking me questions until I found myself telling him things I hadn’t told for a long time, catching myself babbling like a brook. I put my number in his phone; he brought me to his house.

How he undid me. Lifting me up onto his cock in the hotel hot tub we snuck into, steam dripping from his hair. Leaning against the wall in his tiny shower, pretend fucking since we’d already worn ourselves out. Dancing together, he so drunk his eyes were half closed, but still flipping my shirt up to expose my belly, popping my belt, and dropping to his knees to suck on the top of my underwear. On the dance floor! And I didn’t care who saw. Paying for me, buying me drinks and dinners automatically and non-negotiably. Even though I’m the older one, I felt cared for, sheltered. Unwaveringly attentive to me in public, never flinching from claiming me as his babe, no matter what scrawny tween blonds were near.

His short, solid stockiness was a new kind of muscle for me. He had great strength that he wasn’t afraid to use, confidently and suddenly tossing me where he wanted. His smile, only showing his irregular teeth when he was really happy, was a blessing, something I would strive to produce. He couldn’t hide his dimples, though, that melted me with the slightest smirk. Pure sweetness, good to the core. I was gazing into his eyes exclaiming why are they so beautiful and he laughed and said as though it should’ve been obvious “It’s my soul!”

Fucking on the couch, my knee up over his shoulder, him crushing me into the cushion gap with his body so tight I was still, crying and unable to even gasp in the slow, constant, soul-splitting orgasm that just went on and on, my pussy clutching him as he stared into me, barely moving and watching me intently. Fucking on the floor, overjoyed with his drunk-to-immobile state and commanding him to surrender, taking charge for the first time and fucking and sucking him into a big, wet, shuddering orgasm.

He said more with his eyes and hands than words, any day, although I hoard the short phrases he let slip, funny, wry, clipped wit, full of affection. He didn’t talk unless he had to, and touched me with appreciation tinged with entitlement, not gratitude. I kept being amazed that a guy so young could have confidence so strong, and be so solid on his own path. Not to mention the knowledge. The same dirty joyous abandon I’ve sought since first finding it in Ezra, with a sly knowing and teasing. His eyes were curious yet aware of and amused by what he was doing to me. It was hopeless for me to describe to him how rare that degree of good sex was for me, so I didn’t try. Just like Ezra, Im not so sure sex isn’t always like that for him.

I can’t stop with the hyperbole with this one. Cutest boy on the planet. Best sex I’ve ever had with a condom. Sexiest eyes ever. He ruined me. I’m well aware that the 13 year age gap was wildly inappropriate to the point of creepy, and that we were just borrowing time out of reason together, but he widened my range and set a new bar, now I know that such sexuality and sweetness can come wrapped in such an unlikely package. Now I check out guys that are relative children, looking for another one of him, before I stop myself, mentally resetting -“yes, one of him, but my age!”.

It was so impossible, so not based in reality, that I let myself go without hesitation, loving him insanely and letting him know. From the very first day I knew what the last day would be, when my time was up in his town, and I knew I’d be letting him go forever the day I left, to live his life with girls his own age. Still, it hurt so bad to leave, and hurts to remember him. I want him as much today as then, and I can’t have him. It’s so painful to not be with him that it’s hard to think about him, even though it was so good. To not be able to have more maybe made the moment even sweeter, but now it’s passed it’s hard to relive it, and I don’t fantasize about him. It’s only fun to want things that you can imagine are possible.

Missed connections

An ode to the ones who got away:

You know, the pass on the street, the look back, when you smile together in a queue at the same subtle people-observing joke, eye each other across a restaurant, or even talk....

I remember these, sometimes, forever. I love these men, these moments, the stab of eye contact/recognition that is full of promise and potential. Just passing through certain towns or streets revives the memory of a missed chance. I’m not sure which is sweeter- the poignancy of lost potential or the fear-filled moment of breaking the tension and finding out.

Last seen in....
Banff; the tall guy with eyes that burned into me through the booze, who seized me from behind in a quick one-armed bear hug and sang one line of the Clash song into my ear, who I longed to kiss boldly, then stagger drunkenly away from the bar with, absorb his desire and fear.

Calgary; the sound of a man’s voice made me halt reflexively on the train platform and look straight at him. He looked back. When he got on the same car I wasn’t surprised, but when he got off at the same stop and went to the same door, then walked the same way for several blocks, I was. Dirty eyes, the energy of fitness and power, a tall and solid light heavyweight body. Only when he crossed the street away from me I realized that what I dismissed as some Affliction crap was GSP walkout gear, and I wanted a little time back.

Winnipeg; the guy my height with a day unshaven face under a black hoodie, dancing with his eyes closed with so much contained energy and concentration. I touched him, putting my hand on his shoulder, but his eyes were so perfect and piercing when he opened them that I fled when my heart and throat seized up and I could only smile.

Whistler; the sweet, sweet, uber-shy young thing with the awkward farm boy body and hands he didn’t know what to do with that I danced with for over an hour without even asking his name. I can still feel his warm hands, the damp long hair at the back of his neck, the shock of a true six pack under his loose shirt when I ran my fingertips across his belly, and especially, his quiet delight to have my attention. If I had been less tired, less interested in someone else, less conscious of time.... he is one I would have loved to take and blow his mind for about 12 hours straight, until we were both shaking and jellied and saturated in each others’ juice. He’d be dirty and generous and grateful and come a dozen times and still be rock hard. I realized I was a total idiot about a block from the bar and still, I didn’t go back.

I learned from this. I went back for the Banff guy, but he was gone, probably having lost the fight with alcohol for the night.

I think it’s funny how much we know in those first moments, because when I do follow through, it is that good. Hot, dirty, fun, and sometimes forging a connection of heart that long outlasts the affair.

All this didn’t didn’t didn’t. Makes me sick reading it. I need a good dose of DID.

Full of didn't

The timing was off. I was ready, open, seeking. As my latest suitor put it, “lustin’ for cock”.

And it wasn’t happening. Out of all the guys spilling onto the street from the game, I didn’t find one for me.
There was the guy who seized my hand and in sincere surprise, pronounced me an angel. “I’m serious! You’re glowing all over the place, you’re a beam of light in all of our lives!” He and his friends weren’t it.

The guy who invited me into his car and offered to eat my pussy wasn’t it. He insisted he would prefer to ditch his friends to stay with me, and his house was just right up here, while he tried to foist pot on me after I said I didn’t smoke. Sensing a rapist, I got out at the next light.

