Sex & Hockey

MMA

2010-09-16T22:07:00.000-07:00

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:

2010-07-01T20:10:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-06-25T20:05:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-16T20:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-09T19:31:00.000-07:00

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...

2010-06-02T19:29:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-27T19:24:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-20T19:11:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-13T09:35:00.000-07:00

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

2010-01-15T21:20:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-31T20:57:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-24T21:09:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-10T20:10:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-01T22:16:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-15T22:23:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-11-02T20:39:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-01T22:14:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-24T21:08:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-30T19:32:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-20T00:40:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-13T23:42:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-02-23T21:57:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-11-21T21:52:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-11-18T21:49:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-12T22:45:00.000-08:00

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

2008-10-25T23:50:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-25T21:58:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-23T04:50:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-30T21:52:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-04-22T09:22:00.000-07:00

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.

Up for air

2007-02-07T15:16:00.000-08:00

I feel like I was in a liplock all weekend. Ezra never let go of me. On Saturday he pulled me back into bed at around 1 in the afternoon, and there we stayed.

Sunday I had to put my foot down to be allowed out of bed at all, and then he lurked around me while I cleaned and worked, padding from room to room behind me like a dog somewhat confused that his ball has been put away. Adorably amusing.

We spent a month not kissing; it's like he's making up the time, maybe even making up for all of his girlfriend-less teens.

We are suddenly both behaving exactly like we did when we were "first together"- ie. how we spent all our time before this fall's devastating change.

I, however, don't feel the same. I love him; I think he's a beautiful, sweet person, full of love and so, so well matched for me that fate seems unkind. But he's leaving in May, and the day he leaves, I'm single,and I'm starting over.

There is no way I can live apart from him and have faith in him/ trust him/ believe in him loving me enough to not cheat on me. And I don't want to negotiate a poly- relationship with him, because we are already not based in trust. If he had been honourable and told me about chick#2 before hooking up with her, I would have been all over that.

Well, maybe not. But I would've been all over trying, and totally understood.

Now, I understand completely, and I'm not interested in trying.

I see this curiousity and hunger all over him, (all the more intense because of the new confidence he's been given that he's attractive), about women. How women are different, how their bodies would feel under his hands, what they might want from him, how they might like their sex and how they might scream. Most of all, how many might be interested in him. How well could he do?

And that's the difference. I know how well I can do, and I still want him. He's nowhere near that, and won't be, without tasting many women. So, I'm going to treat him honestly and reverently, with all the love I feel for him, and then turn him back into the world, hopefully with some positive experience and memory to build on. And I'll be grateful for having been able to call him mine, even for a short, illusioned time.

We're gonna spend every minute together, and love each other to bits, until he leaves, and then, he's gone.

The return of Sweetness and Passion

2007-02-02T15:34:00.000-08:00

Sweetness has crept back into our flawed and indefinable relationship.

For instance:

Ezra, tanked, rolled in from the bar one night, wriggled into bed with me-the-abstainer-and-avoider-of-clubs, waking me up and asking "What if I really like you?" Like is our extremely meaningful default word for intense adoration.

"What if I really like you?" He asked me a couple times. I said that would be OK, I think. "Really?"

----

We were at a fundraiser together and there was a crowd of people around the local NHL player who was making an appearance, signing cards and t-shirts and stuff. Ezra could see what was happening, because he's tall enough, but I could not.

I said "Pick me up?" fully expecting he wouldn't, because his boys were all around, and it would be kinda juvenile.

He half smiled/sighed at me, and then squat in front of me, grabbing my legs and standing with me in piggyback before I realized what he was even doing. I wrapped my arms around his neck and smiled, suddenly able to see all I wanted to over the crowd, and whispered "Thank you," over and over again into his ear, and kissed his neck. He held me for awhile, then I tapped out to get down.

My legs clamped over his hips, I was overwhelmed with this warmth and delight, that he had picked me up. For some reason, I was just completely touched, because it was such a public, boyfriend thing to do, and I was so thrilled that I still had that.

Of course when I tried to explain that to him later, he looked at me like I was high.

-----

We were at a Junior hockey game together, and discussing the size of this one kid skating. Ezra was calling him a mammoth, a giant, a behemoth. I'm like, "Come on, he's in pads and 3" of skate. He's smaller than you are." I've seen most of this team in the gym in shorts. They are a skinny bunch of teenagers. Horny teenagers.

I was distracted by the guy on the other side of me, but behind me I heard a softly wistful "I bet you'd like that huge defenseman better than me." I turned back to him, "Actually, probably not, because I happen to like you."

"Really? I don't deserve it."

"No, probably not."

-----

Later same game he was being an obnoxious pest and I was trying to corral him, and he slumped back down in his seat, saying "Why do you put up with me?"

Same exchange as before.

-----

I go to work earlier than he does, so I usually slip out of bed and leave him sleeping, oblivious. Lately, as I slide sideways from under the covers and sit up to rise, careful not to wake him, one warm arm will snake out to circle me around the waist and pull me back in for cuddles and neck kisses.

Mmmmm.

------

He bearhugs me in the night. In his sleep. SOOO nice, so comforting. It wakes me just enough to smile.

-----

He comes over like he couldn't wait to get home.

-----

He reaches for me all the time- suddenly seizing me while we watch tv, pulling me by my waistband into his lap as I walk by, tickling and snuggling all the time. I missed this so much.

For awhile, tickling was the transitional device to showing affection. He'd tickle me all the time, anytime, making me jump, shriek, eventually get mad. I'd demand to know why he was suddenly always tickling me, but I knew it was 'cause he wasn't yet comfortable with real loveyness.

-----

I was blowdrying my hair, my head dropped forward and my hair overturned in front of me, wearing pants and a bra. He came in the bathroom behind me, and softly rested his always-hot hands on my waist where my hips start to curve out. Just rested them there, while the blower roared in my ears, and caressed softly up and down my sides.

Then he slid his hands around my bare waist into a hug, leaning over me and resting his check on the skin of my neck.

I stopped the dryer then and turned my head to him for a kiss.

-----

We go to bed at night together like getting into a bath - we can't wait, we burrow in with sighs and groans of pleasure, we wiggle around finding the perfect position, and of course, I huddle into him for his warmth. We looove sleep, and we love sex, and we just love everything about bed.

The other night we were going to bed and he said "Oh, you make me feel so good."

-----

I'm delighted to have all this back. I have real affection I want to express, and he being kind and sweet allows me to express myself again.

The Ex-files

2007-01-29T23:08:00.000-08:00

Hmmm. Shane reappears.

Shane is among those who don't know where Ezra and I have been together this fall. Ezra told him "we're not exactly together" and Shane didn't ask any more questions, which was a massive relief to both of us, and we shared a big exhale in bed over it, discussing Shane's arrival in town.

I cringe all over at the thought of Shane finding out that I complied with, even wanted, a monogamous relationship with Ezra, when I wouldn't with him. It's kind of a retroactive slap in the face, and I don't want to be unkind. And worse, that Ezra cheated on me, and I was devastated. Scalp-crinkling shame, that.

I'm sure Ezra feels worse. Shane's last, firmly repeated, injunction to him was to "Treat her better than I did." Sure, you won. I fucked up and lost her, you've got her now, that's ok because I like you both, but don't let me down. "Treat her better than I did." Which he didn't.

Ezra still carries massive guilt over "taking" me from Shane. I laugh and hug him and say Shane didn't care about me, for god's sake, look how badly he treated me. Ezra shakes his head, not buying it for a second, and says, "Nope. There was something there. I hurt him." Lately, he adds, "I hurt the people I love the most."

Shane's so ok with it now, I say. Look how quickly he bounced to Bimbo I, II, and III within 3 months, I say. "He doesn't call me," Ezra says. "He's written me off. I've lost him, and he was my best friend." Noooo, silly, I say. He's just in another world. So far away. He doesn't think of us.

I was right about only that, it seems. Shane bounced into town, called Ezra immediately, and they started doing the rounds of friends and 6packs and catching the hockey and basketball games over hot wings. Shane started calling my house looking for Ezra. He threw in a little small talk to me, in formality. See? I say to Ezra. You guys are fine. Hmm, I think to myself. Shane said goodbye to me on the phone, flippantly, by saying "I'll always love ya, you know that, right?" That was slightly odd.

I hear through Ez that Shane is all hot to get back on a rink. I'm hitting the ice for an hour, so on a whim, I phone Shane, and invite him along. I meant to say "You could come if you want", but instead it comes out "Would you like to come with me?" and I wince. Crap! I don't want to sound like I want to see him! I don't. I'm glad I no longer have to listen to him and carry on the charade of "being friends", and translate, so that he and Ez can preserve their friendship. I'm just... going to play shinny and I know he really wants to too while he's here, and....

He looks like a different guy. I stare at him protractedly, squint, at the guy walking up the street. Is that him? He walks, stands, moves differently, so I'm only sure it's him at the last moment, when he's on my property and laughing, seeing me unsure.

But he is truly characterized by what he no longer does. He does not immediately rant and rave about himself, his car, or his recent, present, and future girls and how hot they were. His complete non-mention of women actually makes me a hair curious. But not curious enough to ask. Oh god no, not that unwary.

He does not move as though he's watching himself in a mental mirror. He does not monopolize all psychic and verbal airspace. He actually asks questions, and listens, and does not jump into a conversational gap by answering the question he just asked you as though he was talking to himself the whole time. He does not (or didn't in so short a time), make any subtle critical comments or "observations". He compliments me. He laughs, and lets me finish not only sentences but whole stories. He is tactful(!) and honors my unwillingness to share on certain topics.

I am astounded.

I'm very impressed. I look at him sideways, trying to catch the old Shane, wondering, has he really changed? It...can happen?

We're pulling out of the rink and he tells me, directly after "thanks for the apple, I'm so hungry", that he loves me still, and it's still kind of hard for him. What? Apple...what?

"It wasn't so bad last year when I had someone, but now, I don't, so it's kinda hard. Don't get me wrong, I love seeing you, you're so much fun, but... I think it's better if I just see you, or just Ezra, it'd be tough to be with both of you together. You're my first love, I'm always going to be in love with you."

Holy shit! Not expecting that. "Wow, honey," I say. "I don't think I ever really believed that, you know?" I didn't. I'm just believing it now. Perhaps, what I've just been through lets me understand the insanity. We all have different insanities.

I'm feeling rather humbled. "I'm so sorry. I truly never believed- you didn't treat me - you - I just didn't realize you loved me that much."

"I know," he says. "I'm sorry for everything."

We're idling in front of my house now, and we hug. I evade inviting him in, because I'm afraid he would accept, and he helps me in the evasion.

We do it again a couple days later. We talk less, and hug longer. I hold his hand in the car when he tells me, still glowing from the exercise, and the cold, how much fun he had. I say goodbye quickly, saying "for sure I'll see you again before you go," but... I don't see him again.

Ezra relays a goodbye to him for me.

Crap! I completely forgot to ask him if he still desires a dick in his mouth, or if he's tasted one by now.

Upgrading!

2007-01-23T10:31:00.000-08:00

I'll repopulate my sidebar very soon. Sure wish I could resize the header-???? ( i want to make it a little bigger).

The big blogger beta change means I lost all my comments, though. Oh well, I remember the encouragement.

Still no answer

2007-01-21T22:28:00.000-08:00

Well, sex turned into a regular, friendly thing. A flickering echo of its former flame, but... sex. Sex is like pizza, right? When is pizza a bad thing?

I continued to have flashes of rage, and worse, confusion. In my fantasies about submission, anal sex, and real, heavy-duty surrender or worship, Ezra got eliminated from any participatory roles. In fact, I started actively creating in my imagination "the new guy". The Next Guy. The Better Guy. Generous helpings of Ezra's beautiful qualities; slight adjustments/improvements. Fine-tuning.

Then when I see myself unwilling to even imagine my favorite, intense scenarios with Ezra, then How can I have any sex with him? It's all supposed to be sacred. That worried me. Average sex was, at the least, accepting mediocrity, at the worst, soul damaging.

I was sure I didn't want certain things. I didn't want to suck his cock. That's a worshipful, reverent act and a gift, and a gift I didn't want to give him. And he definitely wasn't going near my ass. So why was I sleeping with him at all? Why was offering up my pussy acceptable?

Bad thoughts; confusing issues.

But, Ezra The Basically Kind & Good Human Being (I still think highly of him) was grateful, generous and gentle. We had one battle over head- him wanting it and me not wanting to (another scene I never thought I'd be cast in)- that was teasing but then serious and ended quickly when I got mad, but on the whole, he asked for nothing and followed my lead in all.

Trust builds quickly when someone responds instantly and unselfishly to the slightest discomfort and resistance signals. I appreciated very much how he would (could!) shut it all down if the feeling shut off for me (and it would). Very rare quality in a man - the ability to ignore a throbbing hardon and switch to hugs when your woman suddenly dries up and gets off your cock. Very rare, but very appreciated. Appreciation usually translates to many blowjobs. Eventually.

I also was endeared and worn down by his willingness to go down on me, and slight insistence. "Come on, you know you want it,"not-taking-no for-an-answer, in this case. Very sweet.

So, we continue to have sex. I've stopped crying. I've stopped mentioning Kristi. I've stopped talking about "it". We just do everything together. We laugh and cuddle and argue over movies in the video store. His socks show up in my laundry. He stays over 12 nights out of 13, and we have sex. Slightly limited, diminished sex.

NOW, I feel like I'm married, and it's hideous. Yes, we love each other, but there is unforgiveable hurt under the bridge, and things we don't talk about, and we fantasize about having the sex we used to have with each other, with someone else. Fuck. Sure sounds like marriage to me. Without the commitment. How much does that suck?

Reportedly, he tells people who ask that "We're not really together." This hurts, but, what are we? I wouldn't say we're really together either. I evade this question.

I keep on demanding that he be loyal to me for the winter. After all, we're fucking, we're appearing publicly together, most people who didn't know, don't, and assume we're just still together. What do you want with me now, I ask him? Tell me soon. I will. When? Soon.

Well? I don't know. Come on, what do you want? I know what I want. I want the sadness mitigated. I want you to be with me for the winter. When you leave, it's done. It'll just be easier to mourn you when you're gone, not when you're living across the street. I want to soak up what I can, have fun with you, finish happy. I wasn't ready to let you go.

What do you want? I don't know. I'm confused. I'm sorry. I'm a very confused mess. Tell me soon. I will.

At least we're fucking again

2007-01-19T20:05:00.000-08:00

Phew.

After a long more-than-a-month of no sex, no kissing, but constant contact, I guess we hit some kind of breakthrough, and we had sex. Kinda careful, kinda bodice-ripping.

The weight off my (mind?) is immense. I feel capable of writing again, feel some lost stability returned. I didn't know how lost I was.

We didn't plan for it like that. Desperately clinging to him through my devastation, grief, rage, and pain, seeing as he was my familiar comforter (he felt guilty, so gladly put in the time listening to me bawl), evolved to an agreed on "weaning off".

That was awkward. I wanted him around, but rathered he want to be around me. He wanted to be around me, but feared his presence made it harder (ie. made me cry). I was just crying all the time anyways.

So, our mutual desire to be near each other still, aided by decreasing bouts of bawling as weeks elapsed, led to regular nights curled tightly in each others' arms, gripping each other; breathing, and sleeping. Very regular. Quickly, it was automatically every night that he would slip in, undress, and gather me up on his way to sleep. His socks and t-shirts would stay on the floor a couple days.

I thought it was odd, but we just stopped kissing. Even though we were sleeping naked together, the occasional peck on the forehead, or (whoa!) cheek, was the most intimate we'd get. Sexuality dropped off the program altogether. I was never turned on; neither was he. Sometimes I'd get wistful watching him dress or undress. I didn't want to look at him, because his beautiful body just broke my heart; only evoked sadness, not want.

My logic mind didn't like (any of) this one bit. Sleeping with the betrayer, needing him near me to drop deeply to sleep, is conspicuously absent from all "Should" lists of post-cheating and breakup behavior. Being naked, and constantly touching and affectionate, but without arousal or kissing, was even weirder. He was very loving: always hugging me, tugging me by my waistband when I stood up, to pull me back into his lap on the couch.

I decided to just ride it out, although I had no idea where this steed was headed. On the whole, I was too damn tired from surviving to impose any "Shoulds" on anything, and I just let myself go.

One night I kissed him on the mouth. I felt very close to him, and safe, and I wanted to. He did not kiss me back. I grabbed his head and forced a kiss on his mouth. Then I asked him quietly why we stopped kissing. He didn't know. I said I wanted to, again. He squirmed, and said ok, and allowed himself to be kissed again.

Several nights later he kissed me. The next morning he kissed me some more. The next day, more. Carefully. Perhaps he thought it would trigger an outburst of tears. It was kinda like the early times again. Hesitant tongue forays, almost allowing oneself to slip into arousal, hair gripping, then polite release. Very cute, and quickly, very hot. We have so much knowledge of each other now, and our turnons and sounds are so familiar and easy to pull out of each other, ahhhh, it was just nice. New, but known.

We fucked the same way, half a mind's wheels turning on what the fuck are we doing and is this gonna make it way weird?, the other half in the flow. Partly so glad to be finally having sex again, and now past no-return, that we were fast, violent, needy. Normal, unspectacular sex (probably due to that half a mind that got so busy). But what a relief, just the same.

Desperate Sex

2007-01-19T19:49:00.000-08:00

I just realized I left a big gap between Ezra coming back and dumping me, and then him popping up in my posts again. Sorry. That's what happens when you're too busy crying. Eventually I'll slot this post into it's chronological order.
--------

When I discovered The Text, I raged. Raged and howled. I was, literally, blinded, and it was very dramatic. He grabbed me and pinned my arms so I wouldn't hurt myself, and we were crumpled on the floor in a knot, my screaming and sobbing kinda the same thing. First I told him to disappear, then about a half hour later, I allowed him to stay. 3 hours later, we had extraordinarily passionate sex.

Oh, and that night, I also told him about sleeping with Dave, and Shane. That was an interesting summer. It was wonderful to get off my chest, the only safe time to reveal that seeming to be when I was so hurt, and there was nothing to lose. There we were, sitting at the end of it all, wide open, raw, and not wanting to carry anything pointless any longer. So I told him it all. No need to worry about him remembering my URL and reading my site. I reminded him that it's all here, written in more detail than he wanted to hear about.

I insisted on telling him with some very specific detail about Shane expressing a desire for him, like it or not. "I don't believe you," he said. No, it's true, I insisted. I wanted him to believe, and understand that crucial element of our beginning- our phoenix from the plane crash that was my relationship with Shane. Nothing doing.

"He's going to ask me someday if I told you. He wanted me to tell you. I'll tell him I did. What will I tell him you said?" I wheedled.

"Tell him I didn't believe you. I don't believe you." To everything else, nothing. I didn't need to tell him. I did, but for myself, not for Ezra. He acted like he didn't care, and he's never mentioned it since. I have no idea if he thinks about it.

I was afraid of hurting myself, of being alone. And he remained nearby, catching me when I fell. He was horrified at what he'd done, at the (a) woman he loved disintegrating in front of him. He was shattered as well, regularly weeping when I bawled, chanting under his breath "I'm so sorry", rocking me, and pulling my hands out of my mouth when I bit them, and seizing my wrists when I pulled my hair.

For a few days, we had the most amazing sex. It was incredible, really. I would scream, rage, bawl, deplete myself, and end up turned on. I'd pull on his clothes, still weeping, and climb on him, and we'd have cat-like, intense sex, and I would come impossibly hard. I got a headache once from orgasm. Then I would smile, and he would say "Oh my god, you're smiling," and I would say "Well look what you just did to me," and he would say "Is that all? Is that all I have to do to make you smile?"

Desperate Sex.

I demanded, constantly: How could you do that to me? How could you not trust me enough to tell me how you felt? How could you lie? How could you? How did you? He always responded, agonizingly, that he didn't know. He had no idea how he did. The worst mistake of his life. He hurt me so much even though he loved me so much. He'd never forgive himself, he hated himself, he learned a huge lesson. I believed that.

I respected him for this: he never backed down from saying it was too scary, too intense, and he was uncomfortable with our relationship. He never begged for forgiveness, or to have me back the way it was. Never once. I appreciated that very much.

He did say many interesting new things. That he was a habitual creature and knew that about himself, and it was so good, he could just see himself living with me, and leaving for the summer, and living with me, and all of a sudden a decade passing, and then, just maybe, he would wish he had done something different. Why couldn't you have told me that? "I don't know." What's so bad about that? I know you're happy with me. "Yes! I've never been so happy!" Then what's so bad about being happy, about being with me? "I don't know, baby. I don't know. I'm so sorry."

That he never feels jealousy about me because he thinks if I'm ever with someone else, they're probably better for me than he is, and I should be with them. (Breathtaking. Hugely meaningful. Frightening in its implications. My jealousy is so fierce, albeit new; I think it means affection. It seems natural.) I ask for more explanation. He can't explain.

That he didn't remember how much he liked me. He just got sucked into this thing with Kristi, fully knowing that he was sleeping with her to irrevocably sever the ties to me, but not suspecting that she would quickly begin to treat him like I had, and construct a replica of our relationship. I half-laughed at him for this. Mocked him for two girlfriends. Told him he couldn't get away with sliding along with her. He knew that. "Yes, I've just learned that."

I looked up polyamory sites, one that happened to be great. I wanted a relationship with him still. I was willing to change. I phoned her. I counselled Ezra regarding her. Translated for him, told him what she was wanting, ordered him to phone her. It's been 3 days - she's tying herself in a knot imagining us fucking and thinking you don't care about her and she means nothing to you! You have to tell her she does. You have to tell her she does, you appreciate her and loved the time you were with her, blah blah, but you also have to tell her you're not going to be her boyfriend.

