Cybellion

Not dead, but an "outrigger"

2008-10-25T22:31:00.000-07:00

Upon discovering my original smut blog was alive and hibernating, I've revived Sex and Hockey and resumed writing there. This blog is not so much dead and abandoned as a stagnant adjunct to the enduring original. This blog will remain linked to Sex and Hockey, since a year's worth of posts written while I was having a mid-blog crisis survive here.

Closing shop

2008-10-14T23:38:00.001-07:00

Sigh.

It breaks my heart to say goodbye, but the truth of it is I've moved on. I was pretty proud of what I managed to cobble together here in html, too. Oh well. My interests have changed.

All the typical thank yous for your attention and loyalty, blah blah (I mean it, it's just trite to say).

My writing will still be "out there", speaking into the world, just not connected to this. I could no more stop writing than breathing.

In parting, I urge you to get suspicious, embrace that subtle fear and anxiety at the back of your mind, and seek out education. There are many real things that threaten this life we share, and it is wise to be brave and face them. Allow what is important to you to change:

Canadians check out voteforenvironment.ca. Think about the fact that in the Canadian multi-party system, we are forced to resort to strategic voting just to keep out the guy we don't want (who "wins" while 62% of voters vote against him). True or false?: We have a democracy.

Check out Life After the Oil Crash. Are you fooling yourself as you believe that you are safe, protected by your government, that the economy is sustainable in its current dependence on unlimited growth and cheap oil?

Think about your earth. Pretty soon, it won't support any of us. Treasure the beautiful BBC Planet Earth documentary. Do what you can. Stop flying in airplanes. Save, don't spend. Google the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. Study global warming and the way the Ice Shelves are melting.

Watch documentaries. Get fucking rattled. Read books from the "eco-section" of Chapters/Borders. Wake up. Scare yourself sane. This is very very serious.

The truth about the state of our earth and the humans that live on it is very very ugly and frightening right now, but the truth is your friend. We all know somewhere in our bones that we are standing on saran wrap over quicksand, but to dive into the fear and knowledge and learn about it can help you tiptoe towards solid ground and then help others off too.

If you feel like experiencing your eyes crossing and getting stuck there, look up the bills that George W has had passed. Between the waves of disgust you'll feel about the US law-making process, you can't help but notice the massive rights that have been given to the president. Notably, the criteria which give him license to declare martial law.

It is up to all of us, now, to redesign our civilization. Talk to your neighbors. Learn a trade, and how to grow food. Stop having kids. Or have kids, but be damn sure you know what world you're inducting them into. If you want your DNA to survive, then get real. Read James Howard Kunstler and Thom Hartmann (see sidebar).

Remember your reusable shopping bags. Get involved in local politics. Kick other people until they wake up, rise up, and join you.

Appreciate what you have, with mad passion. Love whom you love as hard as you can.

Good luck to you.

PS. My email is closed now too.

2008-08-17T22:24:00.000-07:00

Mmmm. Jared Connaughton. Delicious, and Canadian.

2008-07-29T20:51:00.000-07:00

Latest mystery fragment of overheard conversation:

"...she almost took the shoe right out of my mouth..."

2008-07-12T15:47:00.000-07:00

How come cat's and dog's yawns aren't contagious? To us. No inter-species yawn contagion.

2008-07-01T18:15:00.000-07:00

Happy Our Nation is the Best Day!

So many world apocalypses, so little time

2008-06-27T17:37:00.000-07:00

There's so much to do!

There's so much to learn. I'm ravenous to eat the knowledge that's all around us, all the time, that we take for granted.

I want to dig up the names of the kids I went to church camp with and google them. I've always assumed that out of such a scrabble of repressed freaks, some of them would have achieved some creative or notorious fame. I'll be disappointed if none have.

Smut

2008-06-23T18:16:00.000-07:00

My coworkers were devouring "romance" novels at work, and I got curious. I borrowed one, something by the possibly pseudonymous "Angela Knight". I discovered a few things.

First, there's not much "romance", but there's a lot of good old-fashioned fucking. Next, the writing is surprisingly good. No spelling errors (!), although not a lot of big words either. It's not literature of course, but it has a fast-paced, well-formed, thorough and plausible plot. Most importantly, the sex is good. I was pleasantly surprised. Creative, raunchy, and hot fucking. Lots of it, and lots of variety.

I'm working on a book now. It's just an unusually complete serial fantasy. Nothing could be easier.

2008-06-19T17:39:00.000-07:00

My otherwise full day of lying in the sun and masturbating was interrupted by an alarming moment when I glimpsed from my window two men embracing, inside the open door of a pickup parked in a nondescript backyard. Redneck, AB. I froze, and hovered, spying.

The smaller, younger man looked so reluctant, scowling, as the other larger man, sitting inside the truck still, hugged him from behind, and lifted his shirt, running his hands over the standing man's back and chest.

I spied for long enough to realize my mistake. It was not, in fact, two men, but one irritated young man and a large, extremely masculine woman. I breathed out, then wondered why my initial reaction was shock.

Was it that it's been so long since I've witnessed any open gayness?Was it the context? This is the last place in the world I'd anticipate encountering random public acts of male to male affection. I'd expect that to be dangerous.

Or, was it the alarming mannishness of the woman? If I were that guy, I'd be scowling too.

2008-06-17T13:12:00.000-07:00

I am absolutely certain that our world going to change dramatically and drastically in this year. It's already beginning.

This is the last summer we'll have that things will continue to seem relatively the same, as the cost of our life mysteriously goes up, hmmm (?).

Interestingly, I don't feel an urge to talk to everyone about it. It seems almost sly, that I don't want to wake everyone up. Am I hoarding knowledge like food during drought? Don't want to spark the run on the bank, the landslide of awareness that will likely cascade us into a grabbing frenzy. The sky is falling! Everyone to Walmart to buy all the water bottles!

Maybe I don't want to be the freak in the bunch now, just the one who turns up alive later.

It's an interesting time to be alive.