The guy with the umbrella definitely wasn’t it. He spoke to me as I passed, and so I turned and talked with him, then walked with him, as we were headed the same way. Sober, nice enough, not from here. He invited me into his apartment, promising me wine and the freedom to leave anytime I wished, and I went, even though I knew this wasn’t nearly it. His bed was unmade, his pillows were uncased, his laundry piled on his couch, he was “mistaken” about the wine, and the building reeked of squalor. I left in haste.

The guy I went to dinner with along with his friends wasn’t it, although I would’ve happily made out with him. He was built and cute with a Canada redneck accent and no compunction about expressing his admiration and attraction to me. His choice was to leave. I suspect an unmentioned girlfriend or else no privacy to bring me home to. Not drunk enough.

Or too drunk: I wasn’t offended by the guy who wanted me to join them for some beers in their hotel room, but his friends practically hauled him away by the arms, telling him to stop harassing the girl, and apologizing profusely for their buddy’s behavior.

There were a couple eyes met and brows raised that I didn’t stop and hold, but none of them had that liquid mercury feeling of fear and promise either. I was roaming and looking, but no dice for me this night.

And that was just bad timing, because how often is an authentically single woman available for an NSA hookup in a city full of drinking hockey men?

Partly I think I need to tune the radar, but mostly, honestly, I think my field was disturbed by my team’s loss. I was far away from home, and in the minority cheering for the losing team that night. Men are known to experience a drop in testosterone and immunity when their chosen team suffers a loss- an empathic reaction. I know I get punched in the gut, and I get a low level depression that lasts at least a day, depending on magnitude of the game (a week or more for a Stanley Cup knockout). This night, I decided to push off the sadness or look for a tall drink of water to drown it in. But my energy was too shaken to let myself be guided to the right place for the right time. Only balanced, happy, energized people attract luminous accidents of connection.

Alpha fishing

I’ve often tried to write about or define the “best fish in the pond” phenomena, but never quite accomplished it. It seems to be a concept seeking the perfect metaphor (which I haven’t found).

I’m talking about the tendency to determine and the urge to pursue the most attractive man in any given limited group. From the very small group, such as a work crew, a writing group, customers in a grocery store, a living room of guys watching hockey or playing poker together, to a class, the current occupants of a library, an airplane, a gym, or a subway car. Then there’s the very large group, such as a big club, festival attendees, the thousands at a pro sporting event, or the packed streets of a big city.

For me the radar to pick out the most desirable guy in any space is instinctual, and operating continually. Every room I step into, every bus, every store, every airplane cabin, my eyes scan for the outward signs of characteristics that appeal to me- sporty, strong, healthy, confident, and a bit rebellious. I almost immediately pick out the best candidate out of any small group, and tend to pay more interest and attention in his direction. I won’t always pursue, but I’ll definitely focus on the most likely guy for further assessment. Until he does something dealbreaker, and the switch of interest flicks off.

The bigger the group the better chance of a finding a really good guy, especially if it’s a group that gathers mostly youth, like a concert, or clean and single guys, like a club. That’s just statistics. However, the challenges mount too. It will take some time to feel you’ve seen everyone to be sure you've picked the best. You don’t want your eyes to still be shopping around once you’ve marked someone as your target and start throwing energy towards him. You may not see him again once you’ve figured it out; you may have the smallest of windows to make contact; and the tougher the competition, because there are likely to be that many more girls, too.

The obvious discrepancy here is that the best fish in a small group, or a group without much merit, won’t hold a candle to the best fish from a bigger pool, or a more refined pool, like the attendees of a hockey game- already filtered for sporty, solvent, hockey fans.

Other factors: how long we’ll be confined in this group together. A train trip for days? That will be worth beginning a conversation. A work force assembled for a month long job? There’s time to assess pretty carefully. A bus, or subway? There’s no time at all. But eye contact is pretty effective.

Why do this? Then what about the urge? Why is it important to achieve bond with the alpha in any given situation? Why even spend the energy on assessment if the coolest guy leaning over the carrots wouldn’t even see the meter at the bar for a UFC fight?

My best theory is that it’s practice. Measuring the comparative merit of guys in a small pool, and even making moves towards conversation or connection is all practice for the biggest pool of all: all guys alive in a very wide acceptable age, language, and attractiveness range.

Because there are those times when your eyes meet someone else’s, and you just know. For a short time or a long time, this person has completely captured your attention, and there is no further shopping required for the time being. Those are the times to walk straight up and touch them, not times to pussy out.

Hello Ice

It's that time of year again-addictive games of shinny on outdoor rinks with blade-snagging craters of death, in inhumanly cold afternoons, with guys that are too young and too fucking good to do anything but laugh as they take the puck away and go around you with ridiculous ease.

Not that I ever wasn't aware of this, but I'm struck anew at how sexy I find hockey skills. A good player weakens my knees, even as I fight and struggle to keep up with them, and keep going in the corners with them, bigger, stronger and better that they are.

If they're cute, grinning, and tousle-haired with cheeks red behind puffs of exhaled steam in the cold, well, that's a bonus. But a perfect blind pass or impossible deke is really all it takes.

Between being on the ice again, my new slut status, and my persistent admiration of the Craigslist slut, inspiration has struck!

Here's my future craigslist ad:

W4M Wanted: Hockey player with some on-ice skills, because that turns me on.

Like to meet up regularly, but without contract negotiations. Preferably you're not signed to anyone either. I don't want any serious penalty minutes.

Creative playmakers, highsticking, and divers preferred, with long reach and lots of turnovers.

No slapshots, quick releases, or rookies.

Show me some stickhandling, and I'll show you some stickhandling. Lets play our positions and keep bringing the puck to the net. stamina

Meetings at your home ice; email with stats.

In case this is not completely clear- you must actually play hockey- and better than I do, so I can be impressed. I want to see you on ice, stickhandling with panache, before I handle your stick.

I. Need. Some. Cock.

I’m hungry in a lovely new way. No desperation here, just prowling with curiosity and the certainty that there’s no limits. I can straddle anything I want to; I’m over being surprised at whom I can score.

I’m feeling more liberated than ever and the happiest I’ve ever been to be single. I suppose the enjoyment of relief and freedom is commensurate with the agony and oppression of toxic relationship, once escaped. I’m just feeling savvy, confident, and ready to cougar it up with enthusiasm.

I’m jealous of the Craiglist slut. If I had to write a concise summary like that it would not read too much differently, but... all in one year? Oh, how I envy her.

I’m ready to ring in a new year full of sensuality, sly glances, and shocking sex. Oh yeah.