------

I hit him once. That was horrible. I misunderstood him. I heard him say he couldn't be with me, but because she was waiting for him, and he felt responsibility to her, he would honor that and be with her. Something to that effect. When you can't be with me? I screamed. I split in half- I swear I felt my self fissure. You can't be with me, but you will be with her? I screamed. I got up to my knees, violently throwing his arm off of me and turning on him. How dare you? How dare you? "No, no, baby." He held out his hands. He was trying to explain. I snatched a pillow and forced it down on his face, putting my weight into it, wanting to kill him and wanting to protect him. He yielded immediately. I punched him again and again in the head, through the pillow, screaming just sounds, like an animal. I was watching myself from a little bit behind my head. He didn't even put his hands up to stop me or shield himself. Didn't struggle or turn his head. He just laid there unflinching, and I beat him. I remember that. It was like a movie. I finally snapped back together, and recoiled, standing up, stumbling backwards, falling again, horrified at what I had done, shaking, and he sprang up into action, once again, grabbing me and pulling me to him, to save me from myself. "It's ok, baby, it's ok." No, it's NOT! I hit you. I hit you! I didn't know I could do that! I hit you. "It's ok. It's ok, baby. I'm not hurt. I understand." No, it's not. "Yes it is. I understand." I didn't know... I didn't know...

I very much scared myself that night. I changed from something I thought I was into something I thought I could never be, and I didn't like it. He never once changed the way he treated me. Compassionately, gently.

-----

He went to see Kristi. He told her he didn't want any girlfriends, and he felt like that's what she wanted from him.

At least, that's what he told me he told her. "I told her what I could, and couldn't, give her." I can't ever know. I know I was alone for several days, knowing they were spending two hotel nights together, having final, wistful goodbye, sex. I know she doesn't email very often. Her texts are cool, perfunctory, polite. And infrequent.

At times I would hit a plane of aching clarity, and be very understanding. I never wanted to trap anyone. Never wanted to ask of anyone that they deny part of themselves, deny attraction or relation to anyone else. The irony! The pain! My first monogamous relationship, one in which I feel so secure and confident of his commitment to me, the first time I feel capable of fidelity to him, because I am so crazy about him, and HE cheats on ME.

I wailed and raged at the irony. You knew the arrangement Shane and I had - how could you think I wouldn't accept change? I thought YOU wanted loyalty! I thought YOU wanted the traditional shit! "I'm so sorry."

I wanted him still, couldn't imagine living without him.

But then, he had stabbed me with a lie, and I'd never trust him again. I demanded that he be loyal to me for the winter. Pretend. I didn't want to face shame, and everyone's sympathetic questions. If he was gonna be picking up other chicks at the bar, I have to move away from town. "No, no. Please don't move!" Well?

He stayed close. When I broke down far enough to phone or msg him and reveal I was crying, he would drop anything and appear to comfort me. I continued to demand that he be loyal to me for the winter. Beg. Stay with me for the winter. Let's just be nice to each other. We like each other, let's just be together. "Yes, yes," he would say. "We should be friends. We get along so good." No, we can't be friends! I cannot be around you without fucking you! (Apparently, I can, but I didn't know that yet.) "Maybe I should go. I worry that it's too hard for you, me being around." NOOOOOOO! "Ok! I'm staying! I just want to make it easy for you."

We stopped having sex. He stayed close, but we stopped having sex. It just disappeared.

One delightful occurrence

2007-01-07T16:08:00.000-08:00

I was walking into London Drugs on Yates in Victoria. It was dark, raining, and I felt like I was not only lugging my backpack of day's errands and two bags of groceries, but my heavy feet as well. I was really hot in my puffy jacket, too, and the space between my shoulder blades felt numb.

I passed a guy walking briskly the opposite direction, young, tall, and really cute. Really very cute. Hot. Cute enough for me to blatantly stare at him for the couple of beats between seeing him and passing him.

A couple strides later, I half decided, half instinctually turned to look back at him. Carrying the pounds of groceries I was, this required a full stop. And of course, exactly as I stopped and looked back, so did he.

We looked at each other looking back at each other, a smile cracked my face, and I snapped my gaze away, blinking, instantly flushed with the discomfort of getting busted, and... something else.

The thrill straightened my back and made walking easier. I gave money to the guy begging outside of LD. I was amazed at how happy this one flattering lookback could make me.

Of course, a half hour later I wished I'd been cooler, been bolder, maybe spoke, and an hour later I was imagining fabulous complications. But I am so grateful for this tiny, sweet moment with a stranger in the rain.

2007-01-07T15:09:00.000-08:00

Signs I'm doing better:

Having smarmy, romantic, unsexual fantasies about my hockey player being completely enamoured of me. Hey, at least I'm fantasizing. Soon he'll be bending me over a couch with a fist in my hair, and I'll be ALLLLL better.

Two blindingly powerful solo orgasms. Of course, I had been listening to all of Violet Blue's comprehensive archive of podcasts (all day), so getting self off was pretty much erotic inevitability.

I'm eating better, not drinking at all, and painting my fingernails. I'm playing far less poker, and have moved on to roaming Lost forums in itchy anticipation of Lost's Feb 7 return. Oh, and renting Desperate Housewives.

I'm writing lists again! An orgy of lists, in fact. I'm pretending it's just a coincidence that it's New Years, because I hate buying into that shit.

-------

To the people responsible for the 1000 hits in the last 30 days, you're very kind to check in at all. On the best days I bore myself and on the worst I make myself sick, so I expect no one else to be interested. Thank you.

2006-12-24T18:57:00.000-08:00

Signs I have not been doing so well:

Playing far too much late-night, mind-numbing, online poker, with a "create new post" window open and blank behind it.

Playing too much Text Twist (crack for Scrabblers), and Tetris (hey, I totally missed tetris the first time around, when I was like, 12 or something?)

Having smarmy, romantic, unsexual fantasies about my hockey player being completely enamoured of me.

Driving my car off the road and almost killing myself.

Eating like crap.

Drinking daily.

Biting my fingertips raw.

(Most alarmingly), not having any apparent sex drive, evidenced by zero orgasms and zero completions of half-hearted masturbation attempts for a truly astonishing number of days. I'm sure it's into the plural-multiple weeks, actually.

Being uninspired to make lists. I am literally, listless. This alarms me almost as much as the sex drive.

And for better or worse (my feet are still moving), the only genuine sense of peace I can get is from doing/building something that I can look at and be proud of. It's like a hit. And it doesn't last very long. I'm lucky to get a couple hours out of tiling a bathroom, or painting a room. Nothing else will settle the unease inside, or pause the questions.

He's not a mormon

2006-12-13T09:33:00.000-08:00

One of my first reactions, after plain fury and muscle-melting devastation, was "why can't we share?" I had so many plans for the winter with him. He's gone for the summer anyways, she can have him then. I can fool around too.. I just want my winter as I imagined.

I phoned her up. She didn't recognize my name, because he'd never told her. This was deeply insulting, and belied what he'd told me, that he had been so torn up thinking of me, and they had "discussed" me. As bad as that was, it was worse to realize I didn't even have a name in her mind.

She started crying preemptorily. (Please don't be mad, I'm crying!) "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for any of this to happen, I'm so sorry!" Except I wasn't mad at her.

I had a lot of sympathy for her by this time. As truths had emerged, Ez had told me many ways in which we were similar to each other, how they had gotten close, and how strongly she felt about him. I understood all that; I know how I felt about him. He'd also started to show me her texts to him when I asked, in the interests of transparency, and they were plaintive and fearful. I knew she felt abandoned, disconnected, and in a horrible limbo of not knowing what Ezra was feeling about her, or me, or what was to come. I heard him speaking to her on the phone, knew he was evading her questions, knew that she knew he was sleeping with me again.

She wasn't in the mood for sharing. "He's not a mormon, he has to choose one of us". I told her he was horribly confused but I knew he wanted to see her. She said yes, that he had told her he wanted to tell her something. Neither of us knew what that would be. I speculated that Ezra didn't know yet. There were pauses in our conversation.

I tried to convince her I wasn't mad at her. She had thought it was over with Ezra and I; he had given her that impression. "Did you know how close we were? Did you know he was calling me every week? That I was sending him letters and gifts while you were sleeping with him? Having lunch with his mom?" No. No. She was so sorry.

It was clear that she wasn't so attached to him as I, though. She hadn't had the time to be. What if he was going to opt out of a long distance thing with her? Well, then she would move on. "I'm too old to waste my time."

I wished I could feel so clear.

Time to spill the truth

2006-12-08T18:01:00.000-08:00

My boyfriend dumped me.

Ezra the perfect returned from his summer of work to tell me that it had been getting too intense for him, he didn't really want a girlfriend any more, and he had slept with someone else to seal the deal.

Except he didn't tell me. I woke up from a nap, and found his cell phone under my thigh, where it had fallen from his pocket. I sleepily flipped it open to a startling text message from "Kristi" with an I! - "miss you! wish you were in my bed!"

This was over a week after he got back. A couple days after I'd asked him point blank, "Did you sleep with someone else up there?" Over a week that he'd been sleeping with me, pretending, "planning" to tell me. A week that I'd been worried and curious why it wasn't the same, wasn't how I'd expected, why he seemed different.

Then he told me that he had been getting uncomfortable with the intensity of us. That he liked me so much it scared him, that he needed a break, that it was so good between us that he could see it lasting forever, and that terrified him.

Oh, and he didn't just sleep with her. Not even sleep with her a couple times. He moved in with her for his last week of work. He was seeing her for a month. She thought he was coming home to dump me and then they'd do the long distance thing. They were already planning to meet up in Vancouver in a couple weeks.

Except he didn't tell me all that, either. I found that out from sneaking his cell phone out of his pocket while he was sleeping and reading her texts. Then he told me truths, slowly, when I asked him very specific questions.

So that's why a month and a half of work away from home turned into a 3 month unexpected blog hiatus.

I'm finding it really hard to talk to anyone. I don't want any damn sympathy, and I want encouragement and suggestions less. I haven't told my parents. I'm dreading christmas.

Obviously, I fell apart, in all kinds of ways, and I'm nowhere near ok yet. But I want to start putting myself back together, and admitting the truth on here to an unknown public is a step.

Don't feel bad if you don't ejaculate. It means you have less laundry to do.

2006-09-11T00:39:00.000-07:00

I had another ejaculatory orgasm!! This is fantastic. I didn't think it was so easy for me to do myself, and now with all the practice I'm getting lately, I find that I can indeed make myself squirt.

This one might have had something to do with a hotel room and three young (hard up and horny) roughnecks with a bit of force and a bit of guy on guy, but I'm still gonna take all the credit.

If I can produce them myself, that means I can study this phenomenon. If I could be prepared enough to keep a cup by the bed, I want to measure how much, see what it looks like. What IS it? I'm amazed by the miracle of our bodies, and so thrilled to be among the privileged women capable of ejaculating. Thank god I'd already heard of female ejaculation the first time it happened to me, because it was shocking enough to have fluid flooding helplessly out of me; I think it would have really scared the shit out of me if I'd had no idea what was going on.

Before last week, it was in the realm of things that happened rarely, and from only the exact right circumstances - generally fingers, kind of aggressive stimulation, and it wasn't something that just flowed (pardon the pun), it had to be forced. Ezra's done it for me a couple times too, in slightly different ways, which surprised me. Once he had his thumb on my clit while he was fucking me and I soaked us. I was so startled that it was happening like that, but I still managed to tell him "I'm gonna squirt". It was gorgeous. My fluid running down his legs, and he started to come seeing me go like that. Our orgasms just finished us like a knockout punch. He collapsed on me and we passed out together for at least three hours, waking up soaked, with my shirt around my neck and his jeans around his ankles, lights on, middle of the night, his 180# body still lying on me, cock still in me. Wow. Physically cramped, damp and miserable; heart and soul in bliss.

I regret to say that my initial instinct when I feel it coming is shame. I try to retreat from it, try to announce a warning. I'm afraid of getting the bed wet and try to grab something to staunch it. Of course, all these reflexive instincts are more thought flashes than action, seeing as I'm in the grip of the most powerful orgasm I can have, speech is way impossible, and I'm temporarily relieved of motor coordination as well.

But I feel that I should be glorying in it, revelling the abundant, oceanic explosion of my passion, or some shit. Not "Oh. fuck. uh, uh, aauuughgGGHHH!" And then as soon as I can lift my head trying to see the wet spot and cover it. While Ezra's grinning proudly and "Wow!"ing. I have hazy recollections of his eyes really big, so I know he's down with it all. One of my favorite things about him. He is down for it all. I'd think I'd have to go a long way to initiate something that would make him pause. Ah, yes, so, where was I? I'd like to change that initial feeling about it. I'm sure I'd enjoy it more. So solitary practice might be nice to get more comfortable with it. Understand how it begins in my body and get more used to it.

I think it's entertaining that it's understood so poorly. No one seems to have definitively announced what the fluid is, and where it comes from. Lots of women know exactly how it feels in their body and how to produce it, though. Pushing against the instinct to tighten up is a good suggestion. It does feel sort of like the urge to pee.

And holy shit is there ever a LOT of the stuff. It seems outrageous to me that the body's mechanism for making it has been so elusive. That's a lot of action to hide. You'd think someone might have noticed some mysterious organs down there and wondered "What do these do?" Or there can be a lot. Last time for me was a truly amazing quantity, this time not nearly so much. If I weren't told differently, it would seem like it got saved up.

I'm also entertained by the fact that the Greeks documented female ejaculation, and not as an anomalous deviation, but as a common piece fo trivia. And pre-renaissance, before cadaver dissection, etc, male and female parts were seen as more similar versions of each other, and were known to share the properties of ejaculation. Now in this "advanced" and "enlightened" age, female ejaculation is "new" and being "discovered". All those men studying biology seem to know so little! I'm just guessing that we as a culture are farther "behind", and have so much more to learn about our bodies, and pleasure, and the potential of sexuality than thousands of years of cultures that have preceded us.

Let's get to work, people!

I need to do some more research, (past the first page of results that anyone can google) but one site (that's not especially useful, otherwise) produced this quote I think is hilarious! Context - women feeling inadequate now if they don't ejaculate):
Bottom line: no woman should feel she is being cheated because she doesn't need a pile of towels under her when she has sex

The Lawn Chair

2006-09-04T10:29:00.000-07:00

We worked together all day. Since he was doing me a favor to help me out, I was sensitive that he seemed cranky and less affectionate. It may have been my imagination - once we got a meal, a beer, and a game of pool, we were having fun again.

As we got back into his truck to drive home, I felt an overwhelming rush of gratitude for this man beside me - so generous, to labour with me all day with no compensation, just to lighten my workload. I also desperately wanted to give him head, and the details evolved in my mind as I spoke.

"I want to put you in a comfy chair... and kneel between your knees, and suck your cock while you hold my head in both your hands."

He squeezed my leg, and picked up my hand and kissed it. "We're almost home, baby."

When we got home, while he took a beer into the shower, I dashed around to gather my props. Comfy chair, comfy chair ... I grabbed a folding lawn chair, swiftly tidied my bedroom, started some candles, placed the chair and made it comfy with a fuzzy blanket. Then I joined him in the shower just before he got out - time enough to get warm and wet and hug him in the hot water and murmur some more anticipation of sucking his cock.

Warm and clean, I found him starting a fire, and we lounged beside it. He mentioned wanting to watch a movie that was soon due back to the video store. I pouted. "Can I give you head first?"

"Might be able to fit that in," he teased. "You've been talking about it all night."

When he walked in my room and saw the setup, his eyes widened eagerly and he smiled with so much delight.

"Sit," I commanded. "Take your pants off." He settled into the chair; I opened my robe and let it slip off of me. I took his beer gently from his hand and slipped it into the armrest pocket, then he grabbed my head with both hands to kiss my forehead as I knelt in front of him. I pushed on his chest with one hand. "You just sit." He obeyed, leaning slowly back, but he kept his hands over my ears and pulled my head down onto his already fully hard cock, our eyes locked until he closed his and let his head drop back, with the most relaxed and delighted grin on his face.

I was so comfortable as well, kneeling on a pillow before him, knees wide and back arched, with lots of range to move. I slid my hands behind his body and massaged his lower back, stroked him from his chest down his thighs and legs to handle his feet, back up to cup and touch his balls, all while I swivelled my mouth up and down on his gorgeous cock, not swallowing, letting my saliva pour down and run all over his balls for my fingers to slide around. He held my head on one side in one big hand, then the other, cupping my jaw, or my ear, or the back of my head, and growing confident that I was totally comfortable with his direction.

The one article of clothing he was still wearing struck me as suddenly amusing, seeing as he was enthroned in a folding lawn chair with a beer and his naked bitch sucking his cock, and I helplessly smiled and snickered, forcing me to pull off of him. I giggled. "You're wearing a wifebeater!"

He laughed too, understanding exactly. "Yeah, I got my beer...," laughing. "I'm not gonna hurt you, baby." He smiled, pulling the undershirt off over his head and looping it around the back of my head, tugging with two hands, pushing deeper into my mouth, still cautiously and gently.

"Suck my cock," he ordered, tentatively, like he was experimenting with talking, and like he might try adding "...bitch". I enthusiastically "ummhmmm"ed.

We lasted for so long, neither of us wanting it to end. I was dripping wet with the joy of giving to him, watching his body limp and reclined, his hands so untypically still, his face so happy. Watching and feeling him surrender to the experience, not try to respond, was so damn hot.

He took a sip from his beer, and touched the cool bottle to my face, and neck. He alternated watching me, and flopping his head back to enjoy without his eyes; letting me control, and taking my head and controlling me. He pushed my hair out of my face with gentle fingers, watching his cock disappear into my mouth as deep as it can. He firmly manipulated my head, rotating it and dropping it for my mouth to slide onto his cock, pausing and restarting, deliciously in control of the pace and tempo.

He eventually gave in and exploded deep in my mouth with a gorgeous expression of surrender on his face, his fingers gripping deep in my hair and his cock super hard and thrusting, finally past being careful with me, just completely indulging in his own orgasm.

I hugged him around the waist, resting my head in the bend of his hip until his shaking and quivering subsided, my heart filled with pride and pleasure to be making him so completely happy. Eventually he spoke.

"I'm going to think about that for a long time."

Just writing...

2006-09-03T23:35:00.000-07:00

Ezra's been away a bit lately for work, hence the sudden flurry of interest in fantasy for me. I've been having a lot of Sex for One. Of course, no sooner than I write an epic about the nature of my fantasy program (about 5 posts down), than the program mutates. The last few nights I've been assiduously masturbating as a soul/mood/sex drive experiment, and each time I've had vastly different and new fantasies.

The recent sex I had with Ezra too was a new level that I find myself incapable of talking about, possibly b/c I was a bit drunk for the best of it. That's bugging me a little, b/c I would love to make it come alive in words. But it's not happening.

It seems these days that depression always lives near me. For days or weeks I forget about it, but then it arrives with a suddenness that makes it seem it was sleeping contentedly on the porch the whole time, waiting for me to open the door accidentally. When it darts inside like a cat and I can't find its hiding place to toss it out again, it shakes me badly. I want to think of managing my life to maximize joy, endorphins, and contentment as a fairly easy, natural thing to do, not a constant, determined vigil.

Today at work I made a horrendous, horribly costly mistake. I can't remember the last mistake I made of such a magnificently hideous magnitude. Unfortunately, I'm not the vomiting type, so my insides just flipped over and roiled, faced by a staunchly unyielding esophagus. Funnily enough, I felt like it might be the thing to pull me out of languishing over small stuff. Suddenly there's an elephant in the room to deal with. I haven't even begun to figure out how I'm going to redress this fuckup, but I did immediately hit my core sense of justice and commit to finding a way. Being honorable is important to me.

Luckily Legally Blonde is such a happy, unrelenting movie. Our undaunted heroine is untroubled by any mixed emotions or grey areas of life, and fiercely chooses to believe unconditionally in herself, so the right and rewarding path opens in front of her feet. Ezra teased me about buying it, but man has it ever saved my spirit.

I've been thinking about big ideas and big injustices lately, and it's ridiculous for me to try to comment on any of them in a post, though I have done so in moments of lesser judgement. Any one subject deserves a dissertation, or book, and the research and thought behind one. I'm dipping my feet in little pools of opinion. What's on my mind:

- Religion. I think escape and recovery from some religions might resemble 12 step programs.

- Poverty. It's imposed, designed, maintained, and murderous. Cutbacks to education/welfare/daycare, taxation law, immigration laws, "War on drugs"; might as well call it "war on the poor". It even rhymes. The rich need the poor to stay poor.

- Species are being destroyed daily on this planet, the environment is fragile, consumption outpaces growth, and not enough people are paying attention!

- How do I wake up tomorrow and live differently so that I might be satisfied within myself that I am doing more good than harm to others and other life?

- Why do I frequently feel more compassion for animals than human life? Why?

- Yard work is ridiculous and really sucks. Lawns are retarded. Why do we have so many? How does stupid shit like "everyone needs a carpet of short grass" get started?

- Infant male circumcision is wrong.

- George W. is a warmonger and I am afraid. I don't like Stephen Harper either, and our voting model needs to change. I don't feel I have any connection to our leadership, and helplessness really sucks

- Drug abuse/use/addiction. Everybody I know seems to be snorting too much coke. And it's hard to blame them for wanting some escape.

- How do I reconcile these two sides of myself? One wants to belong to Ezra and feels secure he "belongs" to me. The other abhors limiting him in any way, and fears that any commitment or bond is a diabolical noose sure to choke life out of our relationship

- How am I going to pay the mortgage in October? How will I live financially 15, 30 years from now? Will we have the same lives, economy, privilege?

- How can I help my body withstand the bombardment of chemical, atmospheric, food related toxins that is increasing all the time?

- How can I feel better? How can I think and live with my eyes open, and still be lively, open, radiant, and encourage and uplift others?

AAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! Screaming overload!

- Female ejaculation. Why does it seem so little is scientifically known about it? I need to do more research and compile some good links. Talk more about my squirting history. Yes... good topic.

- Mormons. Just read another Mormon "escape from polygamy" book. Trendy topic, now that Warren Jeffs' been apprehended. I wonder why I'm just so damn fascinated with the LDS and FLDS. Really, I didn't grow up Mormon. There are other religions that wildly skew your natural senses of right, wrong, shame, guilt, love, and sexuality. It doesn't even bear much similarity to what I grew up with, but there must be some connection there, b/c I can't get enough. I'll soon be a scholar of the subject, I do so much reading about it.

LDS boys on their mission came to my house once. One of them was kinda hot....

And you know what else? Anytime I spend a bunch of time surfing other peoples' sex blogs, I get overwhelmed and depressed. There is so much out there!! So many people have so much to say! Everyone has had every kind of sex. What can I possibly have that's unique to offer? Why should I bother adding to the clamour? There are so, so many people in this world. How can anyone in this gigantic world feel unique and feel they have a vital contribution to make to the development of culture/information/humanity?