"I am glad that you are here with me, Sam. Here at the end of all things…” ~Frodo Baggins, The Return of the King, by J.R.R.Tolkien

Eight things to do in a stand-up tanning booth

2008-06-15T15:47:00.000-07:00

8 Isometrics.

7 Practice ridiculous dance moves, both seriously and not. You have achieved success if you manage to make yourself laugh.

6 Squinch your eyes tight and observe the phosphene show.

5 Stretch your back. Hang from the straps and feel your spine uncoil. Ahhhh. You can also adopt extreme hunching and arching postures that your back will also enjoy.

4 Invent and practice scatching comebacks that didn't come to mind at the necessary crucial moment. This form of redoing can calm your damaged ego.

3 Practise sexy poses, especially: hip thrusts to either side, sexy lookbacks, hair grabs, and lower back curvature. Pretend to be a thong model or automobile accessory. That should do the trick.

2 Masturbate

1 Kegels

Three things not to do in a stand-up tanning booths:

3 Inspect your skin. Unusual places look startlingly blue, like a bruise, in booth light. This is disconcerting.

2 Think about getting locked in, like in a bad teen movie. But, if you were... I assume most stand up booths cage their bulbs in like rebel teenagers. If you have the foresight to get locked into one of these, first, unplug the big plugs that connect each section of bulbs to each other, or else, untwist the bulbs so they go out - as fast as you can - there are an awful lot of them. Then, the walls of the booth are clipped together like toolbox lids, so you can unclip until the walls fall out, or you can push the ceiling out. See, I didn't follow my own advice. I thought about it.

1 Sing.

Icons and Adversaries

2008-06-11T16:36:00.000-07:00

If so many people don't read Margaret Atwood's books, and shiver at the idea of the imagined content, then who's making them bestsellers? Do people buy them for their Canadian prestige, for the reflected aura of edge and intelligence? Do they place them on their shelves for appearances? Do they then feel the eyeless spines of the unwelcome houseguests watching their backs when they turn; hear the unread malice of their contents murmuring at night?

Wake up and read. The Handmaid's Tale may be the most alarming and necessary book of our century. Or maybe it's Oryx and Crake.

Hockey Night in Canada song

2008-06-10T02:35:00.000-07:00

I'm unbelievably outraged by the heist of the HNIC theme song by CTV. Not to mention the interests of Dolores Clayman, whom I must assume is a catty, shriveled, vindicative, money-grubbing beast. What was CTV thinking? Coup of the decade? More like, nice one, you just paid 3 million for a ditty that no CBCphile is ever going to want to hear again, and is gonna make many shut off TSN in disgust. Wow.

Smoking

2008-06-07T15:46:00.000-07:00

There is nothing to describe the agony of being an unsmoking person in a smoking house.

When you're helplessly forced to inhale carcinogenic air, it seems debatable whether breathing, or not, is the more lethal choice. I feel the cancer. I know when I'm being poisoned.

Why would anyone choose to put something so toxic, with full knowledge, into their one, vulnerable, delicately functioning body?

The others are under the impression that they are considerate, for not smoking when I'm in the room, making concessions to smoke only in adjacent rooms. This of course makes no difference at all, but a smoker can't smell their own smoke any more, so they really don't get it at all. I can not only smell it, but feel it crawling on my skin and hair. It creeps up my sinuses to pinch my brain with its sticky, oily fingers.

Headache and nausea arrive for me on the tail of recognizing the scent. The craving for clean air is desperate (I have to move out! In the next 10 seconds!). I'm not angry or resentful. I panic. I instantly want to cry, am asea in self-pity. I have to flee the house entirely when smoke seeping around the cracks of my door wake me at night.

My lungs are getting smaller from taking mincing, minimal inhales, trying to preserve SOME of my precious alveoli.

My loathing of cigarettes produces mild disdain through hostility towards smokers, those mysterious people who choose their slow death.

2008-06-05T18:31:00.000-07:00

Daniel Craig is the only celebrity, to my recollection, that I have masturbated to orgasm "with". He was great.

On second thought, Tommy Lee Jones as well

Orphans

2008-06-03T16:54:00.000-07:00

Maybe each letter received by the governemt counts as the opinion of 10 people in their statistifying is because anyone who has the energy or inclination to write a letter to their MP is probably also talking 10 others into seeing it their way.

Helen Mirren's sympathetic Queen is possibly a true version of the real Queen. Probably not at all, but it would be nice to think so.

The first mousquito sighting of the year is always remarkable, like snow. I always catch them, and then when I look in my hand to see if I got it, it flies away, to divide exponentially into millions of bloodthirsty more.

I remember learning to pronounce certain words, at times. I learned to read so well that I was figuring out my own pronunciations based on the knowledge at hand, principally, that certain structures sounded predictable. This turned out to not be a universal constant. I remember learning how to say (or more accurately, being corrected when I said) "catastrophic", "slough", and "Siobhan", among others. I notice them now when I read, because my own childhood decision was strong.

What is up with George Clooney and swooning, masturbating females? I just don't get it. Don't. He's like, a 6, maybe. 5 or 5.5. I have no idea why he's the sex god everyone thinks he is. I mean, why everyone thinks he's a sex god, when he isn't. Even my boyfriend insisted "he's an above average goodlooking guy...comeonnn". Nope. Don't see it.

Things I hate:

2008-05-30T16:15:00.000-07:00

Spelling errors in books. Finding an egregious error near the beginning of a book can turn me off of the rest of the book, making me a hardened, suspicious and critical reader for the rest of it. A spelling error near the end of a book that I really like is alarming, a fly in the ointment. If it's an exceptionally good book, I can almost forgive an error, with a great effort of wilful magnanimity.

As long as the error is not "disorientated", with is never, ever forgivable, and in my opinion should earn the ersatz author a life sentence without parole in a room of people scratching blackboards.

Recent errors I found in books include someone "taking the reigns" (EEeeeeee!), and "swop", rather than the correct "swap"
(Aieeee!). All it takes is a decent editor. For mistakes to appear in print means at least 3 people have read it and not twigged on it. Ouch.