New year, new game

I like that I've returned to S&H. Unbelievably, parallels to the title keep popping up, and it continues to be true. (More about sex than hockey)- used to be subtitle.

Still shaking off the misery of a terrible relationship choice and turning towards the future. I'm so done with assholes, and I'm ready to tramp it up bigtime.

The future is full of sex. Good or bad, it's all good "material".

For the first time, I feel truly liberated in a way that I can't make quite clear. I don't know if I had to flagellate myself with bad boyfriends to earn it or what, but getting out, getting some, and enjoying it completely and completely NSA is totally, totally right. Healthy, brilliant, perfect.

I've always been cowed by the concept of "slut", but I'm ready to take it on and wield it proudly. Hell ya, if you're hot, I'm easy.

I fucking love sex, and I want to try on a lot of hot guys. Fuck yeah, it's gonna be a good year.

Part two: Definitely old enough.

Got my hand between us to rub my clit but when I’m about to come I have that leg-straightening thing. He fought against my legs as they went rigid like they have leg minds of their own, but my legs were stronger, straightened, and I came good. After I came I didn't want to move so fast any more and lay panting as he whispered something about me doing the work now, and maybe making him come. Mostly we didn’t talk at all. Since our every breath was audible to our unfortunate (?) captive listeners who were not getting juicy, I was loath to start yelping dirty things. It was a huge effort to stay quiet, though, even biting the palm of his quivering hand.

Already it had been over an hour and he showed no signs of being close to coming. I was somewhat sated, so yes to my turn for work. I rolled on top of him but instead of straddling him like I was about to, I took his cock covered with condom and my juice into my mouth and spiraled it. Rolled the condom back off and enjoyed the soft sliding skin on his long, straight, divine piece. Took detours to visit that succulent skin where belly changes to leg and his supple thigh. In love with his hairlessness and temperature and lean skinny but strong body- oh, heaven is delicious.

It was really nice to feel the worship and love in the act of giving someone pleasure. There’s some confusion over how to deliver it- it’s the first time thing, where you don’t really know anything they like yet and are just trying to learn by the silent body language.

There was some slight shiver of response when I grabbed his ass and lightly stroked through his crack while I sucked his dick so I licked my fingers and started gently circling under his balls for his asshole. His cock immediately turned from hard with a soft outer layer to rock rock hard, even though he seemed to be pulling away a little, so I probed deeper and deeper, his butt retreating from me but cock pushing into me desperately and his breath begging. Knowing what I like, I moved super slow and careful, taking my tongue back there too, keeping lots of spit in the zone for lube and pressing on the muscle. Eventually he came on my finger and in my mouth in a rush of sweetly mild cum and a dozen powerful contractions of incredibly gratifying hotness.

As I wiped the cum off my cheek and felt it pool on the blanket beneath us, he was already seizing me under the arms and pulling me up to his face, tucking me in beside his chest and gathering me up in a delightfully sweet and boyfriendly way I wasn’t expecting. Soft and sweet mouth kisses followed. I love a guy that kisses me on my mouth shortly after he’s shot in it. I think that’s really hot. So there we were, kissing and now whispering chattily.

He seemed surprised almost that I’d just made him come. He apologized that it takes him a long time. That’s a bad thing? I said. He said Well I have to work so hard at it. I suggested that what he could do is relax and just let orgasm come. That he was pretty relaxed just now, when he burst the ocean into my mouth. Well what if, he said, I’ll just come in a minute. Maybe you could hit a medium, actually, I pointed out. I told him that he was rare, anyways, being able to last so long.

He went for a drink of water and put on my jeans in the dark to do so. We relocated to his bed because I was leaving so early the next morning, and wanted to let him sleep when I left.

The rest of the night we spent whispering and touching each other. Counting my piercings. Asking what each other liked, belatedly. So many things I loved. Constant kissing, mouth seeking mine, and teeth sinking into me anywhere his mouth happened to seize. Did he like his hair grabbed? He knew I liked that. He teased me relentlessly for not jumping him the previous night. I weakly defended myself: I asked if you were still sleeping- that was my big move, I said. He mocked me for not climbing in bed with him. If you wanted to, you should’ve just climbed on top of me, he laughed. Your loss! We both shook with contained giggles.

I warned him I would, but still... I crept down his body and teased and sucked on his gorgeous raw muscle thigh, but then I took a big ravenous chomp with abandon and he jerked into fetal and yelped out “you bitch!” in his endearing accent that makes bitch sound a little like beach. We buried our faces in each other and pillows laughing at that one. I admired his gorgeous cock and he said yes you like it, don’t you. I thought you were so hot when I first saw you, he reckoned. He loved my shaved pussy; rarely taking his hands off it. He told me I was amazing and he definitely got the better deal, 'cause I was so much better than that other girl would have been (with total seriousness- ahaha!). I asked where he got his body, what he did, and he said Ice hockey. I was shocked, yet somehow not. Of all the hundred or so guys from that country playing hockey, I go and catch myself one of them. What are the chances? Here, the “ice” is understood, honey, I told him. While he was rhapsodizing about how great I was and how lucky he was I pointed out, well, what they say about older women is true. How old are you, he asks. I laugh. I’m not gong to tell you. And I don't want to know how old you are, either. I’m old enough, he says. Yes, you are definitely old enough, I grin.

We spent all night fighting sleep. He wouldn’t roll away from me and be spoons. He actively embraced me face to face and wiggled against me until it was comfortable. Astonishingly affectionate. Anytime I told him he could let go into sleep, he would squeeze me and growl no, I don’t want to, and we fought sleep together. Touching and holding each other with appreciation and affection. So nice. I got another condom because I wanted to fuck again, but then asked him if I could just ride bareback, and slid him into me without a barrier, which was better than orgasm. It felt so good without being “orgasmic” I was in awe, and beyond words, and I wanted to cry from the joy of it. He held still and let me slide slowly over it a few strokes, until I couldn’t take it anymore and lay down on him, quivering.

Sigh. I want more time with him! Just 2 more rounds would probably do it. 24 hours more sex in two more rounds and I could be satisfied with him. Or else I could keep him for sex and not have any real time relationship stuff. Must travel to fuck men, 'cause there’s some hotties out there. I’m not sure if I want someone to share everything with like a real bf, or if I want to do everything on my own but have really regular crazy bed romps. I could go for that.

What a gift of a night. I felt he was great, adorable guy with a brain and wit and felt actual love for him, mostly when the skin of his cock was touching the walls of my cunt. Felt like he was really inside me then. I don’t care if it was a one off. I adored him, loved the fucking, and my heart was present for it too. A phenomenally more satisfying one-night lay than I ever could have imagined.