Of course, this is an ancient demon addressed by most writing books with the advice: "don't think about it, just write". Or more optimistically: "You don't need to feel that your life/voice is important for it to be important. Just write".

So, that's me these days. I was reviewing my blog and I think it's missing a lot of heat lately, which is odd, b/c my life sure isn't. It's almost as if, with more yearning than action in real life, my writing is detailed and charged, but when I'm getting constantly laid, my writing is lazy and content. It just wants to cuddle.

But I simply can't believe I haven't written about the lawn chair...

Splash!

2006-08-30T10:49:00.000-07:00

So much for not sharing a current fantasy b/c it's too close to me. This one is, I admit, uncharacteristic, kinda tame, and emerged out of nowhere full fledged. Sure did the trick, though.

So I have this contractor over to my house to look at some work I want done. He doesn't really look like anyone; I can't even decide on the colour of his hair. In fact, his whole appearance is vague and flickers in and out like a bad tv signal. He's hot to me, that's certain, and we flirt mildly together. I'm looking for that delicate conversational window, to make it clear I want him, now, without being too vulnerable.

I climb to the very top of my stepladder ("do not stand on or above this step"), to point out something in particular. I'm wearing an almost-to-my-knees skirt (I am actually wearing it, too). I have very good balance and am perfectly comfortable on the peak of a ladder, but he's alarmed and grabs my calf. To do so, of course, he has to stand chest-against the ladder. I laugh down at him. "How is that going to help me, if I were to fall? I think you just want to look up my skirt."

He releases me and grins. "How else am I gonna find out what kind of panties you're wearing?"

I step backwards down two rungs and bend forward from the waist, elbows on the top of the ladder. "And why would you need to know that? For later, when you're fantasizing about climbing up this ladder behind me and lifting my skirt up over my ass?"

He's startled and his mouth drops open a little. I see his breath grow quicker, too.

I climb all the way down the ladder in silence and lean against it at the bottom, looking at him. I stare pointedly at his crotch. "Can I see it?"

He's recovering a little now. "Why?"

"For later, when I'm fantasizing about you opening your jeans and filling my mouth with your cock. Are you cut, uncut? What's it like?"

He takes two steps towards me, turns me gently and steers me with his hands on my wiast another two steps to the wall. He slides his hands up and along my arms, lifting them one at a time, to place my palms against the wall and adhere them there with a deliberate moment's firm pressure.

His hands glide back down to circle and squeeze my breasts, as he says into my ear "I need to know for later, when I'm fantasizing about sucking on your nipples."

He gently kicks my legs as wide apart as my hands, hugging me into his body, full-length against my back, and I drop my head back onto his shoulder. His hand glides quickly down the loose top of my skirt, discovers ample wetness, and begins to work my clit (catching up with my hand at this point, which has been at it for a little while). I'm panting and rocking my pelvis back and forth, grinding my ass into his crotch but also my vulva into his fingers. His left hand (like mine, coincidentally), also travels down the front of my skirt, dipping into my pussy, painting the very tops of my inner thighs as I gyrate, and grazing my anus in its explorations.

He pulls his left hand back, shifts his stance slightly to the side, and reaches down the back of my skirt, making my knees weaken and drop a little. He catches me with the pressure of his arms and a leg behind mine, without pausing in the activities of his fingers. His left fingers force some space between the cheeks of my ass and slip slowly in and out of my pussy a few times before he slips one finger a knuckle deep into my ass.

At this point I'm far past verbal, groaning and flailing, looking back at him with my mouth open like I'm begging, but I don't know what for, hands and feet still spread and glued to the wall and the floor. He just smiles at me and steps it up, his fingers harder and more insistent, the one in my ass pushing in a little farther and pumping.

I toss my sweaty hair back against him, gasp wordlessly, and catch his eyes with my unfocused stare. He kisses my open mouth quickly then growls a whisper behind my ear: "I think I'll be fantasizing about making you come like you never have before, while I'm finger-fucking your ass."

I come loud, and long, my ass clenching and pulsing around his finger, my pussy changing to a unique soft velvetyness and opening/closing on it's own rythym. My legs and abs strain and thrash into his hands, his fingers freezing and then moving very gently and slowly for my orgasm and the aftershocks. I slowly fall limp, and shake, leaning against him, helplessly uncoordinated and weak. His hands still on/in me, his body is strong and rigid and he's supporting me between his arms. I pant myself back close to normal.

That's when the unusual happened. After I thought I was done, remarking to myself on how good and long that orgasm was - a series of pulsing waves, I gently withdrew my finger from my ass, and a very fast and hard succession of pulses started again. I had that feeling of needing to pee, and since I'd recently been thinking about female ejaculation, I was prepared for the split second of choice, and pushed as I knew I needed to do to squirt. An ocean of fluid poured out of me, gush after gush, continuous, but with a pulsing rythym.

Of course, then I had to leap up to rip the afected blanket off my bed and snatch a t-shirt off the floor to help soak it up. I've never had so much liquid squirt from me. It honestly felt (and looked) like 2 litres/quarts. I'm sure I've never come quite like that, either. Needless to say, I slept profoundly deeply, and for not as long as I normally need, waking up... oddly thirsty today.

2006-08-10T02:58:00.000-07:00

So I jerked off this morning with a mirror. I can't remember doing that before although it seems like such an obvious activity. Even one recommended by those who spell 'womyn' like that.

I found it's not that interesting. I wanted to know how things changed in size and colour, etc, "when aroused".

Not much.

All of my parts are very small and "economical". There's no more flesh than there needs to be, and I like it that way. It's neat and tidy, and easy to shave. Quite perfect, I think. But my clitoris is tiny, too, and even at it's peak, you can't see it! It doesn't come out at all, just stays hidden in its hood.

I found myself slightly worried about that, that my arousal is not as obvious, abundant, visible, as some women. Women have it easy -there's nothing more evident than an erection - it's inescapable proof. But female parts are much more subtle. From my experience, guys want certainty that they've done well, but women can fake or hide an orgasm, and now my clitoris is hiding!

Brief lapse. It passed. I don't need to cultivate any more insecurities, especially about bits that rarely see the sun. (Although they like the sun! Mmmm, warm sun)

Random bandwagon raving: Angelie Jolie

2006-08-05T01:17:00.000-07:00

I have a huge love on for Angelina Jolie. Ever since Girl, Interrupted and Pushing Tin. I thought she was gorgeous and edgy and wild. Then she did her own stunts as Lara Croft, proving she was an athlete and gymnast to boot.

I used to feel alone in my opinion of her, when people would have bad things to say about her lips ("must be fake"), her tattoos, her eyes ("all psycho") her style and choices("making out with her brother", "Billy Bob Thorton's blood"...). Doesn't anybody else remember that image she had?

Suddenly, she's had a huge reversal of press, and has gone from possibly dangerous and a source of scandalous quotes and behavior to angelic, saintly, sex icon and beauty ideal. I'm glad she's finally getting revered as the goddess she is, but think it's got everything to do with Brad Pitt.

The World's Sexiest Man stamp of approval, as it were. I mean, Billy Bob Thorton isn't gonna raise anyone's stock for marrying him. When Halle Berry was combing his chest hair with her fingers in Monster's Ball, I swear I was watching from between my fingers as I covered my eyes. Unfortunately, that's the most disturbing image I took away from that movie. Halle fucking Billy Bob. So wrong.

So anyways, Brad leaves Jen for her and suddenly everyone thinks she must be the hottest female alive. I say thank god she's on top of the world's opinion right now, because there can't be anyone better in Hollywood to be watching and listening to. She's never been afraid to be different, never been afraid to say what she thinks, and all she wants to talk about these years is saving lives and helping others.

I couldn't love her more.

Random rant: criminal circumcision

2006-08-04T01:19:00.000-07:00

Does it seem wrong to link the Guerilla Girls? I think I just like their style, although I can't agree that the low percentage of women artists getting wall space in art galleries is worth spending any energy over. Rage at George Bush? An issue eminently, vitally, urgent and deserving of attack. Go, girls.

Many of the issues championed by feminists I see as human issues. Orphans, education, poverty, war crimes, sexual abuse... people all over the world, male and female suffer pain and it's wrong. It's not just women!

For fuck's sake, over half of Western men are sexually mutilated as babies, only hours, or days old. Oh yeah, I mean circumcised - sounds so normal, but I think it may be the sickest, most socially crippling practice in our culture. Baseless, scientifically unsupported, unexamined for long-term effects, and every day, blithely continued at hospitals everywhere. But nobody talks about that! There's more interest in the thousands of female circumcisions performed in other countries than the millions of male circumcisions performed "routinely" at home. Wake up and look in your own backyard.

Stop infant circumcision.

Random rant: "feminism"- how does the word serve us anymore?

2006-08-03T16:30:00.000-07:00

The latest book I wish I'd written: Women who Make the World Worse, by Kate O'Beirne.

Just b/c of the title.

The reality, I think, from the little I've read, is that anti-feminists can be just as strident as feminists. Where does that get us?

Ever since I was a teenager, I cringed at "feminism", even though, of course, the movement opened most of the opportunities I profited from. There just seemed to be no place under the title for loving men, for acknowledging that women have and always have had extraordinary power and influence in our culture, for being compassionate for the unique struggles the male gender has had, and for softness and femininity.

It always seemed weird to me that "feminists" were so masculine in word and vibe, and not sexual at all. Also, it seemed to completely ignore the reality - that life just sucked for both genders, albeit in different ways. I thought Warren Farrell's Myth of Male Power was raw and resonant, while "womyn's lit" was kind of half blind- self-obsessed, and divisive- pushing wedges between men and women where we needed solidarity.

I raged for awhile, but then just ignored it all. I figured the old feminism would expire, and the pendulum would swing back in time. I thought the powerful and vulnerable female sexuality we see everywhere was evidence of that, as is Men's Health and metrosexuality and gay beauty.

I forgot to notice feminism was still soldiering on, searching hard for something to get excited about, I suppose, among the ubiquitous humanitarian issues demanding everyone's attention.

I guess Kate O'Beirne noticed.

2006-07-14T16:01:00.000-07:00

I've decided two things.

One of the sexiest things ever is when a man teaches me something. I don't know if it's that he knows something I don't (power balance) or that a different part of my brain comes on when I get curious and therefore excited, or what, but it's so hot, especially if the instruction involves some placing of his hands over mine action.

The other is that a hot fantasy theme for me is 'the lower status guy'. By that I mean the guy that's slightly flawed, or traditionally less attractive, who's maybe shyer, shorter, missing a tooth, clumsier, less confident (though not all at once- I haven't yet been attracted to any awkward, gaptoothed, fumbling midgets).

I do my share of fantasizing about the perfect guys too, usually the ultimate athletes. There's just something about the guy who probably 'gets less', that inspires some real hot imaginations of picking him up (him being startled and disbelieving), taking him home (him nervous and electrified with anticipation), blowing him and his mind (him being wild and ecstatically revelling in every moment).

I suppose this is partly based on my experiences. I know what its like to be with a man who can't believe his luck, who is unfettered by his experience and expectation and just tries everything he can think of with you while he's got the chance, who radiates worshipful gratitude at you afterwards and wistfully allows you to walk out of his (now forever changed) life.

Somewhere in there is a potent cocktail of mental aphrodisiacs. And of course in my own mind, the chosen one is a perfect combination of all three - an uninhibited and undiscovered sexual natural, beaming with gratitude, who understands that incredible sex doesn't mean it's a relationship.

As an aside, I consider it healthy both that I am very rarely attracted to anyone other than Ezra, and that whenever I am moved to I'll fantasize about men other than him. I guess I'd expect him to sleep with others in his mind; I don't feel the least uneasy about my fantasy counterparts, even if they are also real-life women.

The last few nights it's been J, whose appeal is increased by fact that I will never see him again, and he was briefly required to teach me how to do something. Pretty average looking, he was surrounded by gorgeous, golden, chiselled, tanned, and bored-looking athletic youths, so he looked like the runt of a purebred litter, being shorter and missing a tooth. But with his quick eyes and sarcastic wit, in minutes I was completely taken with him, and would have turned up my nose at one of the "hot" guys.

So all of my pre-orgasm scenarios this week have started with something other than what actually happened: I said thank you and walked away, glancing back once and being distracted and kicking myself for being ball-less for the next few hours.

In the alternative beginnings, I act smooth and confident, ignoring the palpable tension, and deftly get him to agree to meet me later. Later I appear, hotter, wearing my favorite little dress, and we either go to a bar for awhile, where I dazzle him with interestingness, or we sneak into the place he works and sneak around there, playing. It's like choose your own adventure, you know, if you don't like where that one is heading, you go back a bit and change direction.

As I'm flirting outrageously with him, he gets his nerve up and starts taking liberties, standing very close, then reaching under my skirt, sliding his hands over my ass, and tentatively sneaking a finger into my panties, where of course I've wanted him to go all evening. I can hear him sighing on my ear and the back of my neck.

Then we either get a little heavier in semi-public, or quickly transport to his home, where neither of us can wait any longer and attack each other like cats.

Choose your own adventure again; I get to ask him all those delicious questions- How whould you like to fuck me? where would you like to come?, and try out multiple roads. Fuck me like a whore. Don't come yet you need to put that in my mouth. You're fucking me in the ass. Come in me, come, baby.

He happens to open his eyes and look in mine just as he begins to come, and he comes with a roar and a geyser, for a long quivering minute. Then he collapses and falls into a sleep I can't wake him from when I get up, dress, and leave. I encounter his roomate on the way out, who has heard at least the conclusion of our feature and gives me a leering but curious look. I leave a sweet quick message for J and beat a quick retreat into the night and deep post-orgasmic sleep.

"You're all about that, aren't you? Lying naked in the sun."

2006-07-04T14:56:00.000-07:00

Ezra and I climbed a short mountain together. We left the trail at the end, and scrambled up some rocks, ending up on a ridge only a couple of feet wide, with one fallen fir making a bench and a barrier along the side that looked back down into the forest. The other side offered a long view overlooking a bird sanctuary.

"Dammit," Ezra said. "We should have brought a towel."

"Why," I asked. I was sitting on the fallen tree.

"So we could lie down."

I looked down at the narrow strip of moss he was standing on. "We could take our clothes off and lie on them," I suggested. There was enough room for us to lie side by side, but barely safely, without one of us rolling off the ridge's edge. I thought we could lie tightly together and cuddle, naked in the heat.

I stood up and joined him in quickly peeling off our clothes, laying them down in a patchwork. Since it was hot, we were wearing so little that our clothes covered only a tiny rectangle of area.

I laid down and squirmed to find a good spot. But instead of lying down beside me, Ez knelt on the grass at my feet and kissed his way down the inside of my thigh. I sighed and relaxed, resting my legs over his sun warmed back, and looked up at the great trees pointing away into the sky, branches rustling and swaying in the wind.

The breeze gently rolled over me, a welcome cooling from the sweltering day. The sunlight flickered over both of us, losing its strength in the fight to get through the forest canopy.

Every time he lifted his tongue and the wind blew across my wet pussy, it tingled cool and felt so liquid and pleasurable.

"Isn't it amazing to be naked in that wind?" I murmured to him. He murmured his assent back, buried in his work. I took big handfuls of his hair, hot from the sun, and pulled into his face. I groaned and eventually screamed, hearing my voice carry out but then dissipate, absorbed by the wind and woods.

He pulled himself up and knelt on my sandals for cushioning. He lifted my hips up to his cock while I was still heaving to get my breath back, and took it away again when he slid into me. I love watching him in that posture, straight from head to knee, upper body flexed and working to hold and drive me, sweat gathering on his chest and forehead and upper lip, all of his skin brown and velvet... mmmm.

I was going to roll over for him, and was thinking about bending over the tree trunk beside us, but he'd been waiting for me, and didn't want any interruptions for variety, only to explode in me, then collapse on me. That beautiful piece of time where he gasps for breath with his face buried in my neck, his body completely spent and relaxed, quivering on me, I simultaneously feel I can't be any closer to him yet feel him slipping away, and I begin to want the next time that distance will close.

Unbelievably tender and sweet, as always, he kissed me and slowly lifted his weight off of me, to sit back up on the log.

"That," he said, "was an incredibly good idea."

Mish

2006-06-25T09:00:00.000-07:00

I was reading Ezra's porn, and... no, wait-

I love porn, man does it turn me on. It's weird like that, actually, that I don't feel "turned on" so much as that I never fail to be wet at the end of a magazine, even if the heat isn't in my head. It's like an instinctual reaction to seeing dozens of spread pussies, that my own juices up in sympathy.

Usually I go through a magazine quick first, then a second time more slowly, figure out what my fave pics are and stare at them, to let the images soak into my head for quick memory reference later. Then I kinda skim the text on the third or fourth time. I can get a lot of mileage out of one magazine.

One of my favorite parts are the ads in the back. For some reason I find those so raw and inviting for the imagination. There's an increasing lot of tranny ads the last couple years though. "I fuck guys in the ass!", and the "man" in heels anticipating a butt-jamming looks more feminine than the "chick" with the dick.

So I was on a text-skimming pass, and next to the ads, the flick reviews are really hot, as opposed to the "stories" that go with the photo features, which are mind-bogglingly bad. Over and over, I saw the word "mish", in context such as "Tattooed Dude pounds the double-D Chicky Chick doggie and mish...". I couldn't figure out that mish part.

I asked Ezra when he got home. "Baby, what's 'mish'?" (I was pronouncing it "Meesh"), "I keep seeing it in here." I waved the mag at him.

"I dunno, show me," he says, and flops down across me. I dig thru it, show him the movie review.

"Uh, missionary? Mish, missionary," (rhymes with "fish") he says.

We laughed and laughed. I almost choked on my own breath.

"Oh my god," I gasp out, "I thought it was something exciting that I didn't know about!"

Go Oil, Go!!!! Game 7, baby!

2006-06-18T08:59:00.000-07:00

Final Fantasy II

2006-06-10T00:08:00.000-07:00

I remember being alarmed when my friend divulged that she frequently fantasized about having sex with me (while being quite clear she didn't want to actualize it); then I started fantasizing about her.

I relive things that actually happened; I borrow the sexual stories that my friends tell me, and either watch them in my mind, or replace my friend with myself and try it on. I borrow the fantasies or stories from blogs, easily switching my own gender; I put myself in porn; I take stills that I've seen in all kinds of places, from raunchy net porn to Heavy Metal to retro erotica, and build a live action video in my head around the still image. I especially like retro, period fantasies, with all the appropriate costuming and demeanor. I think dirty is especially dirty when it's 19th century.

Sometimes the anonymous, or secret sex isn't with an attractive partner. I like fantasizing about the loser, the reject or really ugly guy that no one would have sex with, (and no one could know if I did), or the town slut, or the awkward virgin teenager - all the socially forbidden, I suppose. I like men who are kind of twisted or damaged and have a look of hopeless wishing in their eyes, and I think about giving them something extraordinary to remember forever.

I think men on men are so hot, and I picture myself as a man with other men, in all kinds of gay porn; my current b/f with my ex; my current b/f with another woman, with and without me...

Force is nice, of course. A staple, really, like having salt on the table. Usually right at the end, when the thought "I've really got to get some sleep tonight" floats by, I play the force card to finish it all off in a trice. It's so easy to work in. Force or abuse "forces" the final complete surrender.

Uniforms, airports, public places, multiple people, bondage, rape...

My love for Heavy Metal, Milo Manara and graphic novels has resulted in a strain of fantasies that take place in ink and talk bubbles. Animated features, really. I find fantasizing in comics actually enables thinking about the impossible, b/c it's all drawings, not real skin and bodies, with all their limitations. They can go really fantastic (oops).

I tend not to fantasize when I'm in the act of having real sex, b/c that's fun enough, but every so often, when I'm receiving head especially, and close to coming, I'll be transported to someplace I could never have invented, and it's not always sexual. A bunch of women working in a field, some camels walking by, a ship pitching on the ocean. That used to really trip me out. It would be like some other era, or everyone around me was speaking another language, or there were no people. I can't explain it at all, I just feel like it's not my imagination, it comes so sudden and the scenes are so unfamiliar and odd, but really real, too.

Then lots of fantasies I hover in the air like a near-death experience, as something takes place between a girl more beautiful and bold than I, and a guy she's hot for. My fantasies can be like dreams, too, when elements of logic are conveniently suspended. There was this gymnastics routine once, where the chick realizes there's a guy lurking in the shadows, watching her practice on the uneven bars, and her performance becomes a strip show for him ...

I also have a big thing for machines, and I had enough variations to fill a gallery with erotic machinistic images that Giger would produce if he were painting with a hard cock in his other hand (well maybe sometimes he does).

Back to requiring plausibility for the events of my imagination, the backstory for the sex machines included some odd, retiring, rich guy, who got off on watching chicks come, but couldn't stand to be involved himself, and only wanted to watch from a distance. Who else would build elaborate technical devices for the pleasure of a random female?

Sometimes I would never even see my benefactor, b/c I would be "chosen" by his assistants, and invited to use the equipment in a clinical room with a window of oneway glass. Sometimes he would tinker in the room with me, or talk to me through a PA system like a film director, or the glass window would be normal glass, so I could see him pacing and watching. In any case, he was not interested in touching me; therefore, the machine.

The machine was always a robotic tangle of metal arms and penetrating attachments in various sizes. I'm always suspended completely off the ground, but usually comfortable, and that means many loops and straps, intricately adjusted. Sometimes there would be an intricate rmeote control in my hand, sometimes it would be in his. Always what the machines would do or be capable of doing was adaptable, and would increase the intensity as I approached orgasm, rotating me to hang inverted, tightening the straps to pull my legs and arms frighteningly straight, or else bind them chokingly tight, so that I could expend all my strength resisting and still be helpless to the vibrating, thrusting power of the machine.

God, I love my machines.

Some fantasies are actually too close to me, too intimate to share. I have two particular favorite hockey players, and I have long and well-established intimate relationships with them in my mind, beyond the sex. I fantasize about Ezra when I'm not with him (new, for me, for my regular lover to be a regular fantasy too).

I love my imagination.

Final Fantasy

2006-06-05T22:08:00.000-07:00

Hmmmm - the Oilers might be lost now, without Roloson
------

I think I might have a little bit of a "thing" for older men. No, not men, actors. Bruce Willis, of course, is unbelievable. His face was on the screen a short time ago and I must have emitted some sort of succulent sound, b/c my roomate turns to me and says "I'd really like to know why women find Bruce Willis so attractive." I thought it was a rhetorical question, and nodded sympathetically.