I freely admit that I make spelling errors, especially since I write at speed, don't reread, and don't have an editor, but I usually pick them out later if I ever reread my entries, and then I wince and flush with shame, as I should.

Flour. Flour is the devil's head lice. I intend to never eat anything made with flour again, unless forced to accept some bread offered at a dinner party with good will. I am exceedingly grateful to whoever has contributed to loaves of bread made without flour being available at all major grocery stores.

Too small glasses and cups. I'd rather resort to a yogourt bucket than waste my time with a dainty teacup or sippy water glass that holds maybe a paltry 200ml. What is a beverage that size good for, unless it's alcoholic? Might get your esophagus damp. My ideal size is about 3/4 of a litre. Enough to quench thirst, enough for a vat of tea that you can coddle for a decent interval without cooling too fast, and worth the time it takes to mix a drink in. You don't have to go back for refills.

Phantom bras. It's bad enough wearing underwire against your skin all day, but when you take them off and still feel the constricting pressure, that's not good.

Non-consensual sex in porn. Or more specifically, porn where the woman is not experiencing pleasure, although she may have in fact agreed to whatever is being done to her. Unfortunately, that's most of porn, as far as I've seen.

This is the biggest crime perpetrated on our culture after circumcision, I think. After sustaining that disgusting infant sexual mutilation, our men grow up haphazardly learning about sex acts from porn that consistently misrepresents the female experience and usually doesn't show any genuine female pleasure at all.

It's no fucking wonder rape happens, let alone the way many/most well-meaning guys have no idea what a woman's pleasure looks like, let alone how to participate in it, and have set their neurons for their own pleasure out of images of lies and cruelty.

2008-05-26T18:43:00.000-07:00

Finally, I have a crush! Almost a year together and I've never had the least interest in anyone else, I was starting to think I was ill.

This is one of those little crushes that makes me a little breathless while he's around, but has no substance and I know I'll forget him completely after our lives no longer intersect. Just because of his dark hair and eyes and sweet shyness and the veins leaping out of his hardworking arms. Yum.

And because I know he's one of those guys who genuinely likes me. He's never seen anything like me, and he's sold. Not scared, not intimidated, just knows, now, that he wants a chick like me. It's intoxicating to be that girl, the first girl a guy meets who's tough, hardworking, solid, strong, and still all girl. He watches me, impressed, thrilled, and unafraid to show his admiration. I love guys like that. I'm with one.

I'm simultaneously super in love with C and enamoured of his arms too. It's like crushes don't detract, but amplify.

If I were single we'd be all over each other like rocks and waves.

Very fun to be female in a male-dominated field. Just bathing in the general atmosphere of curiousity and desire, like a lightning rod for everyone's focus and projections. Super fun. Unbelievable how comfortable I am being the only person out of 30 with double-X chromosomes, for 12 hours a day.

I'm dreaming of him, dreaming of saving his life. He leaps to grab my hands as I lean over some rail, and with time, great strain and difficulty, I haul him over the rail to safety. We wordlessly hug, then flee together. C is there the whole time, running with us, complicit. Accepting; silent.

What does this mean?

We've talked. He wants kids; he's working very deliberately towards a future that I don’t believe is available any longer. It wont be there when we reach it. I wonder how he would react to what I expect. If he accepted that the world will be quite different in 5 years, what would he do?

2008-05-22T13:12:00.000-07:00

Supposedly, there's a porn movie called Two to Love, featuring a (un?/)fortunate Japanese woman who was born with two vaginas.

I read this in a book.

This arouses questions. Are they situated adjacent to each other, in the usual place? Or are they separately located, one residing in, say, an armpit? If the former, then, are they one above the other, or side by side? Are they the same size? Equally accomodating? Do her vaginas also include the usual related features? A cervix? A womb?

These are questions that wail for answers.

Interestingly, Googling "'two to love' movie vaginas" returns a first result concerning Winnie the Pooh, and nothing about the topic I seek.

2008-05-20T18:40:00.000-07:00

I lost my mp3 player. The Christmas mp3 player my ex presented to me in a deluge of gifts, like a puppy, delighted to please me.

My favorite shoes have worn out. The shoes that I fought with the salesgirl over and refused to buy, so he went back and bought them for me, and I knew he was really my boyfriend.

There's so little left that he gave me. The t-shirt he thrust at me as he strode through my door the second summer, while he wouldn't meet my eyes, and I knew there was something he wasn’t telling me. It will get threadbare and expire. Greeting cards and notes, grown dusty; faded and wilting somewhere. Notes he left when he left my bed, saying thank you and goodbye, glowing love. The cheesy birthday card with a handwritten long rhyming poem, rich with humour and wit.

Soon all the physical things he left me with that remind me of him will be gone, like snowbanks melting.

I've been spying on him on Facebook, through someone else's profile. I excised him from Facebook the day I dumped him, although I considered leaving our relationship status up, to see how long until he'd grow the gumption to change it. I've been reading every word on his wall, his old statuses, date-matching them to what I know, the overlap between me and she. Studying his photos, his sunlit grin beaming, his legs as athletic as ever, his arm around his new brunette, in Cuba. I try to divine whether he's happier now. I try to be happy for him, and fall far short.

Question:

2008-05-18T15:46:00.000-07:00

Peak Oil vs. Environmental crisis. Which kicks us in the bag first?

Earthquake in China...

Environmental crisis, up one-nothing.

The world is coming to an end, and I'm looking forward to it.

2008-05-15T00:11:00.000-07:00

For about 2-3 years now, I've had this anxiety pinching the back of my mind. Like white noise or a mousquito in the room, it's behind everything - a constant apprehension, especially loud when I think about the future or start planning.

Reading Thom Hartmann's book The Last Hours of Ancient Sunlight: the Fate of the World and what we can do about it before it's too late, was a huge relief. To sum it up, there's too many people living on the earth, the resources are going to run out, and the first world is irredeemably dependent on oil, which is certain to run out in our lifetime. More pertinently, peak oil is going to happen, imminently. It may already be happening.