I’ve got some work to do, though. I need to learn to love condoms, because they’re not negotiable. I have no excuses for taking that risk and can’t explain why I did. He didn’t know pregnancy was impossible for me, but this was still a terrible, bad thing I did. I don’t know why I wanted to. It felt easy, although wrong, and of course the physical feeling of cock skin vs condom is sublime to the brink of spiritual experience. So that’s the wrong kind of reinforcement for bad behavior. What to do?

Moral of the story: Jump in bed with the guy. He’ll be into it.

She’s back! And by she I mean my inner demented slut. The one that’s been hibernating through a long and unfulfilling period of monogamous hell whose adventures I used to write about. To be clear - the monogamy was not the cause of the hell.

Wow is it ever good to be back.

Staying in a hostel (I’m certain hostels are hotbeds of hookup history), I lucked out with the hottest, tallest drink of dark-haired water as a roommate. I couldn’t believe my fortune when I first walked in on his beaming smile and heart-stopping eyes. Inward rejoicing and gratitude to gods watching over random room assignment. We flirted a little and he was bold and edgy which took me off my confident horse and intimidated me a little.

Later that night he returned to the room where I had been asleep. As he took his shirt off his skinny body was revealed to my suddenly alert, peeking eyes in the dim hint of light to be beautifully muscular and sculpted, and smoothly hairless. He announced as he slid into his bunk that he was drunk and wide awake - an invitation a mile wide, but I waited too long, deciding and second-guessing my big move. Which was to ask “Are you still awake?” He wasn’t. In moments he was snoring like a train, and I was kept wide awake, but not by his snoring. I wanted to climb in bed with him, wake him with my lips, ravage him, but alas, I didn’t. I got up and took a shower in order to be able to sleep so close and yet so far from such a hottie. Sigh.

The next night, after having all kinds of fun that wasn’t sexual in any way, I returned to the quiet hostel and went to bed pouting because the boy wasn’t there. Undoubtedly he was getting lucky elsewhere. I was SOL for not seizing the day the night before. Sadly, snoozers lose. Just when I started to drift off wistfully, he got home.

Hey, I whispered into the dark. How was your night, he said, coming quite close to my bed. Great, I said, tonight I’m the drunk one. I’m drunk too, he said. He was leaning on my bunk, and put his hand on it. I touched my hand over his, fearfully, noncommittally, and as he turned his hand over under mine and grabbed it, I realized he was also leaning into me for a kiss. I kissed him back with tongue and enthusiasm but also surprise.
He pulled back, planted both hands and sprang into my bunk, as I hastily moved backwards and pulled back the blanket for him to get in. He seized and kissed me and swiftly slid his hands down my body, discovering I was already naked.

By the time I took in this turn of events and a breath he’d ripped off his socks, hurling them to the other side of the room, and his pants as fast as he could, chucking them over the side, and he was sliding down beside me in a singlet and boxers with focused intent.
A kisser, a biter, and a wiggling, hot maximum contact seeker. I found him aggressive but not too fast, cuz he was so kissing and hugging. Biting my shoulders and neck and lips and cheeks, smiling into my face with mingled relief and anticipation. Holding me tightly all the time.
He smiled There’s another couple having sex downstairs. I was all disappointed I wasn’t getting any.

We chewed on each other and slid around in all kinds of ways until I was just dying to be fucked. He wasn’t doing anything but poking it into my thigh in a way I thought must be painful, for him- none of that “will she let me sneak it in without a condom” shit that makes me furious. Big points. Since I thought I had no condoms (thought processes rather diminished) and he said he didn’t, it was an angels-bursting-through-the-clouds moment when I remembered I had some in my car. After my mission to get those I climbed back up beside him and slid his cock into my mouth to find it was as hard as when I’d left. He hauled me up by one leg over his mouth into 69 and just devoured me while I arched my back, pressed my belly into his chest and ground my cunt into his face.

He pressed the condom into my hand to put on him, and then I slipped up to rev cowgirl from 69, through a range of degrees, and then he rolled me over and got on top.

Missionary is seriously hot. I love the weight of a man coming down on me with all the lust and abandon they can express. Grinding me into the wall above my head so I had to put both arms out and push against the wall to push back into him. I loved that he didn’t pull back and then ram. Our pelvises were attached and rocking and circling and grinding. Very nice. His muscular ass in my hands and just rock hard when he flexed it, which he did every time I grabbed it. I could grab him like I wanted to tear a piece out of him and he loved it and did the same back, fisting handfuls of my hair and taking huge bites out of my neck and then kissing me. Always kissing me, always pulling me in closer to him. The blanket wet beneath me with sweat, his body so temperature hot.

Dot dot dot!

The lelo LIV review

Short and sweet:

The controls suck. They’re too small and close together and it’s easy to lose track of which direction the setting you want is as the vibe is up around in you somewhere. I know the ipod dial is esthetic and popular, but it’s really the wrong application for it. Start twisting the wand around and then you have to think which part of the circle you can feel is going to do what - right when thinking is significantly impaired by what you’re doing.

Other than that, it does the job elegantly and easily, it’s beautiful, it’s a great versatile size, powerful, and quiet. I believe the rave it got in the store as being top of the market. It did not wake sleeping neighbours in same room during field testing. Neither did I. I almost want it to accidentally fall out of my luggage somewhere because it’s such an exciting, pretty lime green. It’s very hard, which gives a lot of control and transfers the vibration very directly, but it also vibrates your hand, and kinda numbs mine. I could last longer than my hand can.

I didn’t go on a Charlotte-meets-the-Rabbit bender with it, it just entered my life calmly like a dependable accomplice. I’m sure we will be friends for a looooong time.

Idiot, idiot!

Damn it. The lost potential event.
A guy kinda tried to pick me up on the subway, but I didn't go with him because he waited until he was off the train to overtly summon me instead of actually speaking to me while we were both on the train.
I didn't go, and we'll never know.
He was pretty good looking, and nicely dressed, with lovely dark skin and eyes. I wish I'd gone. I wish I'd gone.
Or do I? Is half the fun in the clean slate of imagination sparked by a hint of chemistry? Plus, it could have been more exciting because it was the most human contact I've had in a week. People are so afraid of contact in big cities.
It's thrilling to know he was interested in me and that could be overturned if he were disappointing, or I was to him. This way, we both get to fantasize about each other tonight and know we're thinking of each other, in the safe realm of projection.
Oh. Fuck. Just realized what an idiot I am. Immediately prior, I was walking down an alley thinking to myself, there must be someone else also wandering somewhere, seeking friendly humanity, and wishing that we would just run into each other. And seriously within the next 30 seconds, we did, and I didn't recognize it.
Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck. On the plus side, I know my universal request hotline is working. I really need to upgrade my recognition software though, jesus.