"Oh, you were hoping I could explain it?" I ask, b/c he's still looking at me. "Sorry, I totally can't," I say. "I don't have a shred of explanation, he's just sexy." Then he really laughed.

Then there's Al Pacino in Carlito's Way, who for some reason is completely riveting. Especially in that role.

Then I was salivating over Tommy Lee Jones in MIB2 (oh, such wonderful movies - b/c he's in them, of course - hot, tough, cynical and sexxx-y). I love him in US Marshals too, and the Fugitive ... I mention this to my good friend and she says "Oh, he was just in town, partying with Pamela!" I'm all "Whaaat? Ohhh! No! Not Tommy Lee, Tommy Lee Jones!"

TLJ came up b/c we were discussing fantasy. I guess she'd asked me for a 'for instance', what gets me off, and I said "Tommy Lee Jones!", b/c he had, the night before. I'd been watching MIB.

I've always had vivid, intricate fantasies, that bloom with a complete backstory and sometimes rambling plot. I thought it was a female distinction, but perhaps it's not so. See, I assumed that while men could just close their eyes and instantly have Uma Thurman kneeling between their legs, women, like me, had to produce an elaborate plot whereby they might feasibly end up with Tommy Lee Jones bending them over a table. Perhaps it's just me.

I find that in order to reach my destination (or orgasm), I need to follow an imaginary path that plausibly links the person I actually am to the wanton slut in the star trailer. For instance, I'm part of the locally hired construction crew on a Canadian film set, and due to some accident or collision, he is forced to interact with me, and a serendipitious series of contacts lead to me intrepidly sneaking into his trailer, where we get up to all sorts of unspeakable things.

Thus I can end up starting a fantasy way back at moving to Vancouver and applying for work with a set crew. It can take a while, to build a ladder of links to where I want to end up, and if they aren't realistic enough, it'll collapse and I'll have to backtrack and fix whatever glaringly preposterous imaginative leap I tried to take. Anybody else do this?

Sometimes I fall asleep before I manage it.

The first time takes the longest to construct, too, and I have to start from scratch when I have a new crush that's heating me up. I often recycle fantasies, using them over and over, and inevitably, they evolve a little. The dialogue shifts, they get more violent, or more affectionate. We have sex earlier in the plot, or spend more time together in the preamble.

I remember years ago, it was months I had only the same simple fantasy. Can't even remember the nature of it now... but I would head off in new directions, then come right back to the regular, and I thought I was so boring. I thought it would never change. Sure enough, the changes were sneaking in, so slowly I hardly noticed, until in time, it was all new.

I wish I'd written them down more often, b/c I've left so many behind on the road. I wished to start a blog that was just fantasy, and I wished to illustrate my fantasies, comic strip style, but I just haven't made time for either. I do have several rough-out sketches from past fantasies, and that's mostly the only record I have of fantasies I've outgrown.

Oh, that's right! I remember years back, again, that my fantasy du jour was something that I just couldn't remember in normal consciousness. It just wasn't there! I would literally remember masturbating, but couldn't remember what I'd been thinking about, past the very beginning. Impossible. Each time, as I'd start, I'd begin my fantasy, and as I reached a certain level of heat, I'd remember the next part, and more aroused, the next part, and just before I came, the last part would reaveal itself. It was like walking through doors. And then, my heartbeat would subside, I'd fall asleep, and wake up with no recollection of how that fantasy ended.

So what do I fantasize about?

An excerpt from Guide to Getting it On, by Paul Joannides (buy it! BUY IT!):
As for scenarios that people fantasize about, here's a partial list:
Being held or cuddled; doing all kinds of sex acts; having sex with more than one partner; having anonymous sex with a highly attractive partner or partners; being forced to have sex; watching a partner have sex with someone else; having gay sex when you otherwise feel straight; having sex with a male/female couple; role reversal where a guy fantasizes he's a woman having sex with other guys, or a woman fantasizes she's a man having sex with other women; watching or being watched having sex; being the one who dominates; being adored, desired, spanked, tortured, shamed or humiliated.

Yes to all!

To be continued...

Sex & Hockey

2006-06-01T20:14:00.000-07:00

Once some commenter said "What about Sex while watching hockey? Now that'd be a good time" (or somehting to that effect).

Then Ezra told me this joke:

Why do Canadians fuck doggy-style?

So that they can both watch the game.

Har har har. Notice that "the game" is enough - it could only be a hockey game.

And we have had sex in front of the game - more than once! Complete with pauses to shout for joy when the good guys scored. Including, but not exclusively, doggy-style. There's something romantic about the ice's white glow from the screen, and there's something sexy about the almost rythymic tone of the announcers voice, crescendos and lulls of excitement, thousands of people cheering enthusiastically... end to end action, it's got everything!

Game on, beer within reach, and their woman riding them - I don't think most (Canadian) men dream of anything more.

How 'bout those Oilers, eh? Sick!!! This is an incredible event for all of Canada. Ryan Smyth and the Oil squeaking into the top 16 and then sailing into the Cup game. See if they don't take it home, too!

Mmmm, yeah, there was this one time- Montreal was playing. I don't remember exactly why Ezra was lying on his back in front of the tube, but instead of just walking by, I thought it absolutely necessary to stop everything, crouch between his legs and undo his pants. I ended up lying my head on his hip, so I could watch the game too, and leisurely licking and sucking, and kissing, and humming, and licking and sucking his cock.

The grin on his face - my god! He looked so giddy and blissed out, his eyes were half closed- he looked like he'd been stoned for hours.

Man it's easy to make a man happy. Love him, let him be him, and give him good head.

My bolt of lightning

2006-05-13T22:29:00.000-07:00

We actually have a sex habit. But what an exquisite habit.

He goes down on me, I accept for a few minutes; I ask to have his cock in my mouth, so he swings around to straddle my head for a 69; I go feral and come wildly on his face, he turns around to smile proudly and gently embrace my limp, heaving, post-orgasmic body, and he fucks my just-come pussy to his orgasm.

Happened exactly like this, a few times. Enough to call it a pattern.

Seven and a quarter inches

2006-04-08T09:45:00.000-07:00

The "I want to measure your cock, haha" tug-of-war went on for quite a while.

I would pretend I was joking; Ezra would decisively say "No", and change the subject. I continued to be oddly obsessed, and kept a ruler near the bed, just in case. Part of my mind would shriek with laughter every time I thought of it, and another part had some comments on my mental health. I actually thought about measuring him while he was asleep, but doubted whether I could catch him at a fully *ahem* tumescent moment. (God, I hate the word tumescent. It reminds me of potatoes)

Then one day I was playing casually with his cock while he was relaxed and reclined, and as I held it lengthwise on the palm of my hand, it dawned on me. My God! I can use my hand to measure his cock against, and then measure my hand later! Why had it taken me so long to think up such a simple solution?

I sat up, heart accelerating with the brain wave, and lifted his penis up to perpendicular with his body, my right hand flat and straight, middle finger touching the right angle created with his belly. The tip of his cock came to one of the lines on my wrist.

His eyes flew open, alerted by my sudden focus. "Hey! What are you doing?"

"Nothing!" I hastily segued into a reassuring blowjob.

.....

The moment he next left the room, I measured my hand.

2006-01-29T12:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning in bed, just before Ezra left on a ski trip, he announced he was going to "make a list".

I got all excited, because he usually mocks me for my constant and complusive list writing. I lolled on the bed in front of him and speculated out loud whether the way I make lists means I have an illness.

He finished his post-it list, plucked it off the pad, and stuck it on my left breast in triumph.

"If you were ever in a photo shoot for Maxim magazine," he said, "you'd be covered with sticky notes of your little lists."

"Ohhh!" I drew in a big, excited breath, the Office Space cover and Bruce Almighty images rushing through my head. I whipped two more post-its off the pad he was holding and stuck them to my other breast and my vulva, like a tiny yellow loincloth. "There! I'm fully dressed," I announced.

"Wait," he stopped me. He was writing something on the one that covered my nipple. Then he wrote on the other. I pulled them up to see what he'd written. 'Pussy', with an arrow, on one, 'Tit' on the other. I got up to look in the mirror.

"Well, I pretty much AM dressed appropriately for Maxim, you know," I said.

"Get back here, woman," he said. "I need my list now."

---------

Later, I stuck the one that said 'Pussy', with an arrow, to the wall over my cat's bed.

Objects may be larger than they appear

2006-01-15T19:15:00.000-08:00

I want to measure his cock. I'm obsessed. It's a quirky desire that has popped up out of nowhere to amuse me. Where do these things come from? I've never wanted to measure a man's cock before. It's ridiculous.

Just saw one of my very favorite Sex and the City episodes where Charlotte gets all angry in the shower, comes out and screams at Trey her resentment at having his penis run the show... "and now the penis wants to be measured!!" I had to throw my hand over my mouth to hold back from blurting out a somewhat related admission to my roomate - "Oh, I want to measure Ezra's cock!"

So I was a little tipsy and he asked why I was giggling insatiably and I lurched out, between peals of laughter: "If I whipped out a ruler and measured your cock, would you think it was funny or would you be traumatized?"

He laughed with incredulity, letting me know he loves me enough I could get away with it, with the right timing. "Why, you want to have the stats on the smallest model they come in?"

"Oh. Hardly."
------

I was lamenting how I've been sick and injured and weak, sleeping so much and struggling to scrape up enough energy to maintain my life, let alone advance it right now. "I want to get myself together," I proclaimed, nestled safely in the warm haven of his arms.

He sounded slightly worried. "Don't change too much, baby."

--------
He was running out the door today to go to work on short notice. I was tossing together a breakfast and I just heard him shout out "Bye, see you later!".

I dropped an egg ungently in a pan and scampered to catch him at the door, holding my arms out for a hug. "Hey, you have to hug me good bye!"

He smiled and gathered me up, his hands around my ribs. "I do? You have to tell me the rules, baby. I don't know these things."

"Ok, run." I kissed him quickly. "You're doing just fine."
-----
I'm running a list of things I like about him. Last time I did that was for the married guy, whom I loved insanely. Don't know if I'll stop at 100 things for Ezra, though.

In bed in the morning, he's cuddling me, sighing appreciately as I yawn and stretch. He says, "I love waking up with you. You're all wiggly and your hair's all messy and you're warm and soft."

He wriggles just as much, and we typically roll around on each other a bit - lie on each other, switch sides, snuggle hard. His dick is hard, and it bumps against me incidentally as we tumble. I realize, though, that he never deliberately bumps it into my thigh or belly, or grabs it to rub on me, or wakes me up by prodding me with it.

I think that's the most annoying thing ever. Manually announcing, "Hey, I'm hard! I'm hard!"

Like, men, please! As if it's not clear when you're hard. You don't have to prod your woman with the evidence.

I start laughing, appreciating that it's never occured to him to do this. As it is, the way he ignores his morning wood makes me want it more than ever, to seek it out with my hands and rub it on me myself.

"What's so funny?" he asks.

"I have something else for the list. Of things I like about you." I tell him what it is.

He closes his eyes and brings his hand up to cover them, turning his head away and starting to shake with deep laughter. "Who does that?"

"Everyone!" Exaggeration, but only slight. It must be in the manual of erroneous instructions so many men seem to have read.

"You're joking!"

"I wish I were! Anyways, I just like that you don't, ok?"

He laughed hard enough to last him the rest of the day.
-------

He doesn't tell me he loves me all the time. I feel him almost say it so often, though. He'll sigh and look seriously into my eyes, and I'll hear it in my head and then he'll say something sweet, that he likes me, or something I do, or how he feels, and burrow his face into my neck and hug me like he wants to wear me. And I smile into his hair with such happiness.

This is not hyperbole

2006-01-14T12:47:00.000-08:00

Things I don't tell Ezra, b/c I think he wouldn't be able to hear it, and would suspect I was lying to him all the time:

He is the best sex I have ever had.

I love him wildly, and feel at least as strongly as I ever have before. I would have married that guy.

He has the most perfect cock for me that I could possibly imagine, design, or invent. One of the biggest, too.

I don't tell him I love him.

2006-01-13T19:58:00.000-08:00

I apologize, my writing has been erratic and neglectful.

I'm in love, and I've been having more sex than I thought it was possible to ever want to have.

With Ezra.
We end up together.

Even before the ridiculous lapse I was blogging about a month behind, and I've despaired of ever catching up, especially since every area of my life outside of bed has been suffering (if you can call it that).

I still haven't updated about my date in NY, so much about Ezra and I, or making out with the teenager in the woods. Maybe someday.

I've been lucky to be getting my bills paid on time.
Although if they come and turn off the heat, we're not likely to even notice.

2006-01-01T19:31:00.000-08:00

Signs I am doing better:

2 incredibly hard & fast orgasms. Of course, I had been listening to Violet Blue's comprehensive podcast archives all day, so I pretty much had no choice.

Having smarmy, romantic, unsexual fantasies about my hockey player being completely enamoured of me. Hey, at least I'm fantasizing. (Hopefully), before too long, he'll be bending me over his couch with a fist in my hair and I will be alllll better.

No longer drinking.

Eating better. I had a cold with teeth and claws that emptied and purified me. I enjoy getting sick like that, in a way, because it makes it so clear what a priority your health is. And while your nose is streaming and throat aches, amazingly, you just aren't so attracted to unhealthy foods.

Making lists. Making an orgy of lists, in fact, although I'm gonna indignantly maintain that it's only a coincidence that it is also New Year's.

My thinking went something like this:

2005-11-14T00:23:00.000-08:00

He has more power now. Is that conscious or incidental? He seems so much more professional, reserved than he did before he left his summer. I don't feel the awe I did before, when he was touching me like he couldn't believe his luck, like the sun was shining on only him in all the world. He needs me less. I feel less than amazing and wonder if there isn't something inadequate or less than pleasing. But what could have changed?

------

Then he came back, looking intently into my eyes and fucking me like he owned me. Good timing, since I'd just watched Basic Instinct, which is pretty smokin', Old Michael notwithstanding.

And in the morning we talked:

"I missed you," he volunteered.

"Yeah?" I was surprised. "I missed you so much, all summer."

"I can't lie to you, I was definitely thinking about you."

"Were you?" I ask. "What were you thinking?"

"Especially towards the end. I was stumped."

"You were thinking what you were gonna do with me?" I smile at him.

"The thought went through my mind."

"And?"

"To tell you the truth, I'd decided I was gonna leave you alone when I got back."

"What!" I sit up and boggle at him. I know my eyes are popping out. "But," I splutter, "you came to my door. Immediately. As soon as you got back!"

"Yeah, I did." He grins. "So that went completely out the window, obviously."

"My God." I slump back down to stare at his neck, shaken. "Thank you for coming to me then." I'm very, very sincere. I can't believe he ever considered not. "Why? Why were you gonna leave me alone?" I ask softly.

"Because I feel so fucking bad about Shane, obviously."

"He's forgiven you. He's forgiven us! It's good." Ezra shakes his head, staring morosely at my ceiling. I launch a full-scale logic attack, complete with gesticulations. "I'm surprised that you feel that so strongly still," I finish.

"Really?" His voice flashes out sharply at me. "You really can't imgaine how I feel?"

I sink down on his chest. "Right. Actually, I can," I whisper.

------

We talked some more, and I divulged some of Shane's confidences to me, to reassure him. I'm the woman in the middle, translating what they will not say to each other, pulling them back together. He said he felt better talking to me, but abruptly reached his limit on the topic and started tugging on me. "Ok, okay, let's talk about this later, not now, alright? I feel gross."

I laughed. "Hey, I just read the smartest thing I've ever seen in a Cosmo magazine." I prefer Maxim, Stuff, or the ilk, because they are written with characteristic male bluntness, and accuracy. I've advised many a man to believe more of what they read in there about women. Not all women are alike, but overall, pretty good assessments. But whatever, this time I cracked my roomate's cosmo in the bathroom.

"You were reading a Cosmo?" he laughs mockingly. Exactly.

"Yeah yeah. Anyways. They got it bang on for once. It was a 'man translator' - what he says, what he really means- you know. 'When he says Let's talk about it another time, What he really means is Let's never talk about this again'."

"Exactly!"

I always hope a little bit

2005-11-13T00:04:00.000-08:00

Every time I go to my bedroom for the first time at night, and turn on the light slowly, I look to see if there's anyone in my bed, and I always hope there will be.

Against all logic - Ezra's in RD, Shane's up north, any possible others are really unlikely to get in my bed before I know it - still, I always hope a little bit that for some complicated reason, someone will be surprising me with themselves, and I won't have to fall asleep in my cold bed alone.

My heart hits a couple beats faster as my hand reaches for the switch in the dark, as I squint at my lumpy unmade bed.

Light, and noone's there.

2005-11-10T20:39:00.000-08:00

And maybe the healthiest sexuality is a secret one. Talking to a friend from the past reminded me that I was a fucked up mess just a few years ago. Why should I be thinking I'm so healthy and open now? In another five years, will I be looking back at myself from a whole new understanding of intimacy and shaking my head at my streak of younger men, married men, and blogging?

My soulmate is a 19 year old from edmonton (?)

2005-11-07T20:22:00.000-08:00

Nate keeps in touch with me. It's adorable.

We were IMing, and he sent me part of a school assignment - he's supposed to ask friends his greatest strengths/flaws/abilities blah blah. So I did it for him, and I went pretty deep. I shouldn't know him that well, but I feel like I do. Thinking about his characteristics, I was surprised at how much I know who he is.

A few days ago between talking to him and falling asleep, I wrote down "Nate - what I want to be with". It's true. He is practically everything I would ever want. He's all the things I love in myself plus many more that I aspire to be. He scares me. In other words, if I were to put in a request to God, he might give me this guy.

Ezra came over the night I wrote that about Nate in my book. He turned my heart inside out and made the angels sing for me, as always. Outside of bed, well, I haven't much experience with him, but I'm pretty sure he's not standing on the exact same stairstep I am.

But then, I'm not so much about being with someone who's my equal. It seems like lately I've been picking guys for what I can give to them.

Cheap white wine with a splash of white sambuca

2005-11-06T20:37:00.000-08:00

Ezra has gone to Red Deer for a week (don't ask), and I'm building shoulder muscles at work. Body all-around killing me, but my state of mind is good.

Won 5 bucks off of him first, when Calgary beat the 'Nucks last night. Heh heh.

I have a feeling that Ezra will return horny and hungry and appreciative, seeking me out, more sure and willing. I just have a feeling. I can hear his sigh of relief and need, scooping his arm around my waist and feeling me arch into him.

I'm looking forward to it.

Cute things he said today

2005-11-05T21:32:00.000-08:00

We cuddled on the couch for hours. Fully dressed. Like high school. Kissed and talked and looked into each other's eyes - it was grand. I had to work into the night because of it, but it was worth it.

He had my arm up over my head again and was stroking my side from elbow to hip. I was purring.

"I think I like this as much as you do," he says.

"Mmmmm. I think I like having your cock in my mouth as much as you do," I say.

"Well, you must like it really, really alot," he says.

----

We were talking about jealousy and how it's more pronounced for me when I'm not feeling a hundred percent myself. I told him if he had met me at 25, he'd think I was amazing.

"But," he says, all quiet and soft and sweet, "I like you now."

Ott 8; Tor 0

2005-11-04T21:45:00.000-08:00

Ooooh, I just love seeing the Leafs get creamed!

And look at them whine. Whine whine whine about the "new rules". Oooo, are the wittle Weafs having a wittle twouble pwaying hockey now?

Hmm, I seem to remember a little 9-1 Ottawa-Toronta incident, what, 2 years ago? Back in the old rules. How 'bout that?

He doesn't mind getting dirty

2005-11-04T21:27:00.000-08:00

The party (occurring before last post)

Ezra picked me up because he knew I wanted to go to the party, and took me to his bud's house. They were playing a drinking game with a pack of Hustler cards, and steadily feeding me the discards to study and comment on. Even inches away from his, my arm could feel the heat his bare skin radiated. My hairs stood up on my forearm, reaching out for his.

We started out with a proper distance between us on the couch, but slowly warmed and relaxed by the booze, Ezra's leg relaxed towards me, and I softened into his apparent willingness in spite of an audience, until the length of our thighs were pressed together and we leaned our heads together like schoolgirls, sharing opinions of the sex acts depicted on the back of the playing cards as they came my way.

"Whoever's the least drunk gets to drive," Ezra announced, and although he was definitely winning the game, since I wasn't playing at all I knew I'd be driving tonight.

------

Well primed by the time we got there, Ezra had no compunctions anymore about touching me, and shepherded me through the crowd, got me a beer, and sheltered me in the curve of his arm in the huddle with his boys. He introduced me to a buddy I didn't know, and this guy I'd never seen before looked piercingly at me with a grin and said "Ohhh, I've heard all about you!" I was startled and glanced at Ezra, but I was very pleased.

------

I wandered to the sidelines by myself, stood back, and watched Ezra roam around for awhile, looking to see if he'd come looking for me, too. He meandered onto the dance floor, and I almost laughed aloud at his predictability as his gaze got hooked on a girl's ass as she gyrated in the light at the front of the stage. He edged drunkenly up to her, and I watched her flinch at the realization he was behind her, and move away a little. He stayed there for a bit, though, still staring at her behind. I moved down to the back of the dance floor then, an edge getting under my bemusement. Then I saw him looking around, a bit lost, and turning fully around, his eyes fell on me and his face relaxed and he set a weaving collision course for me, seizing me in a bearhug when he reached me.

"Do you like me?" I demanded.

"Oh, hell yeah," he shouted passionately into my hair.

"Do you like me best? Out of everyone here?" My tone cut through his drunk and he pushed me to arms length to see if my face made sense to him. It must have, because he yanked me back to the bearhug.

"Oh, baby. Who am I here with?" Good enough for me. I released him, and we spent the rest of the night alternating dancing across the dance floor and flirting in body language, with clumsy dancing, shamelessly interlocked. I was happy, and decided to screw my usual public restraint. I don't care who sees the two of us grind, I'm gonna end up with this guy and I'm proud to be with him now.