Google peak oil if you don't know what I'm talking about. It's when the cost/difficulty of getting oil out of the ground becomes greater than the demand for oil, and there's all kinds of consequences. The cost of oil will rise, nations will protect their oil supplies with force, all the "protected" resources of the world will get tapped, and the lives of people around the planet will change in ways we can't really predict.

It's anyone's guess whether this socio-economic event will happen before the natural catalclysms resulting from global warming begin, since it's generally acknowledged now that the earth's balance systems are perched on a sharp fulcrum.

What knowing this (reading the book) meant was that I felt like I wasn’t crazy, or depressed, just that I was feeling stress and distress about what was happening in the world. The sense of humans and animals in despair and under threat, natural areas being raped, and impending disaster affects all of us, to whatever degree an individual can block it out, or let it in.

We know on some level, conscious or not, what's happening out there, however insulated by our first world comforts we are. Wake up. It's a bit of relief for it to be conscious.

And so, I know my life is going to change, dramatically, sometime in the next 10 years. I expect it; I'm going to prepare for it to the best of my knowledge, and I won't be surprised the day the US randomly invades Iran (again), and the price of gas starts to spike.

We all know this world we've built together isn't going to last. Capitalism and endless growth wasn't a model made to last. No planet with finite boundaries can ever last forever, and we are coming to that point where this planet runs out of space. How about that.

It's going to be a new world, and that's kind of exciting.

Movies to watch on the topic are Crude Impact, Crude Awakening, and the End of Suburbia. Check out www.lifeaftertheoilcrash.net for what to do about peak oil.

Living in "We"land

2008-05-10T23:07:00.000-07:00

So I end up in a married life, with married problems, curious about the married benefits. I have always been curious about those. There must be some rare beauty in being with one person for a long time, through thick and thin. I don't know what it is, and I don't see anyone else modeling it, but the idealist in me believes it must be there.

What I've learned so far:
When you enter a relationship believing it's going to last a long time, you're more inclined to examine problems as they show up, and to build habits and guidelines from the beginning. It's like "Ok, this might seem small now, but if it happens another 200 times, I'll kill us both, so how 'bout we talk about it".

I read more about relationship and in greater depth. I've learned that there's a hormonal phenomena that happens for 18 months, at which point the relationship expires or turns into "something else". So I have that to look forward to. No one is very clear on what the "something else" is. Perhaps it's when usually things get boring, or when you can't think of anything else to say, so someone blurts out "Let's get married," to keep it interesting.

I'm not sure I believe this solid timeline, anyways, although the scientists agree. 18 months. C and I have been battered through the rocks already, and we feel our time together has been much accelerated. It seems like a few years already (time flies when you're having fun, after all).

I didn't know I could get so mad.

Regardless, I'm thrilled to be with him, a majority of the time at any rate. And whenever I'm thinking of leaving him, I'm totally miserable.

He asked me to marry him.

2008-04-20T23:13:00.000-07:00

It was shocking.
I was horrified.

When he ripped his shirt off, threw it on the ground, I knew something was up. He was acting unusual.

When he knelt down and grabbed my hands, I was paralysed with dread.

"Whatryou doin' baby? Whatryou doing?" I whined.

Time slowed down as my brain caught up with what was happening. His words warped like we were speeding through a tunnel as he asked "Will...you...marry...me?"

I tried to pull my hands back. He was joking? He must be joking. No. My smile faded. It was too sudden. It was absurd. It had only been days we'd been been together. The sun faded everywhere but where we stood. It was suddenly hot, and the volume was muted, except for my heart pumping in my temples. A long time passed.

I was angry. He shouldn't be doing this. Not here, not in front of people. I was embarrassed. I wasn't prepared.

I went still. The heartbeats in my head were spreading farther apart. I was looking down into his eyes and his soul seemed to be coming out to meet me.

I revisit this moment in my memory a lot.

It seems there were a lot of things I learned in the moments before I answered, or that I realized I already knew. There was an expression on his face that I've never seen since, and his eyes...

His eyes seemed to offer up all of himself, unfolding. I saw terror. The terror was huge, an ocean of it. His eyes were wet. After the fear there was an incredible longing, a searching that was ancient but faithful. A deep well of love, offering, and willingness. And certainty. He really fucking meant it. And he was waiting for to answer him.

I saw so much in him those few moments. I reference the vision sometimes, for answers. I knew that I knew all I needed to, and I knew that I had to say yes. Had to. It was very unlike choice, and much more an inevitability.

Time started rushing back at me then, the lights came up, and the droning cynical voice that had been shut out filled my head with a scream. What the fuck? No No No! You said you'd never marry! You can get out, you can change your mind and tell him no tomorrow. This is wrong!

"Yes."

The next 15 minutes were pretty blurry. I was in a storm of conflict. It felt like someone was sitting on my heart, and I was sort of floating through conversations, bewildered, wrestling with a choice still, with my mind. Very discontent.

Two hours later when I could breathe again, I was glad I'd said yes. Two weeks later, I couldn't believe it had been a battle. Now, I know it was an inevitability, an absolute consequence of us meeting again this year, like water running downhill from our meeting in the first place.

2008-01-28T16:53:00.000-08:00

I read Why Men Love Bitches recently, by Sherri Argov. I could have saved some time and just read a couple chapters of a 100pg book written in 1945 called How to Get Along with Boys.

Not to dis Sherri Argov. That book's very very good, in fact. Nice for waking one up to the ways you might be prone to losing yourself in relationship (girls, that is), and for retaining your autonomy, soul, and spine.

But the absolutely blunt and bang-on advice of Ms. Zoraida Maria de Sagarra Ramirez (she must have been a glorious woman) penned in the 40s, a time when "[Woman]has taken her place in the world alongside the man, establishing beyond any doubt her intelligence and capability", covers the same material in the space of a pamphlet.

Chapters include "How to keep him guessing", "How to have personality", "How to look your loveliest", and if all goes well - "How to get him to propose".

Although the language can be dated and therefore hilarious, the message is basically the same - be yourself, be true to yourself, be honest with yourself; attract, retain, close the deal. No room for wallowing, analyzing, or excuses, for the formidable Ms. Ramirez. This is a no-nonsense pull-up-your-socks guide to getting the job done.