The Ugly Truth

In short, a movie worth watching for $3, although I think it would be a very uncomfortable date movie. Don’t take your ladies to see it, guys.

There’s a quote I can’t find, as Google is failing me, that says roughly that we’ll have equality between the sexes when a short, overweight, balding woman in her 60s can consider herself attractive. I was struck watching this movie that we certainly don’t have equality while the beautiful Katherine Heigl, clearly Botoxed and dunked in makeup until her face hardly moves, is put through self-improvement paces by an unshaven, uneducated guy who gets to hide his tummy until comfortable clothes. She is perfectly slim, manicured, and made up; she’s a smart, effective woman with power; she’s perfectly styled, teetering in heels, but she’s the one who needs help. Her hair needs to be longer, her boobs perkier, her clothes sexier, and her attitude - sigh- her attitude needs the real makeover.

All the things that make her competent-detail oriented, meticulous, thorough- are supremely unattractive to any desirable men, and she must submit to the instructions of the vocabulary-challenged grubby guy’s guy wearing white sneakers. Don’t get me wrong, Gerard Butler is sexy. Sexy in a just dragged himself off the battlefield/ranch way. But to juxtapose him with a model of female desirability and give him the upper hand without a hint of irony is a huge statement on our social agreement that makes me very uncomfortable. And I’d prefer to see her with some more lines in her face.

In related news, I got french manicured acrylic nails for the first time. As seen in adult films everywhere. Long, decorative nails- another way women are hamstrung. While I revel in the shiny flashiness, I do not revel in the limitation of not being able to use my fingertips naturally, easily. Typing is strange, and every few words I miss a letter, which slows me down considerably.
I haven’t for the most part bought into the ubiquity of many female style necessities- hair staightening/curling/highlighting, makeup 24/7, nails, total depilation, second skin jeans and high heels. So when I sample this pink and glitter world, it’s an exciting novelty, that I enjoy immensely (in moderation) but also get to examine from a perspective of not being “used to’ it. And if I get used to it, like some women get used to high heels, does one slowly forget what’s been given up? What it’s like to be as comfortable as barefoot; able to burst into a sprint at any moment and feel the soles of your feet curve in muscular response, or to use the very tips of one’s fingertips?

I think it should be a necessary experience for all men, perhaps a class in school. Teenage boys should have to learn to walk in heels, sit in miniskirts, do yoga, wear Spanx and pantyhose, straighten, dye, and blowdry their hair. Learn to apply makeup, wax all areas of their bodies, get acrylic nails, hair extensions, master the mani, pedi, and facial. Then they’re ready to go to the kegger and pick up chicks.

I get that men have a whole host of unique challenges to face in life, and that metros and trannies galore understand the time, energy, and cost that goes into a woman looking good. I love men and admire them for surviving what they do, but in this facet of life, there’s a divide I don’t like.

On the way home from The Ugly Truth, I decided I was a feminist after all, and there’s still a long way to go, baby.

Electric boyfriend

Just got my first grownup vibrator! So excited. A beautifully ergonomic lime green flirtatious little wand of ecstatic potential. I have not yet been able to charge it. Or, ipso facto, take for inaugural drive.
It's been six months since I had sex and only one since I've been out of a terrible relationship. Funny how those can ruin your appetites.
I'm just starting to get a little skin hungry. Very exciting. I simultaneously remember the wistful aching longing of being single in a big world full of romantic comedies and feel the liberating relief and freedom of being a unit of one, autonomously inconsiderate of the feelings of others.
Right now, the sweet success of escape is fresh, with the bitter aftertaste to remind one that a bad relationship is far worse than no relationship. Time to relish being alone.
My writing certainly doesn't flourish when I'm attached, that's for damn sure.
Will report later on my new tool- thankfully one unattached to a penis.

the Yikes-Factor

I've been whiling away far too many hours lately at WWHM, or Why Women Hate Men, a site that's hideously addictive and rather disgustingly genius. Compelling, readable, hilarious- the sheer goodness makes me seethe with envy.

It's been awhile since I ravenously worked my way through all the history and even all the comments of one site. Oh, the laughs.

Oh, the comments! The comments are remarkably well written, forthcoming, and on topic. Even after passing the 100 comment mark, they don't verge off into 3-ring catfights over what that skank Blondie_301 implied about DivaDivaDD's cousin's boyfriend's car stereo. I'm not sure if this is bc of the mission statement outlined for comments at the end of every post, meticulous moderating, or the fact that the readership is mostly female (ie, articulate, educated, sophisticated - need I go on?).

Oh, the glorious luxury I'm wallowing in with abandon! There's just that nasty niggling sense that I'm squandering the numbered grains in my life's hourglass reading about the delusions of devastatingly pathetic douchebags for pure entertainment! I could be planting sunflower seeds, scanning the night skies for UFOs, or memorizing the dialogue of Legally Blonde!

Hostels are sexy

It can't be the confining, creaky bunks, the hard vinyl mattresses, the floors strewn with wet towels and exploding backpacks, or the restless nights under a sleeping body creaking and snoring 3 feet above ones face. So why do I get oddly horny, furtively touch myself, and contemplate sleeping with a breast or two salaciously exposed for any faux sleepers whose eyes have adjusted to the dark?

Is it being unable to masturbate audibly bc you're sharing a room with strangers? Is the air charged with the possibility of a fast hookup with a random, foreign hottie (or more, in rooms for 4-8!)? Is it all the youthful, careless, drunken energy floating around, that's generally exuded by the young, travelling type who frequents hostels?

Inevitably, I get randy within minutes of entering a room with 6 or more bunkbeds. You'd think I had really good memories of church camp, or a thing for military dorms. Every time the door opens, I measure the fantasy potential of the arriving traveler. And I get the urge to exhibit; undress in the dark, pretend to be sleeping in careless, uncovered disarray.

Long ago I got naked with a hostel roommate. It was a co-ed dorm with only the two of us in it, and he happened to be beautiful and sexual, but with unfortunate gaps in expertise. Our activity brought no "fulfillment", although it was memorable and exciting in its own way.

I wanna GI Blow

Oh how I dithered. The probably feel-good and improving Julie and Julia, or the definitely abominable bullet-riddled travesty that happens to include a major object of my long-term lust: GI Joe.