-------

On the drive home, the friend fell asleep in the back seat and Ezra leaned on me, his hands softly travelling up my arm from the stickshift inside my sleeve, lifting my hand and stroking his cheek with the back of it, nuzzling my fingers, running his hands over all that he could reach- my neck, my thigh, my belly under my shirt, my breast- a constant, roaming gentle touch. I moaned quietly, shivering under his feather caress, touched by his sweetly juvenile posture, twisted in his seat and slouching adoringly towards me as I drove. This is exactly what I would do! I thought, worshipping a man I love as he drove, and I felt lucky and content and powerful all at once.

------

I led him to my bedroom, wanting him so bad I knew I didn't care that I was bleeding, and heavily, and knowing somehow it wouldn't matter at all. I barely had time to mention it as he freed me from my pants and knelt between my knees, rubbing his dark hands hard down my lighter thighs. He didn't even acknowledge my statement, lifting me onto his cock fast but smooth, ending my talking with a gasp.

We got blood everywhere. Everywhere. In the morning all we could do waking up in what looked like a murder scene was laugh and tear up the sheets in a ball to put directly in the washer on the way for a shower. And it sounds gross, but really, it really wasn't. I didn't give a flying fuck, for the first time ever, and obviously neither did he. We just ignored it entirely, and he rolled me on top of him to ride him, and turned me around to face his feet, and lifted me up to get on his knees behind me, using my hair for reins, and pushing me flat, face off the bed, and rolling to spoon me, and then get above me to face me again, pulling my legs open with an elbow hooked under my knee. One long, wet, rolling, tumbling, amazing fuck. And part of me was rejoicing, revelling in the dirty messiness of it all, of his hunger for me so strong he didn't even care.

He stares at me when he's fucking me, looking in my eyes like he's looking for an answer to appear. And his sweat drips off his face and his arms harden and my hands flap at him, trying to grab and stroke and scratch and yank on him all at once, as his body rushes into mine and I vise my legs around him.

Both of us fell asleep in seconds after coming, and I awoke probably hours later, a hint of light in the sky, because I was cold. Still damp with sweat and uncovered, his inert body lightly snoring on mine, his hands still wrapped around my upper arms and his face slumped into my neck. His heavy body on me the only thing keeping me warm, I wormed around to pull a blanket over the two of us and fell back to sleep.

------

"You're amazing," I say, with feeling. He sort of moves his head so I know he heard me, but he doesn't acknowledge it.

"You're so nice," I say, later.

"Really?" He squeezes me with delight and hides his grin in my neck. "Awww!"

I laugh. "How come you hear that, but you don't hear it when I say you're amazing?"

"It's too much," he says.

"Yeah, whatever. I'm gonna just keep saying it, because it's true, and you're gonna have to get used to it," I tell him.

I ask him why he hasn't been calling me, and he tells me he's been having dude time. Sure, but I know he's conflicted about me, so I probe, for what's going on in his head. He agrees about his recent reluctant weirdness with me, and tells me that now he's thinking "this could be OK, let's check it out." I'm pleased.

He mentions the woman he hooked up with this summer, and not sure I want to hear the details, I ask anyways. She's my age, and very clearly, she decided she wanted him and went for him. He also had unprotected sex with her, once, and I'm angry about that. I rage a little, but it expires.

"Was it spectacular?" I ask.

"No. It was sex."

I cuddle into him, thinking about this other summer woman, and how it felt seeing him last night hit on this other girl.

"I'm jealous."

"You are?" accompanied by a squeeze. He's surprised and listening. "Why?"

"Not that I have any business to be," I continue. "I did OK this summer myself." I pause to get it right. "Because I want you all to myself," I say. "I'm totally jealous about you! I think someone else will see who you are too, and you'll go to them."

He thinks about this, his hand rubbing on my shoulder. And he's touched, pleased. "No one's ever been jealous about me before," he says.

-----

For some reason we're lying reversed to each other. He's hugging my leg, his cheek resting on my calf, and we are in danger of falling asleep.

"I could lie here forever," he murmurs.

"I think there're an infinite number of ways that two people can fit together," I respond. We are always finding odd new combinations that sound really uncomfortable but feel like being embraced by a cloud.

"I'd like to go see a movie with you," I tell him. "I'd like to hold your hand."

"That might be OK," he says.

2005-11-03T06:54:00.000-08:00

Ezra woke me up in the morning last night, apologizing profusely. I grabbed him by the hair and made him look in my eyes.

"I love it when you wake me up. I love it. Don't say you're sorry."

So after that he stopped himself when he started to apologize.

He said three people told him last night how lucky he was, to have me.

"Really?" I was thrilled. "But what do you feel? Do you feel lucky?"

"Ah-" All he said was a quick exhale/gasp with a hard hug, that said all he needed. When he pulled me to him a breast slipped out from under the covers and distracted him. He captured it with his mouth, humming.

"Dave said that you were the raddest chick, that I was so lucky, and all you could talk about all summer was me."

"Pretty much -"

"That made me feel like a king. It's basically the nicest thing he's ever said to me."

"It's true - I told everybody and their dogs about you this summer. How much I liked you and couldn't wait for you to get back, although I didn't know what would happen when you did. That's why I was so proud to be at that party with you -"

Another squeeze. "You were?"

"Yeah, because everyone who knows me saw me there with you and is like 'Oh yeah'."

"I wasn't too drunk and belligerent with you?"

"Not at all, you were awesome with me. You were also maccin' on other girls, but whatever."

He covers his eyes. "Oh my god, I'm so bad. Do you hate me?"

"Well I didn't enjoy it, but I can deal with it," I say. "It's your testosterone taking over your mind."

He pushed my top arm over my head and grabbed it around my bicep, pinning it with the arm that was under my head. My other arm was trapped under his body. He ran his hand from my elbow down my side to as far as he could reach under the covers.

"What did I do to deserve you?"

You're pretty much doing it, I'm thinking. "You were born," I murmured.

"That's not very nice."

"Huh?" I was confused.

"You were bored?"

"What!" Laughter. "I said 'You were born'!"

"Oh!" He laughs now. "That's too nice."

"And then you grew up sweet and awesome."

Personal best

2005-11-02T06:37:00.000-08:00

Setting new speed records for orgasm (alone). Just because my pussy felt like a peach and I wanted to touch it when I woke up, I put a drop of lube on my fingertip rather than wait for my own, and came in under a minute. Assisted by the ready made fantasy provided by Easily Aroused on Sep 21 combined with notions Shane put in my head in the past (see mid July posts).

I dreamed of Steven last night

2005-10-30T19:19:00.000-08:00

It was a very vivid, visitation dream.

I was saying goodbye to my parents and turning to the door. I realized Steven was there beside me. He put his arm around me fervently and looked at me intensely as he opened the door.

"I'm so sorry," he says, "that I haven't been able to see you. I'm working so much when I wake up I just can't think about driving all that way..."

In real life, he doesn't know my address or phone number.

"Of course, not at all, I know..." I start telling him that I never expected that. I knew he'd never come see me. That's not what it was about.

I step through the door and he follows me. I can almost see my parents sitting at their table through the ajar opening. He wraps me up, hugs me hard, as though he's about to get ripped away by the wind. He steps back, holds me at armslength and smiles into my eyes. And then he's gone.

I wonder - is he really thinking this? Yearning after me. Wishing to see me, continue something? That would be inconvenient.

I wonder because this part of the dream was one of those dreams that goes beyond what's just in my own head - the kind where I feel an influence, or presence, or awareness/knowledge pop in from somewhere else.

Maybe he just told her.

2005-10-30T07:16:00.000-08:00

I don't know how to keep him.

He came in drunk - all "Sorry, sorry." I told him to stop apologizing. He was there. I didn't care if he was hammered. Besides, when he's wasted, he's so sweet and expressive while he's clumsy.

Then in the morning, sleeping beside him, I felt like I had all I wanted in the world, and the only thing that mattered was lying there beside him. There was nothing more "important" to do. I decided not to go to work.

His hand rested on the small of my back, as I lay on my elbows beside him and he slept on. I was smiling to myself. I felt like my room was full of this golden bubble of energy. I pictured it expanding, covering my yard, my town, and farther. Why waste it.

------

"Do you still kind of like me?" I whispered to his closed eyes while he's on his side.

"Unh unh [not really]," he says clearly. The corners of his mouth curl up a little.

I start laughing. Ok, ok, I know I'm being ridiculous. I kiss his nipple.

"Mmmm? [What?] Unh unh! [I said not really!]" He smiles, but his eyes are still closed. I roll and settle my head on his underneath arm and he puts his other around me to pull me into a spoon. I have to remember, although I don't understand, that he has this aversion to talking about feelings.

-------

Then when he left, I felt so empty, and he didn't call. That hurts. What I feel I should do is leave him be- expect nothing. Why has it shifted? I have no questions when I'm with him, and then as soon as he's gone I'm not sure if I know anything about how he feels about me.

Maybe I'll have to make notes to remember to ask him.

Un. Real. Sex.

2005-10-29T17:19:00.000-07:00

This guy is gifted. I have to keep him.

-----

I couldn't wait any longer. I went to where I knew he'd be, "ran into him", and he drifted in my direction when his boys dispersed. We came home together and I fed him some leftover lasagna. He grabbed the crossword out of the paper and started in on it. I found a second pencil, and we huddled together, my feet on his chair where I could feel the curve of his ass, and together almost completed it.

We moved to the famous couch of spectacular action (see various earlier posts) and threw on The Thomas Crown Affair - entertaining, but familiar, so we didn't have to pay attention.

We leaned our heads on the opposite armrests and interlocked our legs. I pulled one of his bare feet up, nestled it into my breasts and started rubbing it. He hugged my legs to him. I couldn't stop smiling, I was so pleased to have him there, have him feel good, feel him liking me and being content.

I kept smiling, enjoying one of my fave movies and serenely stroking his foot, rubbing it deep on the sole, softly with fingernails on the top, pulling on his toes, running my hands up his pant legs to visit his strong calf. He experimently rubbed my sock feet with a strong thumb, then pulled them both to his face. I felt his facial hair through my sock, as he hugged my feet. I smiled across the couch at him. So content.

3/4 through the movie, he suddenly sat up, turned around, and settled himself on my chest, resting his head on my breasts in a way that precluded seeing any more of the television. I hugged him, hugged his head, grabbed thick, gentle handfuls of his hair. He lifted his head to kiss me, and pushed his arms through to wrap under me. The movie was done for me here too. He makes me so wet, so hot, so warm inside at the same time -all sensuality and no tension.

He unzipped my sweater, finding that I was wearing a semi-transparent shirt similar to Rene Russo's spectacular dress in the film. He undid my bra and slid it gently up and over my breasts, then paused to look at my tits, cup them, stroke them, and kiss them.

He kisses me so generously, with so much attention and passion. I love kissing him, a wonderful, sensual kisser. I have no questions, when he's kissing me, and sucking each others' lips and nuzzling tongues and gentle nibbles all flow naturally together with no hesitance or fear of clashing - moving the same way and bumping noses, for instance. Amazing kisser. I guess that's where it all started, after all.

He spent all his time on me, it was wonderful. I was incapable of thinking about returning the attention, my hands were busy lolling helplessly off to the side, gripping the back of the couch, covering my eyes as I rolled my head back. He worshipped me, slowly, deliberately, taking my pants off, taking his shirt off, curling up between my legs and licking me, for so long. I tangled my fingers in his hair and stroked his face, his eyebrow, his beautiful cheek, as he rolled his tongue around patiently. He rested his head on my thigh and lazily licked me sideways, across the grain of my clit and it was so good. Good in a way that I never wanted it to end, backgrounded by Nina Simone's Sinnerman as the movie crescendoed. Pure heaven.

He lifted himself up, probably with cramped legs from having his big frame tucked up in half of the couch, and pushed his pants down to free his cock, offering it to me.

"I want it," I said. I could feel my heartbeat throbbing in my pussy. I wanted him to pick me up, carry me upstairs, and keep going, to the ends of the world.

"Put it in your mouth first." I rolled up and we made an awkward, complete reversal of positions. No room on the couch for me with him lying on his back, so I went to my knees beside him. I could just imagine my roomate coming down for some water, though, now that we're all exposed, and suggested my room. The mood had changed with our shift anyways, so we gathered up discarded garments and went up. When I found it, I put his ball cap on my head.

He flopped on his back on my bed, I adjusted the light, and fell on him. I was still wearing his hat, up on my knees, wearing the see-thru shirt, now braless, up on my hands too, sliding my mouth up and down his slick, glorious cock. He adjusted the hat, cocked it sideways on my head. Took handfuls of my hair and pulled them off to the side like pigtails, resting his hands on his legs as I worked. He took my head gently in his big hands, touching my face, then more firmly, with his fingers in my messy hair, and lifted his hips, thrusting carefully into my mouth.

I wanted his fingers in my pussy while I was busy, and seconds later, he adjusted to reach for me, as though he'd read my mind. I hummed in appreciation. I dropped his dick on his belly once to roam elsewhere with my tongue and when I came back, a bit of pre-come made a tiny pool around the tip of his cock, and clung to it with a string. I love his generous pre-come sneak peeks. The beautiful hint of a taste pushes me over the edge, makes me suck like I'll never get enough.

I felt like I was dripping, and as I sucked, and stroked, and swivelled my head, and buried his cock in my throat, and licked and eversogently touched my teeth to him, I was dreaming of kneeling leaning against the wall and having him push this beautiful cock I was sucking into me.

I gave him head forever, worshipfully, and then he abruptly grabbed me by the elbows and pulled me up to his chest, sitting up simultaneously. He kissed me quickly as he pushed me forward and down, sliding out from under me. I can't believe it, he's reading my mind, I thought. I inched a little towards the wall and he wrapped his big hands around my hips, thumbs in my lower back, tilting my pelvis forward to accept, like I needed any encouragement.

OMG. And then he fucked me. Perfectly. His hands travelling up my back, gripping my hair, around to my breasts, down to my clit, around my waist, pushing and controlling me, putting me where he wanted for the angle, his thighs under the back of mine, both spread wide. I leaned into him, I begged, I gasped, I managed to choke out "You're unreal, you have no idea, no idea how good you are." This amazes me. He's a fucking pro, pun completely intended.

He rolls me over, pushing my legs apart and grinding sensually into me. I hook my feet together behind his back and help him. I have good leg strength, even at this angle, and I'm using it. I have him clamped in my thighs.

"Am I hot enough for you?" I ask him. Maybe not a fair during-copulation question.

"Oh yeah, everything you do is hot."

"I mean, do I look hot enough for you?" I care. Why didn't he touch me tonight when he was with his boys? Why doesn't he want us to be seen?

"Of course, look at you." He pauses, lifted off of me on one arm, and strokes my side, breast to the curve of my leg where it bends around him, watching his hand.

"Ok," I say. "I care about what you think." I can find a half dozen men right now who think I'm killer, but I'd trade them all in for Ezra's opinion. I figure if I want to know something from Ez, I'm gonna have to ask. And maybe if I want something in particular, like phone calls, or a movie, I'm gonna have to clearly define those requests too. I can live with that.

He picked my hips off the bed with his arms around my waist and quickly pounded me to a finish. We panted our way back to normalcy. I tried to tell him in a soft, slow whisper what he feels like to me. Amazing. Gorgeous. Perfect.

"You're a perfect balance of power and gentleness," I whispered. "I love the way you handle me. You're so strong, but touch me still so gently, that I trust you to do anything you want with me."

----

We slept curled up together all night, me sleeping better than I have in weeks, sheltered by his big body and arms around me, heart full of love and peace.

We opened our eyes at the same time. He hugged me with the arm I'd been asleep on and I was surprised to feel he was hard. I slid down under the sheets. He was rock hard. I filled my mouth with his cock, sleepy but delighted. He pulled the sheets over his head, too, to watch, so we were in an instant blanket fort together. I rolled to my back, pulling one of his legs across me, and kept loving his cock while I touched myself. I came in a short minute, stifling my little yelps by burying him in my wet mouth. He tugged on me and I slid back up to level.

"I could suck your cock for hours, you know," I tell him. It's true. It wouldn't be a vigorous pace for hours, but I could live with his dick in my mouth. It's a superior penis, I love it.

"I wouldn't complain," he says.

He picks me up by the waist, sets me on his lap. I rub my clit with the tip of his cock and then slide it to the opening, let him push and push it in.

"You can still come in my mouth," I say. "Come in my mouth. Come in my mouth." I say it urgently, because he's driving into me like he's gonna come in seconds, bouncing me on him. He nods, acknowledging me, and I relax, take the reins, and start to ride him like I mean it, changing up the angle, figure-8ing my hips. He groans.

"Ok, ok," he says suddenly, and lifts me off. I pounce on his cock to catch his shot and taste myself, juicy and slick on his skin, hot from being in me. He comes with only the slightest moment of wilting. I stop, look at his spent and relaxed expression, look back at his undiminished erection. I actually have to confirm that he did come, and assured, I cuddle down beside him.

He looks into my eyes. "You're amazing," he says. It's full of import and I know he's referring to more than in bed.

I return the steady, intense gaze from his brown eyes. "Thank you," I say very seriously.

"I just want you to like me," I say after a bit. It comes out in a very small, vulnerable voice, exactly how I feel. He smiles at me adoringly.

"Oh, I think that's very possible," he says.

I smile too. "What can I do?"

"Exactly what you're doing. I think everything you're doing." I'm satisfied, and I rest my head on his chest.

"I like you," I say.

-----

We pulled some unfinished crosswords from beside the bed and he tries to complete the ones that have stymied me. He gets a few. I get bored of poring over them, though, and sit up. His wide shoulders slope down his smooth muscular back to a tan line where the hair begins on his ass and legs. This interests me. I start to massage his back, and his face drops onto the newspapers. Both of us are sticky from sex, our hair tangled and corded. I know we're gonna end up in the shower, so I pull out massage oil to be able to work him right. We're gonna be washing soon anyhow.

I get really into it. He needs it, too, his strong back is hard and knotted. I'm loving his brown skin, my hands, greasy and sliding across him, the veins jumping up on the back of my lean working hands. I work my way down his back, work into the big muscles of his ass. His ass is gorgeous - strong, round, indented on the sides. He's sore from hiking. I keep going down his legs, and reaching, stroking up the inside of his legs, encouraging them apart, and he yields. He sighs and reaches for me, tries to get up. I push him back down, forcing him to continue accepting. I slide my body up his back, rubbing his slick back with my breasts, lying briefly on his back.

The more I work on his legs, slightly spread apart now and completely turning me on, I can tell he's getting hot. He lifts his ass a little, and I slide both hands under him, find his gorgeous cock. He rolls over. I put more oil on my hands and stroke all over his cock and balls. My hands are in massage auto-pilot mode now, they're wandering around, kneading and circling his chest, his legs, his belly.

He pulls me down towards him but eludes me, rolling over onto my back in a decisive, commanding way. I moan and wriggle, bumping back into him, impatient, quickly masturbating myself. He moves his cock to the mouth of my pussy but then toys with it there, casually tantalizing me with the promise of it. He's in noooo hurry. When he finally lets me have it I squeeze him with my pussy muscles. He lets me straighten out, flatten splayed on the bed, panting out statements of awe and wonder as he rocks me, hugging me but driving me at the same time. This time I feel him come, clearly, with my pussy. He sighs and slumps on my back. My hair is tangled across my face, I'm shaking, and newspapers are crunched in the bed around us.

I'm in love.

2005-10-27T23:47:00.000-07:00

I went out and came home late, wanting to avoid the anxious staying-at-home waiting for him and obsessing. When I stepped in the door and bumped into his shoes, I couldn't resist saying the "YES!" that jumped to my lips out loud.

There he was at the top of my stairs, loose jeans and buttoned shirt combination that makes me weak, grinning at me.

I stepped into my room and he stood right in front of me. I had a drinking glass of water in one hand and a book in the other, arms outstretched like a Virgin Mary. I didn't think I could drop either of them, although I thought about it. He put his arms around me and kissed me. And kissed me. My knees shook. I wanted to melt into him, I wanted to jump up to him and wrap my arms around him, but I was stuck, holding the water.

He released me to put my burdens down, and sat down on the bed beside me. He peeled off my jacket, my shirt, greeted my breasts. He told me he'd missed me.

Sex, that first night? A little clumsy. But unspeakable relief, to have my Ezra back in my bed. I was high5ing myself on the inside.

......

"I've thought about you a lot lately, I'm not gonna lie to you," he says, lightly.

"Yeah?" I wouldn't know, I haven't heard from him for quite awhile.

"I could never lie to you." His voice turns deeply serious. I nod against his chest. "I never thanked you either, that care package was great!" I'd mailed him a book in the summer.

.....

He says beautiful things, and in my bed he belongs to me. So why do I feel this dread inside? I'm nervous, but I can't put my finger on it. He seems walled in now, hesitant between kisses.

......

In the morning we had delicious, sensual sex in the pool of sunshine flowing into my room. We had sweat pouring off of us, his dripping onto my face the way I love.

At his house later, I was sitting beside him with two of his friends there. I shifted a quarter turn sideways and leaned gently in his direction. And he moved away from me! Ok, why doesn't he want his friends to see anything? As if they think he's got a girl around who's another "buddy".

He shows up at my door within an hour of being back, he looks into my eyes, but then he's a little bit rigid hugging me, and obivously cringes from me touching him in "public". Confusing.

Now it's been a couple days, and he hasn't called, hasn't called.

What's he thinking?

This guy is important to me, he matters. I want him. Is he freaked out by me? "Too much woman"? Am I on too strong? He doesn't seem to need me as much as he did before. He seems stronger and reserved. I can't imagine tears in those eyes now. Did I scare him? He doesn't want to get caught, get trapped, give up his heart?

He's on a good bender, hope it's not too much drinking. I'm going to have to wait, although he's all I can think about.

......

I'm missing Shane, too, I want to talk to him.

Ezra's back!

2005-10-23T16:25:00.000-07:00

He's back, he's back!

I knew when I heard the hammering knock on the door. I checked my teeth, fluffed up my hair, and ran downstairs. I expected him to walk in like he used to, but he pounded on the door again, just before I opened it.

I shrieked and jumped and leaped on him. He stepped inside, holding me, then set me down. We did the holding each other away, looking, then hugging, then pushing away again. There was hesitance all over him. I was too excited, panting, finding it hard to speak.

He's back! I don't even know what to do with myself. He said he'll "probably stop by later."

2005-10-17T15:24:00.000-07:00

My man is going to be back in town soon, I just talked to his brother.