Probably my favorite unintentional humor: regarding theatre manners "It is discourteous to talk, make love, or otherwise attract attention to yourself during the performance. Nor should you get up and start dressing before the final curtain."

Happy New Year

2008-01-01T17:01:00.000-08:00

Can't beat celebrating midnight lying on a snowy roof with a bottle of wine, the sounds of backyard fireworks, and a wet blowjob in the frigid air.

And another thing about condoms:

2007-12-27T13:57:00.000-08:00

How many women are allergic to latex? How many don't know it?

It took me forever to realize that feeling a little red, swollen, and vaguely raw wasn't just a mildly inconvenient side effect of sex, but was actually from the latex cockwrap, and completely avoidable.

Girls, if you experience any soreness/redness/swelling/sensitivity/rawness/itching during protected sex (that usually increases as sex is prolonged, and goes away within a couple hours after)- IT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE LIKE THAT.

Latex is a chemical product that is a common "sensitizer", meaning that prolonged exposure can result in allergic reaction. So many health professionals develop latex allergies from always wearing gloves that lots of places use only vinyl gloves now.

Now how 'bout vigorously rubbing that potentially allergenic product on the thin, delicately moisturized mucous membranes of your pussy?

No one's saying skip the rubber. Definitely, a few hours of tender pussy is infinitely preferable to 20 years of raising an offspring, or death from STD, but there is an alternative to latex - vinyl AVANTI condoms. Salvation in a little purple box.

The bad news: they're hard to find, especially if it's an optimistic late night stop at the 7-11 on the way to her house, plus they're freakin expensive, working out to 3 bucks a fuck, which doesn't stack up well against handfuls for free from the AIDS awareness counter.

Why is every Avanti condom still completely worth it? The ultimate reason: hot, better sex. NO truly lust-killing sensations like discomfort and pain. You can fuck endlessly, and then you can fuck again.

I can't guess how many women are latex-sensitive, whether or not they know it, but statistics unofficially gathered from my girlfriends indicate more of us are sensitive to latex than are not. Guys, even if there's only a 20-30% chance that your girl/target is sensitive, wouldn't you want to try to have better sex?

I know if a guy was so informed and considerate he pulled out an Avanti on the first time, I would about die with awe and gratitude, and possibly fall completely in love on the spot. Even if a girl had no idea about latex, wouldn't she still be super impressed with his research and interest? Possibly it would be a revelation to her, and unusually good sex. I'm hearing a lot of win-win here.

Personally, I think it's ridiculous and wrong that they even make condoms out of a known allergen. I would say they're sure not designed with women in mind, but you can't really say they had male pleasure in mind either. Nobody claims they're comfortable. That ring cuts into the cock of every man I've seen (let's be serious - who are regular condoms really made to fit?). How can there be cameras that swim down your arteries and fabrics that repel bullets, but no nice, comfortable, effective prophylactics?

Eschew latex! Choose vinyl now!

Wear the raincoat, damnit!

2007-12-18T20:04:00.000-08:00

Shouts out to Black Lace. Just discovered the Wicked Words short story collections: "Erotica by and for women". It's pretty fucking good.

I like to read. I read alot, about what I like, and I'm sick to death of weak, poorly written "erotica" (nothing dries me up like bad grammar). I can't even believe what makes it into print these days. I can think of at least 20 bloggers (see sidebar) more talented than most of the shit on the shelf in Chapters - if you're lucky enough to find anything in Chapters.

That said, Wicked Words was a twat-rockin' vibrator in the wilderness, with overall good quality despite some weak links. I recommend.

Just happened to notice, that only one story in the whole book featured a condom. I have to say, why can't strangers having sex in a story promote responsible lifestyles and use a fucking condom? It takes seconds. A sentence, a clause.

It's a pet peeve of mine that movie makers, no matter how "viscerally realistic" their movie, rarely have characters throw on a rubber even when sacking complete strangers. I mean, really. As if the director's gonna be hitting any nubile Hollywood wannabe ass without protection themselves - why is it acceptable onscreen? Completely unrealistic, and irresponsible, if anyone were thinking about the wider social implications of their message.

That's movies, and they have more problems than that with the way they portray sex. But back to literature.

I'm reading a story, and strangers are rooting bareback, and I just can't help thinking. You're writing a story - are you gonna tell me you got carried away and forgot?

Life: irrevocably changed

2007-12-15T19:04:00.000-08:00

Got a sex swing.

I feel it my civic duty to advise -nay, command - anyone who has sex with anyone to buy one now. The best purchase somewhere under $200 I've ever made.

I got mine on ebay from tlc-net - a spinning sex swing, upholstered in cliche leopard fleece, with a nice sturdy spring and an amusingly enthusiastic instruction pamphlet in five languages. We took our time putting it up, not understanding how our lives were waiting to change. Bolted it into about four rafters, dead center of the bedroom.

I have to say, it's a little intimidating at first, and from a woman's perspective, it kinda seems like you get to get tied up in a bunch of straps and your boyfriend gets to stand over you and bang it into you with the assistance of momentum. Probably not a good single man purchase: "This'll impress the babes" - no, it could scare them, unless you're bringing home Samantha Jones. So I decreed I was gonna get used to it for awhile first (fully dressed).

There I trying out positions, awkwardly struggling with straps, slipping out, shrieking with laughter as I got tangled and contorted, bouncing, swinging, adjusting, when I noticed my boyfriend sitting stock still on the edge of the bed looking strangely awed and pale. Poor thing about lost his mind just watching me goof around, totally involved like a kid on a jungle gym. He got so teased he looked like he was about to cry ("I can't watch any more"), and turned away to jerk off ("Can't you just masturbate for me already?").

The first time we used it I was on my back with my feet on the bar above, my head dropped almost to the ground. It was like floating, my body supported and suspended in almost any subtle position. I came about 8 times. I staggered off of it speechless.