My internal struggle over putting my money in the pockets of no-talent jerkoffs idolizing violence and "Americanism" raged through the previews but faded at the first pout. Sigh. Channing Tatum. Just thinking his name causes salivation.

I can't tell you how many times I've watched Step Up. And that's bc I've lost count, although I FF all the lame parts (that he's not in), so it's only a third as long.

Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje was a pleasant surprise. Total waste of phenomenal chops, but nice to ogle, plus Rachel Nichols and Marlon Wayans were nice to look at. Kind of strange actually, how most of the cast has already proven serious ability in other places, maybe without the A-list acclaim.

I do like them buff. I was also afraid that the passage of time would have dulled his beauty, but happily, he still rocks me. I was a little disappointed that he was rarely smiling, they paired his gorgeous succulence with the charisma-free bad girl with whom he has no chemistry, and that his acting was terribly wooden. We know he can do better when he's relaxed, but 10-1 it was millions of hours of suicide-inspiring blue screen work, and besides- who cares?

I spent the movie with my legs clenched together aching for alone time to shove my hands down my pants and hop aboard the restrained GI in his chest-hugging Goretex; rip open the camo fly of his dusty, thigh-revealing fatigues and stuff my mouth with his cock; swing dance with him in a scanty little slip dress until my hunger runs down my legs....excuse me for 20 mins or so.

I've always had a soldier thing too- VERY against my good sense and principles, but here, the best of both worlds.

There should be a genre for movies like this- Wanted, Shoot 'Em Up. - that are plotless, implausible, shallow, and shamelessly exploit beauty and special effects - BUT YOU KNOW WHAT THEY ARE BEFORE YOU BUY THE TICKET. Why they then get torn up in reviews for lack of genius is beyond me. You don't expect movies like Transformers to be artistic or have depth, you expect them to tickle and sooth the most primitive cravings of your brain stem, and as such, they succeed in being all that they aim to be. Lame. Wonderful. They should be rated accordingly.

Is this a trashy, pointless, gratuitous 'fects-fest? Absolutely. It's a fucking fantastic trashy, pointless, gratuitous 'fects-fest, with good actors and hot, muscly, fantasy-fodder.

I am fulfilled! Well, my Beavis lobe and Butthead cerebellum at any rate. My lust for the drippingly sexy CT is sure to sustain me through many many shuddering orgasms over the next few weeks.

Spectacular news!

I masturbated to ejaculation!

This is remarkable bc A) it's been ages and ages, B) I've never been able to do it to myself, and C) didn't think it was possible for me to "auto-ejaculate". It just happened, out of totally everyday style jerking off.

As far as I know the jury is out on whether female gushing is a talent/privilege/ability that you either do or do not have, or whether it's something all women can do, if they learn how.

It just began spontaneously for me, albeit after I learned that the phenomenon existed, which helped me stop resisting the slightly unpleasant sensation of pressure and loss of control.

There's this point after the normal orgasm that feels like a tantalizing whisper sounds - a hint of something worth pursuing. If you follow that (aka, continue stimulation), it rises up like a tidal wave (hmm, interesting simile), gets somewhat-to-extremely uncomfortable, then discharges its energy in a very literal, liquid way. This feels just as amazing as it was unpleasant a second earlier.

It's that unnervingly unpleasant moment that makes it very hard (or, has made it very hard for me) to do to yourself. It's so nice to have an assistant who can cold-heartedly push you past that to the delightful wet reward.

Aside:
Women's fantasies (by which generalization I mean mine) are so damn complicated, detailed, and reality based. I can't even fantasize about getting face in peace. I fret (in my imagination!) that I might be incapable of speech at the crucial moment, and therefore be unable to warn my pleasure-provider that I could gush in his mouth, and worry that he could be shocked, alarmed, or unprepared.

I like to clue in guys ahead of time about my ejaculatory ability. Informed consent, you know. That sort of etiquette is important to me. The first time a guy came in my mouth, I had NO IDEA that that sort of liquid emission was possible (indeed, inevitable in the circumstances). It's a long story. Needless to say, I would have preferred to have known about it ahead of time. Shocked and perturbed at the time, I froze, then realized my need to breathe, and swallowed, thus setting the precedent for a long cock-sucking career. Cheers!

Give me passion, keep your rich.

So much for nothing to do with hockey. Went to a game last night. Disgusted by the snobbery in the 100 section. I’ve never really paid attention before to the people in the premium seats around me. Sure, they leave 5 minutes before the end of any period, or the game, regardless of the action, they’re all there to show off their wealth and to look at each other, but I never really looked.

Youngish guys making up for not being athletes themselves by relentlessly criticizing the players and all other members of team staff. Youngish women made up to the nines trying to get noticed by the boys on the bench, and barring that, a rich guy seated nearby. Suits with lecherous, entitled eyes. Older women (their wives) married to money but too old to flaunt their sagging looks, so sneering disdainfully and sadly, casting dully beaten eyes around. They are most pitiable. The children of privilege- teens in their parents’ seats and small flag waving children hoisted by young professional parents. All of the above distinguish themselves by being too stylish to wear any licensed jerseys or merchandise, being too busy acting prissy and decorous in casual friday garb, and barely bothering themselves to pay attention to the game or score at all.

If life were fair, there would be a grave computer error that for at least one game a year reversed the best seats in the house with the worst, so that the blue collar fathers and the minor hockey teams, and the working poor who give their kids tickets to one game a year could hear the goalie slap his pads and the goons lip each other off in the corner. They could see the snow from the players skates melt on the glass. They could arrive early to watch the pre-game skate and leap and pound on the glass for every goal and hug the other rowdy fans surrounding them, who are all wearing team colours, holding homemade signs, falling dead silent for the plays, and gasping as one for every turnover.

The atmosphere is better the farther you are from the ice in the stadium.

Drowning today's troubles in the proven-to-be-effective method of fantasizing oneself in some infinitely better reality. Say, in the arms of Georges St. Pierre, the unexpectedly good-looking MMA fighter.

Since my favorite hockey player traded over the border, my well-used fantasy of meeting, dazzling, enchanting, fucking, and marrying him has faded fast. We've had years together, I've been very loyal, but he's moved on, and so am I.

Enter Canada's own heart-stoppingly desirable Quebecois welterweight champion, Gorgeous St. Pierre.

UFC is always sexy, of course. How can you fail televising partially nude, jacked up men writhing around on each other, with blood, sweat, and testosterone pouring off of glistening skin? It's the most primal erotic display.

Grabs me by the crotch, at any rate.