I feel like jumping out of my skin with...I don't know....excitement slash fear. Just questions and "I don't know"s jumping around in my head.

Will he call me? Will he ignore me? Does he like me? Does he like me?

I think I might soon find out.

It's raining men

2005-10-05T22:37:00.000-07:00

Andre just stopped by. He said he had three things to tell me, but it was the third one that required him to pre-tank half a mickey. First two covered, I asked him what the third was. He gets up, comes toward me with both hands outstretched, takes his face in my hands, and comes in to kiss me (I don't like casual kissing). I'm so astonished I don't really believe that he's about to kiss me until he contacts, and I instinctively pull back. This causes me to fall backwards off the arm of the couch I'm sitting on, rolling ungracefully onto the couch. His expression is undetermined. I gesture complete confusion.

"That's the third thing," he says, with intensity, helping me back to my perch on the armrest. "Two years."

"You mean three? Since you first met me?" I ask. He agrees, but on second thought, it has been two years. Two years and 3 months. I slide down, sit on his lap, put my arms around him.

"I'm sorry," he says into my hair. I nod forgiveness. I love Andre, but not like that. I hate scenes like this, but we'll recover.

----

What the fuck! Now it just sounds like I'm bragging, these men rolling at my feet. I'm really not that hot. But it's thrilling and feels, in some strange way, like what I've been waiting for has arrived. I'm getting paid back now for all I've lived, with the appreciation of men. Men are seeing my value now, it's shining through my skin, making them think I'm beautiful.

It reminds me of Phenomenal Woman.

Feels good.

2005-10-04T00:20:00.000-07:00

I hide money in books. 5s, 10s, 20s, occasionally 50s if I'm having a wealthy month. It's so nice, if I ever need to order a pizza, or buy Girl Guide cookies, and I have no cash in the house, well, I can look in my books.

It makes me touch my books, picking them up and flipping all the pages looking for a break in the whirr that says there's something in the pages. It reminds me what I have on my shelf, I get a quick thrill from each one, what that book gave to me when I read it, and as I strum through , I feel like the wind from the pages is blowing some of the content at me, too.

I like handling them, even though I haven't had time to spend with them, at least I touch them once in awhile, looking for cash, and that's better than nothing.

It's serendipitous. I put money in the books I think are special, so when I'm looking, I wonder what I thought was worth putting money in, last time. Shel Silverstein? Poetry? Sex books? Novels? Sometimes I find money when I go to read a book. Sometimes I find soemthing else when I'm looking for money. Today I "found" a raven feather, and a US $2 bill. Guess I haven't looked in those books for awhile. Always, I notice books that I'd forgotten.

I found a sticky note in a book of Erica Jong's poetry - a quote from an ex boyfriend "You write better poetry." He did say that, about me, vs. Erica Jong. Erica Jong!! That's actually a compliment that kind of falls down. Because Erica Jong's poetry is so fucking good, that to say I compare, is really revealing that you don't know anything about poetry, therefore nullifying the compliment.

And if I can't find any money, then it's time to restock my bookshelf savings account.

2005-10-03T23:36:00.000-07:00

I love working for myself. I can show up at 10, pretend to work, lie on the grass with my dog, and almost acheive a hands-free orgasm with only my imagination.

If I don't work, I don't make money, but you know, no one else is cracking a whip on you.

It was SO close! I've always wanted to see if I could come hands-free, but like many great things, the chance pops up when it's furthest from your mind.

It started off innocently enough. The sun was hot and made me kind of bliss out. I noticed sweat beading up on my lip and my back getting damp, so I took my shirt off, laid on it, then I unzipped my pants so I could get sun on my belly to my underwear line.

I was thinking of Steven. Actually, I deliberately thought, 'I'm going to lie here and relax as much as I can, and try to remember all the tiny little details that are slipping away from me now'. Whatever. I got to reexperiencing the hug, and a couple of atv rides, and then I just wanted a cock in me so bad. I particularly wanted my legs lifted, and straight, to straddle a man's lap, only with my legs on his shoulders, and just pumped. My pussy really wanted to be open, legs spread/ forced/ stretched wide open. It wasn't a sense of vulnerability, though, more like wanting to be a piece of fruit peeled inside out.

There was around 5 minutes there where if any man I'd known had wandered by, I would have stripped and raped him right there. I got so hot and so hungry. I was trying to entice Steve by leaning over his bike, lifting my skirt, pulling my red lace panties bunched together in my hand and pulling them up, tight, in a wedgie, pulling them down, bending one leg, showing him my pussy, begging for it. I had a real good show going there. He would go crazy for that, if I ever got to do it.

A tiny leg cramp made me realize that I had my legs rigid and flexed, toes pointed. Maybe that's what killed it - noticing consciously how close I was to orgasm. Sometimes noticing something, like that you're reading minds, makes it disappear.

Then I kicked my fantasy up to the full-on, and to the anal, which is always the money in fantasy for me. I had him sideways to me, straddling one leg, the other bent and over a shoulder, him with a rock solid grip on my hip/thigh, yanking me into him, making me squeak, making me lose speech. Then so hot he started playing with my ass, asking if I want him to fuck it, and I start begging for that, and then he was fucking me in the ass.

Every so often my consciousness surfaced to the real me, lying on the grass, and I'd think 'I can't believe I'm not coming!' and 'If I just touch my clit right now, I'll blow', but still refusing to do that. I was visible from other neighbourhood sundecks, and besides, I thought it was possible.

I gave up. In time, I figured it wasn't going to happen, this time, went in the building, leaned on a wall, put one hand down my pants and came instantly. Holy mother of god, too, what an orgasm. There's something about sex with oneself, you can really finetune an orgasm. I rarely have the stomach to push myself into the scary, almost painful, don't-want-any-more-but-oh-my-god places past orgasm that can be really rewarding. I stop at the one rush and sequence of pulses, enjoy that. Let boys muscle me over that threshold to 2, 3 and 4.

Went back to work with a bit more pop in my step, got 'er done.

What's that you say, Mrs. Robinson?

2005-09-29T14:34:00.000-07:00

I opened my eyes in the morning, and remembering who was sleeping beside me, turned my head to peek over my arm at him. His eyes flew open, looking at me, and he rolled to seize me - almost a lunge.

"I dreamt of you all night!"

"Really?" I said. "I was right here."

I laughed and returned his hug. I rolled on top of him to reach my water, and then kissed him with the cold liquid still in my mouth. He sucked it off my lower lip. I wiggled around on him, feeling his hardon against my mound. I sat up, pulled a towel under his ass, and put a condom on him, a less garishly coloured one today. And then I rode him, holding his arms over his head by the wrists, driving down on him hard, my hair falling damply around his face and my breasts bouncing on his chest. He never took his eyes off my face, his mouth open sometimes in awe, sometimes in pleasure. After he came, crying out and convulsing, I slid off of him and tried to clean us up a little with the towel.

We got away with one last night. This time, it was messy.

"Ok, we're taking a shower right now," I said.

He was still lying motionless and prostrate, staring at the ceiling now. "My god," he said in a reverent church voice. "You're even better than I expected."

I howled with laughter. I rolled off of him, kicking my feet in the air and laughing. I laughed till tears came to my eyes, and whenever the gales of laughter started to wane, I repeated "better than you expected!" and another peal would erupt. He joined in, although I could tell he didn't see the same humour in it that I did. Finally, it subsided, and I laid still for a moment to rest. "Better than you expected. That's fucking hilarious. What were you expecting, then, honey?""

Still snickering, I grabbed the towel around me and went directly down to bathe. I expected him to join me, but he waited for me to finish instead. I came out with the towel wrapped around me, kissed him where he was with his hands above his head,
leaning in an archway.

"Yeah," he said with an exhale. "So, thanks for blowing my mind. It was really nice of you."

I laughed again. "Ok, we have to go eat a whole bunch of food now."

"Oh my god yes," he agreed, eyes wide.

-----

We went out, ordered three huge breakfasts, provoking interest from our server, and shared them. It was still barely enough food, and we revelled in it, jamming food in our mouths, feeding each other bites, and touching under the table.

We walked all over town. I showed him my favorite stores and haunts, told him the stories I knew. I was thrilled to see so many people I knew as we walked around in the sunny morning. More to the point, to have them see me with this glowing young stud. He was all over me, too, touching my waist possessively, picking up my hand. I was in heaven, especially seeing the looks of curious envy on others' faces. Big big ego feed.

"How did this happen?" I suddenly asked him.

"I don't know," he answered. "I sure wasn't expecting it. Then all of a sudden, according to you, I'm 'hot'."

"You are hot. But it didn't occur to me that you were actually into me until I came home and you were still there. I was like, 'Is he waiting for me?' Were you?" I asked.

"Yeah, I guess so. And that time, I was trying to play it all cool, then as soon as you left, I was like, 'Idiot! You shouldn't have let her go!'"

"Awww! Well, I'm glad you stayed."

"Oh, me too."

I want more time with him. I like him, and the way I feel around him. I have so much energy and hope, and I know that's his youthful optimism and appreciation of me rubbing off on me.

He sees me. He sees me in all my stuff, as he's read all the spines on my bookshelf, and examined all the things I have. I'm so impressed with what he's discovered about me. Nobody sees as much as he has from walking in my house, yet it's always been all there to be seen. I feel like he knows me shockingly well, and it still feels good and safe.

In bed, it could be better, but the potential is there, he would just need to learn a little more about driving me.

He's put his shoes with mine on the shoe shelf, not just on the floor like a visitor. He's found space on the shelves in the kitchen for the food he's bought, he's put my dishes away in the way he thought best. Everywhere there are little evidences of him being so comfortable in my house, and it's symbolic of something. I like it.

I'm grateful for having had this time with him, and I feel like my world is bigger for knowing he's in it, and for having had him see me the way he does. Strangely large things to feel about a 19 year old kid. He's been a surprise.

He's leaving today, but I muse out loud that I haven't had enough time with him. "And I hate that I'm bleeding, too. Sex is way better for me when I'm not."

"Just as long as you don't feel weird about it at all," he says.

"I try not to, but..." I trail off.

"Don't. It doesn't matter a bit." We're walking past Ezra's house now, we're almost at mine. I always, always, instinctively look for Ezra's vehicle when I pass his house, and send out a little wish of wanting him, although I don't expect him back for another month. So that's what I'm thinking of when Nate stops and pressures me into the handrail on the sidewalk. He grabs the rail with both hands on either side of me, leaning me back against it. My hands go to his waist reflexively. He kisses me imperatively, then, leaning on me, takes me in a full hug and kisses me again, deeper, passionately. I'm thrilled, with a hint of nervousness, wondering if any of my neighbours are seeing this. I feel like he's trying to say something, too, but I'm not sure what. So when he lets me go, I just smile.

----

And then he's gone.

2005-09-28T22:26:00.000-07:00

"Ok." He obeys promptly, bouncing upstairs, still in his black boxers. I take the opportunity to brush my teeth, get a glass of water for bed, and use the can.

"Fuck me!"

I can't help saying it out loud. I've just started to bleed.

I hate that. I think I'm not supposed to feel weird about it, but ... I just do. It's fucking messy to fuck with blood everywhere, and it can look a little scary. I'm not quite at an it's-neither-here-nor-there point. I admire my friend J for not even warning a guy, being all "He'll figure it out", but that's not me. I'm annoyed.

Oh well, I hope. Maybe I won't bleed like a stabbing victim just yet. It is just the beginning.

He's on his back, naked in my bed. I like the way he looks there, so I cock my head to the side and say so, let my robe fall off as I stand over him, then straddle him and sit on his thighs, produce a variety of condoms. I'm not a big fan of novelty condoms, but that's what I have, it seems, so I choose a red one. We laugh as I put it on him.

It looks like artificial cherry flavouring, absurdly plastic and red against our skin.

"I just started bleeding," I say. "I'm pissed."

"So what," he shrugs as he sits up and rolls me to my back. The sensual, patient lover that was savouring me downstairs is gone. Now he's got his devil eyebrows on, looking at me mischievously.

"Oooo," I like it. He shoves my leg aside unceremoniously, so I resist, playing his game, provoking him to scoop my leg up, the crook of his arm under my knee. He directs his cock at my pussy with his hand, and thrusts it into me with one hard push, making me gasp and instinctively attempt to retreat. But he's got a wicked grip on me, and I fight and roll and twist and shove my body up into him violently, as he grins at me with half his mouth, biting his lip. He's sweating now, it drips on me, and my belly gets wet as he slaps against me. I say all kinds of things, scratch and bite him, and beg for it.

He pulls out, rolls me over, and pulls my hips back towards him. I get up on my hands, toss my hair back over my damp back, and reach for my clit. This is the money. He's pumping me rythymically, when without warning, he hauls off and slaps me, very hard, on the ass. I scream and flinch, my pussy jerking involuntarily with my shock. He does it again. He's a master of timing. Every time one of his hands lifts away from me, when I can't feel exactly where both his hands are, I get tense, waiting for the slap to land, and hold my breath. Sometimes too long, and then when I remember to gasp a breath, or can't stay tense any longer, the stinging hit falls on me. It makes shivers travel through my chest, and steps my breathing up a notch with my anxiety. He tangles a hand in my hair, pulling my head back to him like a rider, and spanks me with intermittent, deliciously slow, torturous timing. I come, hard. He uses me a few seconds longer to come, and then as he leans on his hands and knees, his whole cut, athletic body glistening and dripping with sweat, heaving, I roll between his arms to face him and laugh.

He draws himself up to only his knees with effort, stretches both arms out to fists in the universal I'm-the-king-of-the-world pose, and sighs through a grin.

"Oh my God. Phew. Ok, woman. Wow. I'm going to go drink some Gatorade, give you a massage, and then go for a jog!"

All three of these announcements are startling. I laugh harder. "You're not! It's 2 am!"

"Do you have any idea how much energy I have flowing through my body right now? I could run 5 miles." He stands up and leans looking out my bedroom window, allowing me to admire the line of his ass flowing into his hamstring. Mmmmm, men.

Veal

2005-09-27T13:28:00.000-07:00

"What?" Ok, he just managed to totally stun me. I'm really astounded. We've been yapping like old wives all afternoon and he has real depth. I can't believe he has found the time to do all of that living and reading in 19 short years.

I'm also way past saying no, I want him bad now, so my line is getting pushed back. It was previously set at a 10-year maximum gap. But hell, 12 years- it's similar to 10. They both start with a one.

He gives me a heaping plate of food and we hover around the couch, settle on it. I put on a movie of mine that he wanted to watch, and was impressed he had already figured out how to operate my arcane DVD despite the confusing snarl of wires.

After I finish eating, I hunker down on my side of the couch and push my legs onto his lap, where he hugs them. We try to be respectful of the movie, but both of us are still finding stuff that just has to be said. I laugh at something, and he must have caught the flash of steel in my mouth.

"I'm jealous of your tongue post," he says.

"So get one."

"I had one. I took it out. I had my cock pierced too, a bunch of stuff. Nipples."

I sit up, stare in the general direction of his crotch, as though I could see something astonishing through my legs, blanket, and clothing. He laughs at me.

"What?" I sputter. "Not any more? How -what? Pain?"

"Yeah, through the head. No, I don't have it any more. I looove the rush of pain from piercing though. It's orgasmic," he explains. His head is resting on the back of the couch, and he has a distant, blissful expression in his eyes. I've performed all but one of the half dozen piercings I have on myself. The act of forcing steel through my flesh always seemed cathartic, meditative, cleansing. Not orgasmic. This is the closest I've ever been to a Prince Albert, though, and it's incongruous on this young ball-cap and Abercrombie wearing athlete that looks like he just walked out of Men's Health.

I want to tear into his pants right now with scientific interest and examine him, but I lean away slowly instead. Funnily enough, when I do get into his pants later, I forget entirely to look for evidence of a piercing. There's a hiatus in our conversation, as I stare unseeing at the tv and he smiles at me. He's surprised me, again, and he knows it.

20 minutes of the movie and silence found me alone in my own thoughts, influenced and inspired by Nate's hands making short absentminded strokes on my knee and thigh. His demeanor is pure peaceful contentment, like he could sit with me forever. I watched the side of his face with the TV light flickering on it. I thought about his tongue, his fingers, his chest, where his pecs push hard and high against his T-shirt. I wasn't willing to wait any longer.

I took his hand in mine and with the other, unbuckled his watch and slipped it over his hand. I was aiming to be as erotic as possible, communicating my intentions with the sparest of touch.

Later, when I asked him when he knew I was a sure thing, he said "When you took my watch off." So i must have been doing something right. I turned his hand over in mine and rubbed mine into his palm, stretching each finger out its length. Ever so slowly, feeling every blond hair, I slid my hand up his arm, under his sleeve, feeling the thick, energetic elasticity in his forearm, settling my hand around his bicep. Both of us watched my hand making its progress.

When my hand paused he put his hand under my neck and leaned down to kiss me. A delicate, sensitive kiss, more promise than caution, though.

I looked up at him, watching me. "I want to make you sweat," I said in my low sexy voice.

He scooped under my shoulders with the arm I'd been exploring, holding onto my hip with the other and shifting, moving both of us to end up lying beside me on the couch, my head on his shoulder. I wiggled down a little so my cheek was on his chest, and pushed the blanket down past our waists, to I could get the hem of his shirt. I pulled it up, freeing his juicy 6pack and particularly, one hard nipple right next to my face. I curled my tongue around it, teased it, licked all around it, breathed on it, flicked it, sucked it, bit it, and then slid down on the couch about 3 inches. I kissed, licked, nuzzled, and nibbled on his side for a few minutes, and then moved down another 3 inches, repeated same on his last rib, still holding his T-shirt above my head. He moved a little towards me, so with another shift down, I was at his bellybutton, and could play with my tongue and fingers with the tantalizing shape of muscles that lead downwards into the pants. I ran my tongue all along the top of his jeans and belt, poking underneath a little. I undid his belt, about a minute per step. Free tail of belt from loop. Slide through buckle. Pop off of tang of buckle. Slide out of other side of buckle. Tug on jeans to get some slack. Run tongue inside, touching band of boxers. Pop top button. Pull zipper open an inch. Another inch. And so on.

With his jeans lying undone in that ultimate sexy jeans advertisement kind of way, I lifted the band of his Calvins to let his erection pop up against his belly and then let them snap down again with only the head of his cock showing. I rested my head on his belly and toyed leisurely with the exposed tip. He touched my hair, and I kidnapped his hand, grabbing it by the thumb, guiding his thumb into the band of his boxers, and pushing it down, directing him to force his underwear down. He took his boxers and jeans all in a handful and thrust his hips up, freeing his cock entirely. I paused to soak up the image, his masculine hand in a fist around the fabric; cock, abs, beautiful arms and chest flexed above it, all heaving with his fast breath, waiting for my mouth to fall on him again. Oh yes, I love men.

He's completely shaved, and there's rough stubble that's hot to run the flat of my tongue against, between his balls and his thighs. I get going on his cock with fervour, switch-hitting between mouth work and watching my hand work.

"I'm gonna come," he says, softly. What I think he means is "Keep doing that and you're gonna make me come pretty soon," so I'm startled by the first jet of come pulsing onto his belly at the end of his sentence, but I pounce, and catch the rest of it in my mouth. I lick the first bit off his belly and slide my lips back down his still hard cock.

"Don't stop," he breathes. So I don't, and neither does his hardon. His cock is rock rigid, the skin on it sliding a little on the hard core, the head of it even more sensitive now to my tongue making circles around the base of it. I keep going until, funnily enough, I have to yawn, and I pause to stretch and smile at him. He shakes his head at me, then sits up, sitting me up too, and starts undoing the buttons of my shirt. I guess it's my turn.

"Hang on," I say. I jump up, lock the door behind us, turn off the TV that's been playing static since the movie ended some time ago. He goes to the bathroom, so I tuck some food into the fridge quickly and get back to the couch in time to arrange myself attractively before he gets back. He returns only in his black boxers, that hug his thighs.

And slowly, deliciously, he starts working on me. Unbuttons my shirt, interests himself in one breast, then the other, digs his fingers into my back pulling my belly up to his mouth, rips my zipper open, rolls me to one side then the other to pull my legs out of my pants, running long hard strokes down each of my legs. He kneels between my legs, close, so that my thighs rest open on his, and he plays his hands over all of me that he can reach. He pulls my waist up towards him again and I let the arch pull me up to his chest, belly first contacting his, then my breasts, then my head coming forward last, as he kisses my neck and wraps both arms tight around me. I'm sitting up on his thighs now, and he straightens, moves 90 degrees with me and leans me back on the back of the couch. Now he's facing the back of the couch, and I'm facing forward, my legs open and around him, down to my black satin bra and lace underwear. I feel like I'm melting. Everything is just so hot. I suppose I'm tired, too, but just soft, slow, and langourous as a sleeping cat. I can't even believe how sexy this is, his ever-so slow exploration of me, and I'm amazed at how beautiful I feel under his gaze, how without words he's making me feel so worshipped.

He slips off the couch to kneel and pull the crotch of my underwear aside, slip a purposeful tongue into my wetness and flick up, provoking my first noise. I push my hips towards his huungry mouth. He's good. He's making love to me with his mouth. Men sometimes think that they can pretend they're into it, or go down and get it over with, but it's not true. A woman knows if a guy is loving it or not, and whether he is or isn't makes all the difference. The most sensitive part of your body, you can feel a man's attitude through your pussy. And Nate's lovin' it. He's down for the count. He pushes on my thighs with insistent hands and swishes side to side with his flat tongue, pushing my lips open and rubbing across my clit. I grip the back of the couch, groan, pant, sob from the ache and start to shake, but just, don't, quite, come. So close. I need a breather. And I need to be penetrated, too. He feels my mind change and stops, looks up at me expectantly. I pant for a second, catch my breath.

I slowly take a handful of his hair and tug it affectionately.

"You go get in my bed," I say.

Oh Lord!

2005-09-26T12:39:00.000-07:00

After a good sleep-in, girl-talk catchup, and getting our work done, Taylor and I part ways late afternoon, and I go home. All day I'm anxious. Should I have seized the day (or night) and stayed at home? Did he go, did he stay? Will he be there?

Nate's car's not in the driveway. My heart sinks, and Taylor commiserates, tries to console me. But I don't know for sure yet...

I go inside, get a drink of water, turn on my computer, check my voicemail. I'm casually looking, but nothing is jumping out at me to evidence that Nate's still here. Finally, I relent and go upstairs to the spare room. There's a hockey bag on the floor and a ball cap on the dresser, and my heart starts to sing.