The second time he sat in it and I straddled him reverse, and there was some voodoo about the angle of his cock in me like that - I thought I was gonna pass out from the pleasure. So much for the weight limit, too. The spring's supposed to be rated up to 200lbs, but I was way past thinking about safety, and got carried away, bouncing all my weight down on him. All the equipment survived, so I attest that it's good to 350lbs.

Last night I was bent over it with my hands, elbows actually, on the ground, and feet in the fur stirrups floating spread wide, my man teasing me with his dick, pulling my hips into him and hovering, dropping to his knees to lick me, standing to fuck my cunt, my ass... I'd have to say the best sex we've ever had, seconded and thirded by the previous two times. I already joke he's got the whole podium now.

This glorious, fantastic invention (Love Sexy spinning sex swing with LEOPARD!) is pretty well made, and probably limitlessly versatile. I found about 20 positions not in the brochure in the first ten minutes of play, and let me tell you, are we looking forward to fucking in all of them. I added some refinements too: clips to lift the leg loops higher and from the knees not just feet, and hand loops off the crossbar for the rider to lean back farther with.

One note of caution. The positions can be unusual/not easily replicated in nature, so there's some weird pressure points. Last night's adventure had a strap over my iliac crests that seems to have pinched a nerve. When I stood up, I realized all the skin on the sides of my thighs had gone numb, like a foot falls asleep (quietly, without complaining) and you don't notice. 24 hours later, and that skin still hasn't woken up, which is a fascinatingly weird sensation, but I'm not worried. It was worth it. Besides, we were "engaged" like that for over an hour, so in future a little more movement/adjustment should keep all my nerves happy...if you know what I mean.

Just, sometimes it really aches

2007-11-11T21:14:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I miss my ex achingly. Usually not when I'm with C, but at odd, surprising times. I always check myself - aren't I content?

C asked suddenly in the car one day, "Are you sorry it didn't work out with [him]? Do you wish you could still be with him?"

I did have to muse a moment, but I answered confidently that I'm happier now. I'm thrilled to be with someone who clearly, radiantly, enthusiastically, wants to be with me.

This loss and missing that grabs me by the lungs is hard. I miss so many big and small things - words, and gestures, habits we shared, small sweetnesses; tiny things only we could share, and most of all, the unique, warm atmosphere of his love. He loved me easily, openly, and I knew it and felt it all the time. I know I'm loved now, as well, but only he will ever love me exactly that way, and sometimes I notice that not in my life now.

It's disconcerting to have this light fog of sadness and confusion float through my life as it is now. I feel happy, adored, brighteyed and all kinds of powerful, abundantly successful and capable of anything, in huge percentage due to the man at my side now and what he reflects of me. I am daily humbled by gratitude that he is at my side, and proud of myself for being ready when he showed up, as it were.

I "think", in a logical world, with that kind of joy, there wouldn't be room for missing a flawed relationship that ended. However, I sometimes cry for him, and torture myself looking at things he wrote or gave me, or his picture on facebook.

I dread seeing him, talking to him, because I don't know what will happen. Will I feel finality, shift? Oh, that was a nice piece of my past. That facial hair always did bug me though. Or will it stab and upset me that we got deflected from another course that I have vestiges of desire for?

Sometimes, too, I think that it's a delayed mourning, that got distributed through the first months of my new relationship because it didn't have time of its own to pour out. Thank god, too. Grief is so hard on me. I don't like to be alone with it.

2007-11-04T20:33:00.000-08:00

It is a personal tragedy of mine that the richest, most accelerated and interesting periods of my life do not easily accommodate writing about them.

Even in the old days of paper journals, the sedate lulls between peak experiences are well-represented, while the harrowing, exuberant mental and emotional growth spurts go undocumented.

Sorry about the six weeks. I think last time I was in heart-rending agony over being betrayed and abandoned. This time, it was a job that took me away from home for 4 weeks, combined with a quick switch in relationships, some spontaneous traveling, and starting to play house with a new man.

Tantalizingly, I can sketch broadly that I'm having ultra-frequent, spectacular and experimental sex. I've developed an obsession with hentai, and the ability to come without straightening my legs like a tetanus victim. I got to watch my man have sex with another woman and it was one of the most luminous and beautiful experiences of my life.

I am powering along the road I'm meant to be on with a ferocity and clarity I've long been missing. Several people and many prominent features of "my old life" have simply vanished.

I have a strong intention (still) to not abandon this blog, but to write like I intended when I moved: not in any way bound by chronology or topic, but about whatever and whenever I damn well please.

Thanks for the readership, still. You are a patient and committed bunch.

So much for privacy

2007-10-26T21:56:00.000-07:00

My girlfriend who had the problem with the way I behaved around her crush, through some horribly unfortunate coincidence, happened across my blog, and read it, naturally.

Apparently this "changes things between us", and we have to "sort it out." Funny thing, I reread and reread it, with a finetooth comb, and true, it wasn't intended for her eyes, but as far as the truth as I saw it goes - I wouldn't change a word.

I'm slightly bitter that I'm sure she's told the "whole story!" to some mutual friends now - I don't know who - so I feel somewhat maligned, and unsure if anyone's gonna turn on me unexpectedly.

Mostly though, I'm surprised at my vast lack of caring. I don't feel involved at all; any possible outcome is as good as any other.

I wonder if she'll read it again.

I'm not single

2007-09-10T22:24:00.000-07:00

I re-met a man from my past. Two years past, when he was 19, golden and gorgeous, and he saw in me something different, maybe the "babe with her shit together" cougar characteristics.

I wasn't expecting to see him, and we didn't pull each other in like magnets at first. I was two days past learning that my boyfriend of years was obviously not in love with me any longer, and I was shielding others from my possible desperation. I didn't know how raw it was on me. Didn't know if I looked different to him now with the time between us; maybe he felt shame about me. Maybe he had someone. I sure wasn't gonna risk any further rejection.

We circled each other with gentleness and smiles, inching closer over a few days until he was in my arms, in my bed. Even then, all I craved from him was his heat, his chest, his breathing under my ear. To be held by someone who cared about me. That hunger was wild and consuming. It slid so easily into the touch of sexuality. It was surprising, the richness of the comfort in that. We didn't consummate it right away, either.