The fighters can be very attractive. Especially if contused eyebrows, dripping wounds, and multiple facial scars do it for you, gladiator style. Matt Hughes is a babe. Some present better with the toque/ball cap and Tshirt post-fight, some the less and tighter clothes the better; most of them are hotter without the mouthguard distorting their lips.

But GSP's sexiness transcends the battered UFC look. Huge perfect smile, lovely eyes, style, style, style, earnestness, and that huge, amazing, incredibly cut muscled body makes him a potential movie star, model, world's sexiest man candidate. Meow. Breathe.

And the way he fights, there's no one likely to be able to fuck up his face for some time. He owns the Octagon, throwing guys down like he's tossing his girlfriend on the bed, making it look easy, making his competitors look like they're in the wrong weight class.

His welterweight title defeat of Jon Fitch was so striking; his strength and style are so powerful and unique; and his just plain amazing hotness is putting him in the big leagues of superstar desirability. His legs are mesmerizing. I didn't know there were so many muscles in legs. And his ripple around while he's wrestling in a breathtaking way. I'm awestruck watching him fight -the grace and power of a cat with the definition of a weightlifter. Sigh. This guy is spectacularly gorgeous.

I wonder if he's one of those guys that is thrilled that it's easier to get babes now, but honestly doesn't know how attractive they are. The hot light, big screen celebration of his alpha dominance, his masculine beauty, and his raw physical power, is an aphrodisiac combination that's going to be taking women out at the knees everywhere.

Maybe not just women, either. My man commented that all the closet homos watching UFC would be slavering all over GSP. I laughed, bc he "wouldn't know anything about that firsthand."

An athlete himself with few hangups, he freely admits his man-crush on GSP, and gushs shamelessly about his admiration, while downloading and rewinding more of his fights. Men want to be him, and couch respect, awe and possibly lust in the acceptable sports-fan role.

Women, on the other hand, aren't subtle at all.

In the finest tradition of celebrity crushing, I've been lurking St Pierre's facebook, website, and blog tonight. He seems like a sweet guy -a genetically lucky athlete, getting to the top with hard work and dedication, unpretentious, and not at all caught up with his celebrity. His blog is so open and endearingly written with the slightest ESL errors.

What is shocking and a little embarrassing are the comments. Or rather, the display of women throwing themselves at him. Not very attractive women either. There's one stunner, but she's definitely the exception. Just posting pictures of themselves, begging for some response. Unhealthy; heavily and amateurishly madeup. Like ... really?

Really? I'm embarrassed for them. What do you think? This god is gonna see that picture of you and say, geez, I really need to meet that chick. She's my soul mate, I can see it in her eyes. Ya right! Save yourself the shame. It's making us all cringe. You might as well post pics of your pussy and say "Please do me? Please?"

The ones who restrain themselves from advertising such naked and hopeless desire in picture form post praise praise praise, licking his feet while trying to stand out from the crowd with insightful detail. You're not fooling anyone. What you are really saying when you comment on what a great personality he has is "You're so hot I've taken leave of my senses and am now drooling on my keyboard." It's still begging. "Please, please, turn the spotlight of your attention on me."

Save yourselves the shame and go jerk off in privacy while you walk down the aisle with him in your mind (or whatever. I go with the "whatever"). It's so much more polite. Privacy has lots of merit, and this internet world of rampant self-revelation has some cons. One of them being how you can so easily post things that you might not if you took at least five minutes of reflection before you hit enter.

Meanwhile, I'm studying those desperately posted pics, comparing my own attractiveness, and feeling smug about coming up favorably. Here I am lushing verbally all over the guy and feeling superior for not throwing myself at him. I'm not likely to stop digitally drooling either. He's luscious, and we get to watch him regularly in bright lights and larger-than-life closeup, which feeds the lust.

It's an archetypal fantasy - the most powerful, brutal guy who dominates all other guys, who smiles sweetly and suggests that he would be gentle and generous and spectacular in bed. He could beat everyone else up with one hand while he effortlessly snatches the swooning damsel (you), up with the other, and whisks you away to a place where you'll totally abandon yourself to ecstasy, romance novel style. Disgusting, but true. Literally true, proven vividly by UFC. There are very very few men in the world that he couldn't beat up in seconds, certainly none in his weight class.

Oh, the phenomenon of celebrity. When it first takes off, it's so easy to watch the train wreck happen behind it, before it gets shielded by editing and PR reps. Especially in the age of accessibility. All that lust getting thrown over the divide between the new superstar and the common hopeful just obscures the humanity of both. I hope it's not too hard for stars. I'm sure all the adulation is fun, but is the cost of being put on a pedestal too high? I hope its still possible for GSP, etc, to find real friends, real love, and to be really equaled and challenged by women who can really see the secrets of his heart and soul, whatever they are.

Things that amuse and delight me

The telltale toilet paper:
I am amused at noticing former toilet paper clinging to the toilet brush bristles. It has clearly been dunked and then dried, and has a handcrafted paper texture that would be artistic in another context. It means that someone has used the toilet brush to help an overwhelmed toilet flush a really big dump, and this makes me laugh inside. Some people might think it's just gross.

Being naked in public with boots:
I did not spend too much time at Burning Man intentionally naked, but once when I badly needed to pee and did not have time to put on anything but my boots (tall, kneehigh, gloriously industrial, buckled, beloved boots), I felt oddly euphoric on my hasty trip to the johns. Taller, stronger, extremely physically powerful, commanding, and totally balanced.

I felt like I could not have been knocked over, literally, nor affected by words, like I was part of another world, seeing through and over other people. This sounds silly now, but the feeling was so strikingly different and real. It wasn't all in my mind. I registered strangers noticing me (although, nudity is obviously never a striking sight there), a couple of sucked-in breaths, and a couple of surprisingly worshipful exclamations, which I ignored haughtily.

No, I was not high. I did no drugs there. Burning Man was dazzingly underwhelming for me, and this moment of nudity was one of my most notable experiences of the week. Infer what you will.

Sleeping in arctic-cold rooms:
I looove being snuggled under hefty covers, alone or with supplemental body heat, in bedrooms with the windows or doors wide open. Colder the better. From merely nose-nipping to oh-my-god-I-have-to pee-I'm-going-to-have-a-heart-attack-between-here-and-the-door cold, I love having 98% of my body cooking while my nostril hairs freeze. It is essential to have polar-ready bedding, and a amiable companion who will not suddenly expose you with a thoughtless roll. That's just an awful way to wake up in the dark. But, oh, the air, the cleanness of it, the contrast! It hearkens back to my winter camping days. Getting up is more difficult, but sleeping in that much more delicious.