Suddenly there's so much to do! I go on a tidying streak, take a meticulous shower, eat, unpack what I need to, stow my renewed supply of condoms near my bed, throw in some laundry- starting with sexy clothes I might need. I'm almost done when he strolls in like a roomate.

He's dynamic, energetic, and super cute. Both of us are running around, putting stuff away, chatting about our days. He found our gym, went for a workout, scoped out some more of the town. We decide to go for an evening hike together, and we drive out of town together, blasting punk music and yukkin' it up.

He's so easy to talk to! Both of us warble away, laughing and leapfrogging topics. He teases me alot, a real verbal flirt. I'm impressed with his vocabulary, and I feel very alive and happy to be. I'm high on my recent life and content, having a blast with this guy. We hike, we hang out at the top of the hill. I'm finding him adorable. He's got lots of complementary experience, tons of interests, since it seems he's curious about everything and very adventurous and fearless to try anything. He's loving me, too. As I reveal more of my past, and the things you wouldn't guess, he's impressed and seems more fascinated. Our conversation turns deeper, but we're still on common ground. Notes of sex wink in and out too, as we joke and hint about it, and the flirting gets stronger and clearer, as we encourage each other to get ideas.

It's getting pretty hot for me. By the time we descend, I'm sold on this guy. For sure I'd fuck him. I also really like him. He's open, talkative, aware, intelligent. He's pretty special.

He turns around and offers me his hand on gnarly parts of the trail. Darkness is falling fast and we're racing it down the slope, running when we can see well enough. It's magical and kind of romantic. If this were a date, I'd be delighted.

We get home, warmed by exercise and hungry. He announces that he meant to make a thai chicken pasta and peanut sauce dish. I don't hear him right, and I think he's expressing a wish to go out for dinner. He clarifies. He's got all the ingredients. I stare at him in amazement.

"You cook, too."

"Oh hell yeah. Well, I love to eat, you see. I've got this blazing metabolism-" he grins.

Clearly he does. He sweats easily. On our hike, he was sweating so his face dripped, and beats of sweat would sit on his lip and make me feel thirsty to kiss them away. This is something I think is incredibly hot. The real athletes I've been with have had this swift and profuse sweating thing in common, and the athletic sex I've had with those men may have made an impression on my tastes.

I volunteer to make a salad, and together we rock the kitchen. Another of the sexiest, funnest things that I love. I think that's how Shane won me over - cooking with me. It's so cozy and relaxed and pleasurable - my god. We keep talking as though we'll never have enough time to say all we want to - about foods we love, books, movies, science - all passionate topics, all over juicy ripe vegetables and spicy sauces. Steam and sound and heat and the two of us doing the kitchen dance of sharing space and utensils and suggestions, spinning and reaching and incidentally and casually touching each other as we pass ... ahhhh!

Seeing as he's obviously younger than me, the age gap phenomenon came up. By this time, the attraction between us was like an acknowledged third party in the room, easy to talk about, indirectly. I mentioned my recent run of younger men.

"Why do you think that is?" he asked.

"Well, I have some theories," I began. I detailed: chronological age not-withstanding, I feel I'm at similar stage of life to younger people- seeking purpose and place in this world; younger men have an adventurous playfulness that I really appreciate; I'm often frustrated with guys my own age, who either decide in 15 minutes that I'm suitable and want to marry me, or else get intimidated by me and bolt.

"Imagine - Jake said I was intimidating!" Jake's one of the strongest men I know, and an example he'd recognize.

He freezes at the other end of the counter, and something in his expression paralyzes me too, green onions in one hand, knife in another. "But that's what's so FUCKING sexy!" He almost shouts it. He stamps his foot. "You're just- UH! Jesus! You're just -!" He gives up on the adjective, shakes his head. I'm stunned, but grinning.

"That's ridiculous to me, to be intimidated," he goes on. "Yeah, you can do, like three billion things better than I can, but I don't care! That's impressive! That's hot!"

"Ok!" I interrupt him. "That's a younger guy thing! You like it!"

"Fuck yeah, I like it, and you know what? It is a younger guy thing. I bet it's my generation. My mom - single mom, started her own business, powerful as fuck - that's what I grew up with - that kind of example - I bet it's all the guys my age - our moms are kind of the first batch to be independent and strong - so that's what we think is hot. All the guys your age, their moms were the last of the women to stay at home, you know, all that generation."

"Wow." My mouth has fallen open. I'm really impressed. I think he's probably bang on there. "I think you're right."

He's flushed with the intensity of his outburst. He moves to reach over me for a plate and I don't get out of his way, just lean back against the counter. He rests a hand on the counter beside me and leans his whole body against mine, face coming an inch from mine, looking into my eyes as he slides a plate off the stack with a curling ceramic sound. I feel a torrent of wet, hot desire swirl up into my chest and then spiral back down and center itself in my groin as he casually turns back to the stove. Fucking bold and shameless little fucker. Knows exactly what he's doing.

I'm not sure which of us is in control any more, and that's very exciting. The warmth and light of the kitchen is insulating us against the darkness of the night outside, drawing closer around us like a cloak and pulling us together. I feel like it's a sure thing now, I'm certain he's hot for me, and I for him. A split second of musing that it's only hours since I last slept with Steven flickers through my head. When it rains it pours.

I finish the salad first, and sit, watching him finish the pasta. He'd used 4 different pots to do it, in an impressive harmony of timing. He was pouring the water off the pasta.

"Hey, how old are you?" I hadn't thought to ask before.

The column of steam hisses up from the sink. He answers so innocent and casually. "Oh. Nineteen."

Hmmm, I wasn't expecting this

2005-09-25T09:36:00.000-07:00

How did it begin? I suppose it was when these two new guys arrived on the site almost 2 weeks ago- construction experience, so they got passed to me to direct. Couple hours later, I've got them slaving, they have their shirts off, and Deon comes strolling through with a mischievous grin, gives me an elbow and says "Bet you're enjoyin' this, eh?"

I'm all oblivious - "Huh?" so he flexs suggestively. I glance from him to the new guys that have been following me around like ducklings the last two hours, and realize, oh, they're pretty hunky. Both of them are ripped, tanned, and cute. Nate looks up at me right then, sweat pouring off of him, wipes his face, and grins. Wow, ok. These are certifiable hotties. Sometimes shit like that dawns on me a little late.

Lots of personality differences between the two, though. Nate was pretty quiet, and immediately showed he wasn't afraid of work, while the other one was constantly talking, flirting with me in a teasing kind of way, and looking for the easiest part of whatever I gave them to do. Not much skill, either. So I preferred Nate, although they came as a package - always together. Early 20s, I figured.

I spent very little time with them after that first day, just setting them on projects, and trusting that Nate had enough skill to keep Adam in line, and he did.

Skip to the event. I feel mellow and langourous in a skirt, in the sun, and I run into Nate, walking. We walk together to his car, and it's nice. He's shirtless and golden, with bright intelligent eyes and a wide sweet smile. I don't know how it comes up, but he gives me some opener- indicating a less-than-accurate mental picture of himself- and I have to say:

"You're fucking hot, actually. Really, you're hot." That sort of cuts through everything. His response shocks me, though:

"Well, you're like, my ultimate woman. You know, a chick who can rock power tools and still be sexy, wow! And you totally know it, too." He pretends to do a dramatic hair flip. "You sweep your your hair back, you're like 'oh yeah, I'm hot!'"

"I am not!" I argue. I'm not like that!

"Yeah you totally are- you totally know you're gorgeous!" he insists.

I go serious. "I'm just beginning to believe that, baby. That's what I hear, but...it's taken a while to sink in."

We pause for a moment of silence to absorb these revelations, then we embark on a new topic. Like what we're doing after the party. Apparently he and Adam have parted ways over irreconcible differences, so he's no longer half of a pair. He's driving back east and going through my town, so I offer him my house. I won't be in it, and I know how nice it is to stop, get some rest, get a shower.

I'm going on a feeling only - I trust this guy completely, although I hardly know him. He's not decided what he's doing exactly, but I tell him how to get in if he does find his way to my place, and I draw him a map.

Fast forward:
Event's long over, I've said goodbye to Steven, I come home to drop off my stuff, but I'm going on to stay at Taylor's house for the night and drink a bottle of wine. I expected Nate to be gone - maybe some leftover food in the fridge and a thank you note, but not Nate himself.

He's getting out of his car as we park. I'm surprised, I hug him; shuttle my stuff inside. He's emptying four bags of groceries onto my counter.

"Hey, are you staying here tonight again?"

"I was thinking I would, yeah."

"You're totally welcome to," I reassure him. "I ...was, gonna stay at Taylor's, tonight..." I speak slowly, but my wheels are turning fast. Why is he still here? Could it be...he's been waiting for me? Is he? Could we? Really, could he be into me? Wow! If I stayed here? "but, I might be back, I guess." Could we actually fool around, if I stayed here? I consider changing plans with Taylor. But no - we have stuff to get done together tomorrow, and it would be throwing myself at him, too. Stick to plan A.

"Yeah?" He looks hopeful. I'm encouraged.

"Are you gonna stay tomorrow too?" I ask quickly, with a lilt.

"I haven't decided..." he rambles off describing his options.

"I'd like it if you stayed tomorrow, too." I emphasize, to be clear. "I'll be home then." I smile.

So does he. "You can show me your side of this town, or something?"

"Yeah! So you're gonna stay? I'll see you tomorrow?" I'm delighted. I think he's flirting- I think he likes me! Wow! Nate is university jock hot. He looks like the picture of athletic health that corporations hire to advertise something nasty like burgers or pop. In other words, so hot (and young), I assume he's not in my league. It seems I might be wrong about that.

"Well, I can't promise," he says, "but you can be optimistic." He's giving me dirty eyes, and I want to jump up and down.

"Okay!" I practically run out the door, beaming with delight.

---

"Taylor, listen to this!"

2005-09-21T17:21:00.000-07:00

When I was young and immersed in a religion of others' choosing, there was a ubiquitous phrase seen in the churchy literature. Articles directed at teenagers ordering them to preserve their virginity, and guidance for parents to counsel their kids to protect their virtue, railed against the notion that "everybody's doing it".

Advice for reacting to this phrase, when it was used on you, was provided.

I can only assume that in the narrow imaginations of whatever tie-wearing tight-assed dude was writing this drivel, young christian women everywhere were finding themselves in cars with young non-converted men, who would put their football jacket-clad arms around their innocent shoulders, ask them if they wanted to "go all the way" and then say "Aw come on, everybody's doing it". In my opinion, a guy trying to score with a girl as licentious as they come would still get shot down with a line like that. I can only imagine how it might be plyed to a man, by a girl. "Let me suck your cock, baby, everybody's doing it"

In church, not doing what "everybody" was doing was an identity-creating distinction. Those who belonged were bonded by not-doing, and thrived on the ferocity with which they could not-do what the perceived "other" Everybody was purportedly doing (in their iniquitous dens of sex, shame, and deadly sins).

I'm planning and organizing a girlfriend's wedding right now. Last night, I learned another of my "sisters" is marrying. I had to pause and count how many of us are left standing, ringless. Taylor, who can't wait for the right one to appear, whisk her from her present life to another one, and make babies with her. Jill, who I expect to remain staunch. And then, women I hang with and gripe about itinerant boyfriends? They're all 4-6 years younger than me.

Seems like Everybody's getting hitched. Sure, there's definitely a part of me who admires these women and their men for being so sure and willing to lock in to being with each other, who envys the strata of love that that kind of commitment represents. But on the heavy other hand, I'm suspicious of what Everybody's doing. What happens if you refuse to do that? What opportunity is there in the experience of doing something else?

Everybody's having children, too. Well, not really, yet, but many many women my age around me have had children in the past 4 years. That I won't do. I'll never know what it's like to have children, to have the obviously huge emotional experience of creating and caring for another being. I think, I'm going to find out what it's like to be a woman who chooses never to have kids. That's going to be a different experience, and I expect it to be interesting and unique.

What if I committed to myself to never marry? What would it be like to live life without entertaining ideas about typical partnership? Would it change how I make decisions, live, work? What would that be like, for marriage to be as impossible as fertility is for me?

I have always had amorphous visions of my far future that don't cast me as half of something. I have a vague confidence that as an old woman, I won't be a lonely one, but that I will be surrounded by others of many ages who help and entertain me, but also rely on me for what I have inside of me. I don't see myself with a quilt over my lap in one of a pair of twin rocking chairs, a pleasantly wizened old man in the other.

In the meantime, I vaguely envision series of partners and lovers who share my life very closely with me, maybe for many years, but ... no "One"s.

But then. Ezra and I were driving, and we both noticed an old couple waiting to cross an intersection. They were standing proud and as straight as they could (slightly bent), dressed in their best. They were each leaning on a cane, with their other hands tightly clasped between them. Both of them were wearing shit-eating grins; they looked as if they were in a private universe for two.

"Look at that," I said. "Wow. When we're that old, how often do you think we'll see that?"

"Not very often."

"Oh god, the world will be filled with old single people, too stubborn and attached to their own lifestyle to go out and hook up with each other." I was saddened by the idea.

"Yeah, millions of single old people, all living alone." Ezra finished, and we sat silently through a light, contemplating.

Dreams of marriage definitely creep in. I tell myself I don't mean "marriage", I mean the degree of commitment that usually leads to weddings. I'd like that, to feel that loved and be that sure about someone else. To feel safe, to have someone who has promised to be with you no matter what. When I'm at a peak of infatuation, the phrase "I could marry him" seems to be the strongest expression I can think up.

I'm not comfortable with these thoughts. I think they're a reflection of emptiness or lack of faith in my desirability. Marriage still seems to me to be an "end" - end result, end of the movie, final goal. When you get married- "ok, someone loves me enough, now I can rest" - the goal's been met, the point has been made.

Do I want, maybe, the experience of learning to be with one other person throughout a lifetime of change, negotiating challenge together for the comfort of being deeply known and not-alone? Should I remain open to that? Or might I opt for experiencing life free from looking, or even staying "open" for the mythical "one"? What might lie behind the door that would open if I really closed this one?

2005-09-19T21:47:00.000-07:00

I groped around for a couple candles in the dark, and lit them. I turned back to him, crouching on his heels, watching me and waiting.

I reached for his cheek and slid my hand into his bristly hair, stroking his ear with my thumb. He grabbed my wrist with one hand and reached for my waist with his other. I pushed him gently backwards off his heels, and, on my knees, stepped over his legs to straddle him. As he leaned back a little, I put my hands on his shoulders and kissed him.

The candlelight flickered on me, the cold night air licked under my shirt and hardened my nipples, the distant music throbbed, and I felt an eruption of power and sensuality within me flood my body with warmth.

I leaned away from him, tossed my head back and lifted my arms to take fistfuls of my hair, and on my knees over him, I started dancing again. Slowly, seductively, I rolled my hips around, running my hands down my sides, over my breasts, up my neck, through my hair, leaning forward with my head back to brush my back with my hair, pushing my skirt down, lifting my top up, for moments, my eyes closed and mouth open, tasting sex and absolutely revelling in his pleasure, watching me. His hands rested silently on my knees at his sides.

I undressed myself slowly, teasingly. Then I started to touch him, leaning into him and taking his neck in my hands to kiss him, then leaning back. Brushing his face with my dangling hair, leaning into him to touch my belly to his hungry mouth. He carefully touched my waist, then slowly slid his rough, hard hands to my breasts, as I kept dancing from my knees. I arched backwards and dropped to my hands behind me, letting his hands push up the center of my chest to my neck, and slide back down to the space between my open legs, spread and ready. I pulled back to upright, holding my hair, watching his thumb gently seek out my clitoris, as he watched my face.

I felt like a benevolent goddess, giving him this gift, this memory, this visual. A take-home film to revisit and reuse. And I felt absolutely, completely beautiful.

I looked at him, bit my lip and whimpered as his thumb found my clitoris and rubbed upwards on it. My hips pulled involuntarily retreated a little, so he grabbed my ass with his other hand, controlling me and pulling me into the pressure of his other hand. He extended fingers and stroked them through my wet lips. I was crazy by now, wanting something, everything, naked and high, feeling like I couldn't open my legs wide enough or moan loud enough to express the desire and energy in me.

He was devouring me with his eyes, too, his mouth open slightly, lip damp. His expression was adoring, grateful awe.

I smiled at him through a shiver vibrating up from my clit, then backed off of him and crawled wordlessly into my tent. He tore off all his clothes in seconds and followed me in.

I was more than ready for him, and lifted my hips as he knelt between my knees. He grabbed me around the hips and started hauling into me like a steam engine, of course. I let him drive me. Let him flip me to all fours where he couldn't see me smile to myself as he hammered into me so fast that I couldn't even keep fingers steady on my clitoris. I focused on the wet, sexy sound of skin slapping, fast and hard, stayed aroused. I moaned for him, waited for his orgasm, waited for him to collapse on my back. When he did, I lowered us to the bed and relaxed, noticing him again, his impossibly soft skin, his lovely hardness relaxed and panting in surrender on my back, feeling his heart pound and hearing his ragged breath and smelling his lingering scent of diesel and bearing grease. I soaked him up and drank him in, proud and content.

After his breath steadied to a full slow pattern, he sighed gratitude and kissed me all over my ear, cheek, and neck, helping me tug myself back from sleep. We stayed like that for awhile, breathing slowly together, his weight heavy and limp on me, his penis still inside me, just being together, loving and absorbing every luminous moment.

2005-08-31T21:10:00.000-07:00

I feel really happy in my skin these days.

All this "shouldn't", "shouldn't" - bullshit. It's like water right now, evaporating off my back. What feels right is right.

Sex and morality is all about your attitude towards it and your beliefs about it, and right now I feel unconflicted and clear.

I'm really happy to be who I am, doing what I'm doing, and in exactly this skin.

Throwdown

2005-08-31T06:38:00.000-07:00

I called Dave, I wanted him to get some drywall done for me in my house while it was empty. He said he'd come over to look at it. I was so tired I sat on the couch, and next thing I knew I was waking up to his voice as he walked in the door.

I offered him a beer, and we went upstairs to take a look at the unfinished room. I flopped on the mattress that's thrown in the corner, and he perched on the edge of it, with his beer, to discuss it. He didn't think he'd be able to fit the job in. Oh well. We kept talking, about other stuff, like his self-esteem.

"I never thought I was anything to look at," he says.

"You're actually pretty hot." I thought so, when I first met him. "You've got the height thing, and the posture - you've got confidence."

"Yeah, I've got the height."

"And you've got nice arms. They're big, and tanned."

"What? I've got skinny arms."

"No you don't, they're just really long, but they're pretty big." I show him how his forearm is almost twice the size of my bicep. He gets it.

"You come off really aloof, though. I thought you were really cold when I first met you. You're like, that guy who's impossible to approach, even if you wanted to." I describe a gorgeous guy wearing a hoody that I really really wanted to tell I thought was hot, but there was just no window. "You've got to work on that."

"I know," he says. He says that changes when he drinks.

I give him some suggestions. Tell him all I know about picking up women, with lots of anecdotes. He's loving it. We even roleplay a scene. Two takes. I clap my hands when he gets it right - sincere, vulnerable but controlled, saying just enough and not too much - "That's perfect!"

He reclines to lie beside me, I curl on my side, not touching him, but close. I'm exhausted. I'm wearing a skirt. I tell him about one of my favorite compliments I recieved from a stranger.

"Yeah, but did anyone ever walk up to you at a party and say, 'You're so smart'?" he asks. I laugh. "Because I think that's one of your most attractive qualities." He reaches for a leg and I grab his wrist preemptively, so he settles on putting his hand on my knee.

We talk about when we met, and I mention Shane for some reason.

"Ahh, right, you and Shane, you and Shane," he says. Strange tone.

"What?"

"That was pretty tacky that you lied to me about him not staying that night. That night I came over. He stayed, didn't he?"

"Yep," I admit. I'm too tired to keep the lies sorted out. Lies are like that.
"I knew it," he says, smugly.

"Hey," I perk up indignantly, "we didn't fuck, but yeah, he stayed." Actually, we did, but I don't like the tone this guy takes with me. And I have to protect Shane's current girlfriend.

"Oh, ok." He seems to buy that.

"I lied to you about that?" I ask sleepily.

"Yeah, you did."

"Sorry," I say. That wasn't one of my better-chosen lies.

"You can't lie to me. I can just see right through it. Lies don't work on me. I've always been like that. I always totally know when someone's lying." Whatever, buddy. And every girl you've fucked has come, right?

He rolls up to one arm and grabs me. He kisses me by pressing his mouth down on mine. He's horrible at kissing. He drops the weight of his head on me, immobilizing our lips and crushing them together, sometimes hard enough that our teeth touch.

He thinks that he's communicating his desire with increasing PSI. It's not so bad when I can back away, but this time he's got my head against the bed, so I feel like I'm suffocating. My eyes pop out, but he doesn't see that because his are closed. I begin to squirm from claustrophobia. Pressure does not equal passion, men!

He releases me and I gasp like a fish.

"Noooo!" I toss my head from side to side, a very sleepy tantrum. It's a general protest.

"I know, I know, you don't want to fuck me anymore." He backs away from me.

"What?" Just - not right now!

"That's what you said before, that I couldn't pump you again unless I buy you dinner," he tells me with a bit of a chuckle.

"I said that?" I'm surprised. It doesn't sound familiar.

"Yeah, that was the jist of it."

"Ohhh, yeah," I remember what he's talking about. The jist of it was that I wanted him to spend some time with me sober and not just when he had the urge to fuck. "Well it just feels like all you ever come here for is to get laid. You call when you're horny." I phoned him this time, but whatever.

"I didn't come here for that, I swear. I was gonna be all pro, look at the job, leave, but... you're just so damn sexy." He looks down at my legs, runs his hand up one, jets it up my skirt. I grab my skirt and hold it down like I'm being threatened by a gust of wind. He retracts his hand, apologizes.

"I'm so tired," I whine hard. "I don't want to!" (with a bit of a whimper).

"Well, I'm fully prepared to do all the work, but..." He's got an arm under my shoulders, it's nice. My legs are tucked up, leaned against his. He runs his hand down the inside of my thigh and although I clamp my legs shut he's fast enough to flick my pussy with a fingertip and learn I'm not wearing underwear. He sits up, pushes my skirt up with decisive force, slides down the bed to go down on me. Dave does have throwdown, I'll give him that.