He's even more beautiful now, taller, bigger, more "formed", in some way, more sure of who he is.

I thought at first some of the sudden closeness and familiarity we had was because we'd been together before. Having already fucked changes the dynamic of a courtship. Having spent a few days togehter in the past wasn't enough to account for that kind of connection and knowledge of each other that came so fast.

Even before we slept together we were glowing. We both were. I could feel the light we were emitting in each others' presence.

I'm single.

2007-09-01T13:27:00.000-07:00

When your ex-boyfriend finds the time to message and visit before your "boyfriend" does, when they're working together and have been in town for a week, it kinda stings. Kinda puts how important you are to him in perspective.

I dumped him by text message. Nice symmetry, I thought, with the way I found out last year he was cheating.

I sure wish he'd gone for the seasonal relationship deal instead of the I'll prove I love you with my loyalty deal. Never works. I would've tapped a couple opportunities that have walked by, and he wouldn't be in turmoil.

My stomach is tying knots and I feel a little dazed, but I'm trying to focus on the freedom now stretching out expansively before me.

Not only that, but my ex had some illuminating extras. Apparently his current girlfriend and my "boyfriend"'s other woman have been calling me a bitch. I can only presume that's cuz I forgave my man and took him back last year, preventing her from inheriting him, and in the case of my ex's girl, because he never fails to tell anyone he's fucking that I'm the "only woman [he's] ever really loved." Because that really heats a girl up.

My "boyfriend" hasn't necessarily hooked up with the ghost of cheating past, but they hang out, frequently. When he first went back to work and contacted her immediately, I raged about it. Told him that that was supremely disrespectful to me and my feelings and fears.

Oh well. If I start thinking about his cock I'll have a hard time remembering all the reasons we're so done, but the evidence is overwhelming. It's high time, and I'm moving on. Good thing I did so much crying already. No need to plunge in again.

The denouement:

2007-08-21T10:44:00.000-07:00

I asked the boy in question how he had perceived my behavior. He said that he thought I had a flirty personality, but that he was sure he wasn't the object of it, especially since I had made him a confidante. He was surprised I was asking him in such specific terms, and wanted to know where the hell I was coming from; who'd been putting such questions in my head. We had a nice, friendly chat, and the absence of any other hints or agendas was confirmation. I believed him, that he hadn't been seeing what wasn't there. That cleared my conscience.

I asked my beautiful friend who dresses unabashedly sexy at all times what she thought. She laughed, familiar with it. "I let an awful lot of things just go," she said. "I'm an expert at it." She pointed out that it wasn't about me, that my friend was not telling the whole truth to herself about how she feels about this guy, and confirmed that it would be vengeful to point out how her self-righteousness was unsubtantiated.

So I broached the topic with my friend again. Said I was sorry to have created a scene for her, that I had no intention, ever, of taking her crush to bed, and I did not believe I was doing anything to that effect. I said I was angry at her accusation and the bitterness of it, and suggested that her feelings were deeper than she'd indicated, too. She was gentler about it this time, but insisted that "other people" definitely thought I was out of line as well; perhaps I was unaware of what my body language puts out; that she doesn't know if she can trust me because we have a "vastly different" moral position on "things like this"; she doesn't know what I'm "up to". Because I've been willing to bed married men in the past, that means I have a different take on social rules, and she's not sure she can trust me to not poach her guys.

I gritted my teeth through her insistence that she "would NEVER cozy up like that to someone [her] friend liked," and steeled myself for the commentary on how provocatively I dress (which isn't, very. It's a matter of relativity). She can have her illusions if they make her feel better, I told myself. Patronizing, but functional, for right now. I just insisted that I'd had no intentions of getting in her way, and never had designs on him.

I thought I was prepared to apologize for something I didn't do, for her sake, but when it came to it, I couldn't. I couldn't apologize for "being sexual in general", for behaving somehow "different from how [she] would behave." I couldn't make my mouth move for that. I stayed vaguely angry. I really wanted to hit her with my story from the other side, but kept a grip on the idea that it wasn't useful.

Funny, how he felt about me didn't come up again. His crush on me wasn't produced as evidence.

...........

I don't mind challenging people, I'm just sometimes surprised at how easily people get challenged. When I don't mean to.

This is why people find their own. The less hot girls can't hang with the hot girls because they can only take being invisible and secondary in this culture of beauty for so long before they lash out. Even though everyone knows in their heads the beauty-worship is empty, it matters, and the hot girls have a definite advantage that's no fault nor talent of their own. Sometimes they get attacked for it; taken down at the knees, if there's an opening. It took me years to figure out that's what was happening to me (because if you don't grasp you have an advantage, you have no clue why people are turning on you).

I'm looking forward to when this friend loses her weight, when she's on the other side. That will be fun. I expect she'll understand different things, maybe even apologize. She gets judged and underestimated all the time because of her size, you'd think she could relate to being underestimated and judged for being pretty.

She's a close confidante, so I've leaned on her through men hurting me, through struggling to the other side of an affair. She's very good at keeping her mouth shut about what I know she thinks of as my culpability and flawed judgement. At this moment, I have a picture of her thinking to herself when my man cheated on me, that I was getting my own back. The judgement is fierce, but I have to be ok with that. That's part of the price for exploring the edges of "the rules."

I don't know what's driving it, but I want a break right now. Maybe I'm hurt or resentful or feeling challenged. Maybe she's getting to something true that scares me - whatever, I don't feel up to investing the work to be "truly close". Obviously, we are both holding opinions of the other in reserve, not being completely honest. That's not real friendship, I don't think. Maybe that's what girls do, though. So high school I don't even want to tackle it.

I'm feeling a longing to read The Power of Beauty by Nancy Friday again.

...............

Some shame has settled on me though, like an insect. Every so often I feel it crawling on my skin. It's about the how-I-dress thing, which I found very bothersome. I'm kinda sad. I want to cry in the arms of a sympathetic friend. I feel rather alone in my opinions.