Just like the good old days

Oh, great. Now I've stayed up far too late, tweaking, and reading.

Reading my own words: that's so good; that so blows.

Natalie Goldberg (approx): " It doesn't matter. Just keep writing."

Dropping the Charade

I'm Back!

I just discovered that I could still access this blog. I thought it was long lost, as I couldn't remember even my sign-in and had to google "sex and hockey" to find it at all. My email's still working too.

Then I read and read, my own writing, my own history, some of it so cringing and raw, and I wept.

With that much time between me and the events, I don't care so much for anonymity after all. The illusion is overrated, and I got outed in my new hiding spot anyways. I'll just edit out some of the most embarrassing shit so I can sleep better. This is where I temporarily relocated to, the missing writing of the past year. I wanted a new slate to go in a different direction, or have the freedom to. Not sure if I really did. They should be back together now.

So much for the best-laid plans....
..........

I'm so different now.

I've gone all political. I spend much of my energy researching and activising. I feel in my bones the end of all that we think of as civilisation, both the good and the bad.

My social life is totally different. I've dropped most of the friends I thought were forever, two years ago. I don't chase, yearn for, and obsess over boys. I could not be less interested in hockey. Almost none of the things I thought were important or worth aiming for remain current. I don't enjoy the work I do anymore; I'm tired, and distracted.

One of the things I can't believe in my own writing is how much I sought assurance, and doubted my attractiveness. Whatever! That's fixed, at any rate. Like a switch, somewhere along the line it happened. I see my naked body in the mirror first thing in the morning as I throw back the duvet, and I love what I look like. That feels good. For about 10 seconds, I feel proud and sexy, and then that vanishes into the realm of the irrelevant for the next 24 hours.

What I think about in relationship has utterly changed. That's a little confused at the moment, but I'm in a committed relationship that I never thought I'd be in, and all the rules and standards are different when you're relating to someone you intend to be with indefinitely. I'm brand new to that. It's not an easy world.

So, we'll see what happens here. I promise nothing but the intention to intermittently post. History shows I typically post regularly for long stints interspersed with long vacations.

I'm glad to be back.

This blog is dead

As if you haven't noticed, I haven't been writing here lately, and I'm closing this blog for good.

I've felt compromised lately by real people in my life knowing the address for my site, and consequently felt what I'm able to say is limited. No one writes well with an audience crowded in their mind.

I'm moving. Slipping back into the shadows of anonymity with a new blogspot. I'll be contacting many of you (in my private anonymous readership) with the new address in a while.

It's not that I have nothing to talk about here, nothing to blurt out to the unknown public. But what you feel you can say is changed by knowing who's reading. Also, my past, so intimately documented here, feels like a long unwieldy tail following me. What's important to me has changed, and I feel I've changed, so the trail back through where I've been the last three years, as well as the style I've built here, has become a limitation. Everyone wants a fresh start now and then.

All readers: Thank you so much for the attention over this time

The last little while, I've been jerking off every night. I almost can't fall asleep without coming, no matter how exhausted. Great orgasms. I can't even believe myself because I'm so dog-tired and over-worked, I don't know where the energy is coming from. And it's not merely a comforting habit, but a physical, restless need that has to be addressed. Nags until I submit, and then lets me fall asleep.

I'm not complaining. I think it might just be like a stress-release valve.

The fabric of my fantasies has changed. Every night is a new scene, different characters, sometimes even themes I didn't think appealed to me pop up. I used to have serial fantasies, that developed session after session, mutating a little each time, or else I would flip through the favorites like a catalog - what do I feel like tonight? But this last little bit- wow - it's like being in a giant tumbler; like opening the door of the dryer while it's running - you never know what might fall out. And it sometimes feels like I'm eavesdropping on someone else's desires.

Kinda like it. Maybe it's all the erotica and imagery and ideas I've absorbed, shaking themselves out and rearranging themselves. Feels very creative and alive.

Another new development is the degree to which I'm getting still, cropped, stylized images in my mind during fantasy (as opposed to the "I'm in the room/act/scene" experiential viewpoint, or the "seeing it like a movie" voyeur/3rd person viewpoint).

I'm really getting off on some of the "art" I see in my head. I'm switching from verbal to visual. Maybe I'll start drawing again.

I feel like a new person.

Ezra's gone. He tried to talk me into staying with him when he left. Loyal, that is. I bought into that, then he made plans to see Kristi on day 2 after he's gone, and I lost it in an angry but devastated pool of sloppiness, the kind men just love to witness.

"I promise. I've learned the hugest lesson. I don't want to lose you. If I were to [fuck around], it wouldn't represent what I feel for you, so I won't. I know you don't trust me, but that doesn't matter. How I behave is up to me."

He said all the right things and I waffled on my iron clad plan to see him off for good when I said goodbye for the summer. Sure, the guy never ever hurts me intentionally or manipulatively, and I believe him that he was green, he fucked up, and he learned, and I'm willing to give him another chance.

This winter was so damn good. After the hurt faded and I relaxed into trusting him "right now", we had the best time. Loads of laughs, loads of dirty hot sex, loads of straight up easy good times, and I fell in love all over again. I think we both did. It became easy again, like when we were first together and always together because that was the most fun. All with an added, unarticulated depth because we both know what we'd put behind us, and we've just known each other for quite awhile now. I can imagine being beside him for a long ways down the road and don't see any looming reasons why we would fall apart.

That scares the shit out of me. I've never seen that long unending road before. Could I really stay with this guy - gulp!- indefinitely?

However, not long after he's gone, and I feel like I've wakened or healed from a love-illness, or spell, and have a terrible case of the twitches over kindly-mostly promising "loyalty" to him, over his big prove-himself chance.

Lets recap. Here's how my gut reacts. I think about not dating/fucking anyone else for 6 months and see when he gets back if he also made it through and feels the same about me: I sense nervous chemicals gushing into my stomach, feel smaller, kind of shaky, and vaguely irritated.

I think about hittin' the scene, doing my own thing entirely all summer, check out a couple guys, and Ezra coming back by free will (if he does), both of us starting over unencumbered by our history, IF we still feel like it with each other: I feel like shaking out my shoulders, breathing, and liberated. A tiny bit scared - what if this is an opportunity of a lifetime to learn about what the real benefit of long-term relationships is, and I'm throwing it aside?

What the hell is it like to sacrifice your desires for a relationship?

So I'm pretty well sure of what I want now. We'll start over later, if it's still there between us.

Trouble is, haven't told him yet. Doesn't seem like an MSN sort of thing to announce.