It borders on too much force, but I kind of like it. I let my knees fall open in resignation. He's relaxed, and patient, and I relax into his mouth, fast. I love it, and I'm too tired to think, except of Steven, how only hours ago I was with him and happy. Very quickly, he makes me moan. He pauses, and shifts, and asks, "Did you come there?"

"No," I say, I laugh softly. "No, I'm not that fast." I tell him to suck, and to make circles.

He makes me come. It's beautiful and washes over me like relief. I roll back and forth, slide my legs against each other, open them. I love the wet slippery feeling after I orgasm. Dave hikes himself up to lay on top of me.

"Your pussy tastes so good," he growls. You read that in a magazine, there, hon? That that was the thing to say?

"Mmmm, I just came on your face," I murmur. I love stating the obvious.

"I want to fuck you," he says.

"I have no condoms," I point out.

"I do," he says. Aha! So that bit about not coming here for "that"
was BS!

I close my eyes, ready to pass out. I'm exhausted. I hear the squeaky sounds of him suiting up. He settles himself on me, enters me. I lay there, barely move my hips. He kisses me gently and moves in me slowly.

"You have such a nice pussy," he says quietly. I've been hearing "nice" a lot lately.

"You're fucking me," I declare. There's the obvious again.

I'm getting into it. It feels great, of course, and I roll my hips around under him, moan and push into him, pull my knees up, high and open. He never picks up speed, just comes gently, quite soon, with a long exhale, but I feel him shudder in me.

My eyes close again as soon as he pulls out of me. I notice from a far-off place that I forgot entirely to feel guilty or fear being busted. I'm just natural, open. My skirt is a fabric donut around my waist and my legs are splayed. He's kneeling between them still, getting dressed. I feel him stand up.

He picks up my hand and kisses the back of it. I'm touched, and I lift my heavy lids to smile at him.

"I missed you," he volunteers.

"You didn't miss getting laid?" I rib him.

"No, I missed you." He's assertive.

I'm touched again. He's being sweet, and I haven't seen him be sweet before. I love it. I smile up at him, but I can't hold my eyes open, and he leaves me there with my skirt around my waist, to fall asleep and dream floaty dreams of building things.

Velcro & Dave

2005-08-30T18:10:00.000-07:00

Made the long commute home for my only days off in the month. It's so nice to be working so far from where I live - all the usual stresses are so distant, and "a change is as good as a rest".

I just saw my neighbour come home, and my cat cross my yard to greet him. He put down his bottle of pop and sat down on his step to pet her. She's been so lonely without me, I wonder if this is a new habit, her meeting him after work.

I moved to the side of my window, spying, to watch. He smiled at her, I could see him talking to her as he stroked her, and she coiled and slithered against his legs, bumped her head into his arm and hand, arched her back and nuzzled him. It was so cute! She was so excited and so obviously pouring on the affection. She got one of her ears folded inside out in her enthusiasm, and didn't even notice for a while. Eventually she stepped up on him, questioningly, and then climbed into his lap and he adjusted, to hold her. She curled into a little donut in his arms, and he sat there as if he had nothing better to do, staring into space and absentmindedly petting her as she snoozed.

Fucking adorable. I'm going to kiss him next time I see him. That was so beautiful.

Don't nipple rings get noticed any more?

2005-08-29T19:46:00.000-07:00

You know, he went straight for my breast, but no mention at all about my nipple ring. No intake of breath, nothing. I like it when guys at least acknowledge it. I love it, so I love men loving it.

I was so delighted with Ezra's reaction: "What's this? I didn't know about this!" Rolling it around in his mouth, so hot the memory of it turns me on!

---

I WIN!!!!

That's all I can think about. I win! I feel like I get everything I want. It's unreal.

The most powerful, fascinating, respected, amazing man on this whole damn complex, and one that's off limits at that, and I've been with him, and he continues to flirt hard with me. I feel like I've won a whole bunch of lotteries. Everyone I want seems available to me lately.

I have these distant memories of throwing myself at fairly boring, normal guys who I decided were delicious, and having them be distant, disdainful, reject me. Not lately, and that's very satisfying. What's different?

On the other hand, maybe it's not so good for me to get everything that I want.

2005-08-26T22:34:00.000-07:00

I slept much longer than I meant to, maybe because the sun falls on Jake's tent later in the day than on mine. I woke thinking first of Steven, then of all I had to do. Jake was a big, rumbling bear, his chest going up and down with his breath. He was hot, obviously. He had had an arm under my head, but he was starfished on top of the covers in just a pair of black underwear. I looked at the bulge in them, to see if I could see how he does so well with women, but there were no secrets to be revealed while he was asleep, at any rate.

I love seeing men asleep. Jake sleeps deep. I felt so much affection for him, seeing him in a completely different light than I do all day. I climbed over his big bear body, dragging my hair across his chest, kissing his barrel chest. I gathered up my clothes, put them on, kissed the palm of his hand, stroked dampness off his forehead, touched his cheek. He moved, groped the air for me. I laid down on him, he hugged me clumsily. His arms are huge. You know when you've been hugged. I kissed his neck and whispered to him to keep sleeping, then scrambled out of the door and into my shoes, kissing his hand again as I zipped him back into his tent.

I wonder if any of the others realized where I'd slept.

Let sleeping dogs lie

2005-08-26T21:47:00.000-07:00

"You're always filthy," I say in a whisper. He pokes his head forward like a bird, to hear me better.

He's always moving in these delicate, graceful ways that are slightly unusual for a man. He's athletic and nimble. Jumps two feet over something as soon as stepping over it. Quick like a squirrel.

"It's fucking hot," I finish. He just looks so damn good dirty.

He shakes his head. "You're crazy," he mumbles.

----

I'm getting so tired. We all are. I'm leaning on Steven and my eyes are flickering closed, whenever we have to wait. He rubs my shoulder tenderly with his thumb. I feel sheltered and supported, and, my sensitivity heightened by fatigue, I feel him so enjoying me, touching me.

We reach a stopping point and discuss who's got it in them to continue. Steven says he has to go, and I start to lower the basket to the ground. I'm aching already. I've been in heaven for hours being in his presence, but it's ending. It seems a little more tragic because of my exhaustion.

My sleep cycle has wrapped around so that I usually stay up all night now and work in the cool morning. Morning is magical, with the fog and new light, birdsong ... and silence that I crack with my skilsaw. Then I sleep in the midafternoon for a few hours, when it gets sweltering hot. I flop naked in my sauna-like tent and sweat slightly while sunlight streams in the open door.

But tonight, I'm fading fast. I only got 3 broken hours yesterday in the day, it's almost dawn, and I'm feeling the sleep-dep queasiness and jitters. If I can get through that, I might be able to make it.

We lurch to the ground and Steve hops out of the nest we've been in together all night. He pauses, hanging off the rail. I'm looking at him sadly.

"Thank you. For everything," he says intently. Then he drops to the ground, spins and strides off without a glance back. I follow him out of sight with my eyes and wilt as he vanishes.

The rest of the boys are still undecided whether or not to keep on, or to crash. I say I'm good for either/or. Then I lay down in the floor of the lift basket, put my head on the foot pedal housing, and pass out.

I still hear some conversation around me. Deon tries to wake me up. I open my eyes and ask if we're gonna work.

"No," he says, "everyone's bagged. Go to bed."

"I'm happy here," I retort, and tune him out. For some reason, I'm really comfortable.

They wake me up again, to tell me to go to my tent. If I could reach any of them right now, I'd drift them. There is no rage like the rage of the exhausted. They're waking me up... to tell me to go get some sleep... holy fuck right off!

I drift off again, and ... a third time! This time it's Jake, and he's alone, and the sun must be up, it's bright.

"Come on honey, let's go to bed."

"I'm happy here." Except it's cold, I'm just noticing, now I'm awake again.

"No, you can't sleep here," he says. I just was, wasn't I? "Come, sleep with me. Let's go to bed."

Ok, then! That's worth getting up for. I uncoil myself, almost stumble to my feet. Jake gathers me up and helps me climb down from the basket. Still sensitive and queasy, I meander through the dewy woods with him to his tent. I strip in front of it, dive in. His bedding is all cold and damp. I whimper, in a hurry for him to come warm me up. He takes a minute longer, then he's there behind me. He wraps his warmth and arms around me and my lights go out again.

The trades are pissing me off.

2005-08-25T09:46:00.000-07:00

The NHL shuffle is driving me crazy. Every day I get a raft of insider emails notifying me of the trades. Forsberg to the Flyers? Hossa to the Thrashers? Argggh! Piss me off! Who is safe? Looks like Calgary and Vancouver are holding their core, for now...

Lindros in Toronto - that's where he belongs, at least. All the teams are going to be rebuilt, startling. Nieuwendyk, Demitra, Hatcher, Amonte... Holik, Straka, Zhitnik. I won't even recognize the teams I see playing, I'm sure. What the hell is Gary Roberts doing in Florida?

At least they'll be back on the ice.

Ex-sex on the beach

2005-08-20T20:38:00.000-07:00

We wake up in the morning with the sun shining in on us. More talking, more declarations of his adoration, more discussion of what he's learned and changed, more arousal.

He's put on weight. His arms are bigger and chest fuller. He looks more muscular and less like the skinny kid I remember. I wriggle my legs around until I'm scissoring one of his thighs, and press good and tight into it. He flexes his leg and gives me a little grind, grinning as he realizes I haven't really been listening to what he's saying.

I push the sheet off of me, showing off my tits and body. He drops his mouth and sucks on my right nipple. I push my hips up at him, pushing the sheet clear of my pussy, and he settles himself between my legs to lick and suck on me. He's good at it, and I want to remember this. He gets me so hot I want his cock in me to finish me so I wrap my hands in his hair and pull him up on me, lock my ankles behind his back and wiggle to slip his cock into me. He's resistant, holding his body up on his arms and knees.

"I want to fuck you on the beach," he says.

"Fuck me now."

"It's so sunny. I want to go down onto the beach, find a nice log, and put you on it." He's relaxing a little, giving a little sway into my hungry thrusting. I'm more than ready to come, and I'm working hard to fuck him as he's staying rigid above me. If he would only, just, let me, just, relax, and plow me! "I want to put you on a log that's just the right height, eat your pussy, and then bend you over and take you from behind."

"Fine." I drop off his cock to the bed in defeat. "Let's take a walk."

----

Getting to a part of the beach remote enough for me is a mission. We tiptoe past one of my co-worker's tents, holding hands and feeling sly. It's still really early, and only a couple of people will be awake. I've yanked on a skirt, and my legs are cold and wet from the liberal dew on all the kneehigh grasses. Shane's pantlegs are instantly dark and wet. I know the way to a nice spot, and we talk on the way. I've only been there once though, so I lose the trail a couple times and we climb over and through tangles of driftwood and shrubs. But when we pop out at the beach I remember, it smells fresh in the early sun and feels lovely and sexy. I look down along the sandbar and say,

"I think that's your log."

We go to the ancient uprooted tree with a meter diameter bleached clean by years of sun. I hop up onto it, pull my skirt up to my waist and pull my knees up and spread. He grins, sighs, and drops to his knees, grabbing me around one leg, his hand pulling up on the top of my pussy, stretching the skin away and spreading my lips apart. This exposes my clit to his tongue better. It's intense and immediate. He's got his other hand around my ankle, supporting it and pushing it right next to my ass. I lean backwards, an arch over the circular trunk of the tree. My hair hangs down and brushes the sand, and my head rushes a little from the inversion. I pull my shirt over my head. My nipples think it's still a little cool. The wind is blowing away the sun's heat.

I'm naked and alive, I feel open and exposed and euphoric, the slight discomfort of the hard ridged tree trunk on my back and the cold air accenting the heat of Shane's mouth and arms and hands, gripping me, immobilizing my legs. I come quick and quietly and push him away from me with my feet on his shoulders.

"Come to this side." He climbs over the tree trunk. I'm still arched over the tree. It's an intense backbend, and I'm concentrating on relaxing into it. "Put your cock in my mouth."

He's a little high for my mouth so he shuffles his feet apart, pushes his cock down to aim it into my mouth, upside down. I suck it with enthusiasm, grab his ass to move him in and out of my mouth, seeing as I can't move my head. He palms my breasts and circles his hands around them, runs them down the sides of my waist, comes back and cups his hands under the back of my neck.

I'm loving the intensity, novelty, and vulnerability of being arched upside down like I am. I'm moaning and pouring saliva all over his cock. My hand is wet and sliding on the base of his dick and he's losing it. But suddenly, my back rebels, and I need his help to roll off my back to relief. Phew. I lean over the log to keep sucking him and he rubs my back. I stop.

"You'd better fuck me now," I say.

"You want to come to this side of the log?" he asks.

"Nope." He comes back over to mine, stands behind me. He takes my hips in his hands, pushes his thumbs into my lower back to tilt my pelvis some more, and nudges my legs farther apart with his knees. Right, then left, then the right a little more, and my feet are wide apart. He leans against me with his cock under me then pulls back, making the top of his cock graze my slit, then plunges it in, and he's fucking me.

I love getting fucked from behind, although Shane can hurt me by going too deep. I start to squeak and moan for him, arch and push into him. There's this feeling in sex when you don't feel you have control over your muscles, or mouth, but they're still working, and there are aches that travel in waves over your skin, and the back of your neck sweats. Oh my god. I feel like I'm vibrating, and my legs and back feel almost strained with tension but i couldn't change it if I tried. Shane's pulling it right out and slamming it back in and my squeak has gone deeper and way, way louder.

"You're so tight. Your pussy is perfect." He gasps out words, then cries out loud, with urgency, when he comes. I love the sound he makes, his gruff voice.

He collapses on my back, hugs me around the waist. His whole chest is slick and slippery on my back, and he buries his face in the back of my hair. We stay there like that for several minutes, panting and heaving on this driftwood log. We're warm now, though the sun has moved.

"Let's go over there." There's a sandy sunny patch at the end of our log. I can hardly stand. I stumble against him and he grabs me around the waist and we stagger together. He's not that much more stable. We laugh at how silly we are, spent and tired. I spread my shirt and skirt on the warm sand and lie down naked on them. I touch myself and roll towards Shane sitting beside me, find his cock with my lips again, make it hard again in my mouth. I'm all revved up again from the fucking, but not sure if I could come again or not. I decide not, drop to my back in exhaustion. I think I could fall asleep.

Shane goes to jump in the water, dries off with his shirt. His skin is so smooth and brown. I tell him he really is beautiful. He cocks his head to the side and thanks me. I'm burrowing my feet into the sand and pulling them out, looking at the light-coloured grains clinging to my skin until they dry and fall off.

He looks down on me appraisingly and says I'm sexy. I'm suddenly self-concious and thinking about how I'm posed.

"You've lost weight," he says.

"Still? You can see that?"

"I can totally see that."

"I'm pretty happy the way I am," I say. I seem to do alright. I have curves, and I can get anyone I want if I have time to talk with them for a few minutes. "It pleases me though to lose weight. Only because I'd like to be the total package, you know? Not everyone thinks I'm hot enough at first glance to think I'm worth getting to know." I'm getting up, getting dressed to head back.

"I don't know about that, you're pretty hot," he says.

"Yeah yeah, but you know what I mean. I'm not first-glance skinny sexy."

We start back. The grass has dried out in the sun and gently scratchs my bare legs. His voice behind me goes low and serious. "Cybele, I'm just beginning to realize what a total package you really are."

----

I walked him to his car. Dressed, in daylight, it was slightly awkward again. Me and my ex, who's now with someone else. How do we act together? He says goodbye to the other guys, and we lean against his car, talk about trivial details, his trip, his plans. He strokes my hair and cheek.

"I love you."

I nod, look away, look back at him. Emotions are roiling around in me. I nod some more, lock onto his eyes, whisper, "I love you too." I choked it out.

He gathers me into a hug, slowly and gently, holds me and whispers, "Thank you."

Could he and I have more to do? Could we ever get back together again?

2005-08-19T19:19:00.000-07:00

"I keep thinking about that time." I mean the time that Ezra was there in spirit with us.

"Oh my god," Shane wriggles under me. "And that last time. I've never done that with anyone." He means ass-fucking me, briefly.

"I know, baby." I hop up onto my hands, look down on him. "It was better than I expected!"

"Yeah! It was awesome!"

I lay back down on him. "I really really want to make that happen, you know?" I'm back onto the threesome. I'm determined.

"You mean the two of us and you?" he asks. "How would we do that?"

"I don't know. Get him really drunk?" I laugh.

"I guess I should have just crawled into bed with you two that night, huh?"

"Oh fuck! Everything would have turned out a whole fuck of a lot differently!" I'm almost mad - don't talk about alternate endings once it's too late!

"I was thinking," he begins, "that we would play some game, like Risk or something -"

"Scrabble?" I interject.

" - no, not Scrabble, b/c you two are good at that and I suck. Some other game. And then I would say 'Ok, let's play a real game. Let's play truth or dare. Actually, fuck truth, let's just play dare!'"

"Oooo," I purr, "that's got potential!"

We scheme. "What would you dare us? Oh, oh! You should dare Ezra to confess something that he'd like me to do to him that I haven't!"

"And then I'd dare you to do it," he finishes.

"Yeah!" Now we're rockin' a plan. "Oh, that would be so hot, you watching us. You'd like to watch him fuck me, wouldn't you?"

"Oh yeah," he breathes. I rock back and forth a little on him, feel his hardon against my crotch. I still have clothes on.

"I would dare you to kiss him. Maybe we could tie him up. I could blindfold him!" I'm full of bright ideas now. "I've thought it would be great to blindfold him, and both touch him, b/c he could kind of hide from the reality, you know." I feel that hot shiver travel up and down my back and feel my wetness begin to soak my pants where I have my legs astride Shane's hips. The blankets are tumbled and warm around us and the air is cold.

"He wouldn't know if it were you or I sucking his cock," Shane says.

"Well... I think he would. You have facial hair." We laugh.

"That doesn't turn me on though, kissing him," Shane says.

"What!" I'm surprised. "Just sucking his cock? What's up with that?"

"I don't know. It does nothing. I don't get hard thinking about that."

"It turns me on." I'm disappointed.

We plan some more dares, laugh at ourselves scheming to get Ezra in bed with us. The idea is so hot. I roll to Shane's side, pull one leg out of my pants, push his Calvins down and roll back onto him, grab his cock and drive down onto it. I groan and cry out then drop my chest onto his. We wrap our arms back around each other, rock gently, locked together, and keep talking about Ezra while we're fucking, both of us heated by this mutual love of Ezra.

"Does he have a big cock?" Shane asks, thrusting his into me with a slow rythym.

Things that are not fair to ask during sex. "I'm not telling you that, I can't." I resist.

"Why not? I think he has a big cock, b/c he's a big guy. He's got big bone structure. Come on. Tell me. I don't care if he's got a bigger cock. I want to fantasize about it."

Ezra's cock is perfect. "He's thicker, you're longer." Instant regret. "Oh shit! I can't believe I just told you!" Shane's just grabbed my hips and shoved his cock deep, holding me on it buried full depth. I shake my head. "Fuck! I can't believe I just told you! You fucker!"

"It's ok." He laughs. "Like..?" He makes his hand a circle.

"Yeah, about that."

He tosses his head to either side, groans, lifts his hips up off the bed with me sitting on them. Then he pulls me down and hugs me. "Thanks for telling me. That's hot."

Truth or dare

2005-08-19T09:58:00.000-07:00

We keep talking, in my cozy tent. My air mattress has a leak, though, and our hips occasionally touch the ground through. We spend so much time, building up with talking.

He's going to visit Ezra on his trip north. I'm excited. Over and over, I'm like, "Tell him...tell him..." I want Shane to deliver an information package full of all my love and longing and confusion and hesitance to Ez for me. I tell Shane all I'm afraid of.

"I think I freaked him out. I emailed him every day for a while- "

"I'm jealous," he interrupts me. Now it's his turn to feel sadness and loss.

"I'm sorry, baby."

"I miss your letters."

"I know. But you didn't appreciate them when you had them," I say.

"You're right. I did appreciate them, definitely! Just not enough," he says. He hugs me tight. I jump back on topic:

"You know how I am - I love quick and easily, and I don't see the point of hiding it, and I know he's never had a woman do that before, and I was emailing him constantly, so I think he's probably overwhelmed." I get it all out in a rush.

"Yeah, you probably did overwhelm him," he agrees.

"Tell him who I am, Shane. Tell him I'm stronger than that. I'm coming off all girl, all lovesick and wanting, but I'm strong, too, he doesn't have to be afraid of hurting me or of what I want from him. I just want to know if he thinks of me at all."

"I'll talk to him."

I confess intending to wait for Ezra, but that not working out, then I go back to talking about what I want Shane to tell him. I want him to know I love him, I miss him, I crave his body and his arms around me. I want him to love me back. "Tell him I'm not as crazy as I sound. You know me. You can tell him it's good."

"I will."

"Do you think he'll want me when he comes back?"

"Yes. I think he knows how amazing you are, and he wouldn't pass up a chance like that. You're not gonna invite him to live with you, are you? That would make me jealous." He looks into my eyes and I jump inside. I've thought about that.

"Well, I'm definitely gonna hijack him for a couple weeks if I can. Fuck him silly." We laugh at that, and I think I've avoided a real answer.

"Was he really that good in bed?" Shane asks.

"Mmmmhmmm," I nod, and breathe into his neck.
-----

After we're done, he's flat on his back, I'm curled against his side, face into the side of his neck. I'm still thinking of things I want him to tell Ezra for me. My hair is sweaty and sticking to my face and I'm in a blurry haze of half-asleepness. I stroke his forehead and his hair back out of his eyes. His hair is long and hot. Redneck hockey hair, hot as hell. He purrs a little.

"There's so much only you can do, you know?" he murmurs.

"Huh?"

"You've given me the best orgasms I've ever had. You make me feel so good. I miss you so much, you know. And like that, you're stroking me and it's soothing. Katie tries to do that and it's just irritating, it feels like she's pawing me, I hate it."

"What? That's awful!"

"I've fallen out of love with her. I understand now how you said that about me, I see how it can happen."

"Good, baby." I'm drifting sideways to sleep.

Moments pass.

And then he breaks the sleepy silence just to make us laugh:

"You suck a mean cock too."