I'm also angry. It makes me feel all fuck you and political about my right to wear tight shirts. I need to google powerful women getting judged for sexuality. I feel rebelliously militant about it. I thought I wore what I wore because I felt good in it, but if it causes that much of a stir, then I'm determined to be as fucking hot as possible whenever I feel like it.

I refuse to buy into the idea that your appearance compromises your legitimacy. I'd like to be powerful, smart, serious, successful, and the knockout punch - hot. If people see the hot first and assume I'm less of the first four things, then they've got an education coming, and I'll laugh in their faces at their mistake.

Sure, I love attention. Not ashamed of that. Who doesn't? There's more available to some than others because of a random genetic lottery, but I don't believe there's any purpose in rejecting or avoiding attention for others' sakes. It's almost part of achieving your full potential, soaking up all that's available to you instead of hiding under a bushel. Of course, girls who can't get that much attention slag the girls who do, to plant shame, tone them down. It's the big equalization device. I hate women sometimes. Men don't seem to do that.

Fat drama

2007-08-02T00:09:00.000-07:00

Friend of mine tells me today she's really disappointed that her crush wants me. Then she says that she "wants to understand where [I'm] coming from," because in her world, when a girl expresses attraction to someone, he becomes off-limits to her friends, and what she would do if the roles were reversed, is "sit rigid on the other side of the room from him". Whereas I, apparently, was "wearing skimpy clothes" and "wriggling" near him. Oh, and it "looked to him and all the other men in the room" that I was "giving him the signals." A short time later she found a way to randomly comment on her cousin's opinion that "men get killed over shit like that" - shit like that being the poaching of another man's woman. But, she really wants to know "how I make my decisions," and "where I'm coming from." Because if it's going to be a competition, she doesn't do that. And her crush is over anyways. After all, would I want her sloppy seconds?

I was instantly, blindly, furious. I told her I needed some time to think about that. "Ok," she says. "I just had to say something, you know, or else I'd be a passive-aggressive bitch about it."

I thought she had been being oddly bitchy to me over the past couple days, so this revelation was illuminating as a possible reason. I wasn't sure why I was so mad, though.

She introduced me to this guy a while ago, as someone she's known for awhile, and had her eye on for a fuck friend, if she could swing it so he understood it was just a casual sex thing, not an any-deeper-interest thing. They obviously have a bond already, and are quite physically affectionate with each other. While I was around, he brought her a very generous and thoughtful gift, and was often hugging her. Looked to me like she had her "sex thing" in the bag, if she wanted it.

Meanwhile, he and I get along together fairly well. I glaze over when he talks too much, and find him neither intellectually riveting nor physically attractive, but he's very fun. Certainly an easy guy to chat with and laugh with, and we banter easily. I happen to be stricken with a secret, sudden, staggering full mind and body craving for another man at this same time, but we'll leave that out of this for now.

I wrestled with a few themes of feeling in the wake of my friend's unburdening herself.

I am more conventionally attractive than she is, to the tune of 50 lbs, plus I've been feeling very beautiful lately. I still notice how I feel about myself vs. how I used to feel, so the new confidence is not natural enough in my bones to be part of my automatic self-image. But I've really been enjoying being female lately, and dressing hot and stylish. I freakin' love it, and even though it's taken some effort, I've become pretty comfortable and accepting that men look at me. Most men think I'm beautiful, and I can enjoy that.

Hence, her "scantily-clad" gibe hurt, and prodded old shame. I had to fight with myself for a bit, insist that I was never dressed like a slut, that I have the right to present myself as beautifully as possible, and that being sexy and being myself (my self is very sexual) is my right. There's no obligation- in fact it's wrong - for me to "shrink so other people don't feel insecure around me."

A tiny piece of me thought Wow, congratulations. That represents some new confidence for you to feel like you and I are in the same game enough to think I'm stealing a guy from you. And I'm happy for her for that. Personally, I thought it was obvious in this act that I would never consider this guy anywhere near a bed; that he might flirt, but know without doubt that I'm way out of his league. Oh. He thought he had a chance? Other people thought we were sparking? That's a little insulting, even though that means I'm being smug and elitist. Outer beauty shouldn't matter.

I'm irritated that I have to do a round of this with her now. I've done this. I have another girlfriend who is thankfully paired off now and happy enough that she's lost the need to compete with me, but who used to make a sport of seducing anyone I confided I was attracted to. Anyone. It was her way of communicating to me that she thought I was gorgeous and powerful and devastatingly talented. Once I figured out that she was battling her insecurity by being really good as something I wasn't (targeting guys), it was sorta cute.

But that was years ago, and although it hurt, it was mostly a waste of time, tears, and energy. I really resent having to go through any reprisals, especially with this girl now, who is very high on my list of girls, and I care alot about. I'm not down with this scene. God, women can just piss me off with the catty rules shit.

Then, there's the interpretation of what actually happened. All three of us were there for any given contact; I've had no reason to be with him without her there too. But when she and I were in private, she asked me once, as a favour, to stop pushing him towards her (because I guess I was subtly aligning them), also twice commented on him becoming interested in me. I took this as a statement that she was no longer interested, plus I did misinterpret something she said about another man that made me think she had a new mark. The him liking me part, I shrugged off. It happens. Then on the wriggling night, while I was completely preoccupied with the emptiness in my stomach after being pulled away from the guy I really want, she said I was "radiating availability" by my choice of seating (he chose to sit by me!) and body language.

It all seems terribly ironic to me that I was almost sick with a sense of loss at the time from being snatched away from true-obsession guy, and then I get accused of trolling for her love interest. I remember how removed my thoughts were from the room, not how I moved. But a drink combined with the constant, terminal horniness I'm suffering from undoubtedly made me sexy as a cat, trying or not (I wasn't trying!).

And then I got a flashback that made the anger completely fall away, but makes it all more complicated.

Several weeks ago, I met a wonderful guy. He was tall, strong, hot, friendly and masterfully social. He was smart, well-educated, well-rounded, fascinating. We had an awesome conversation, and, I felt, connection. Total spark. I was madly attracted to him, and I felt and thought enough about him to feel guilty and afraid about my commitment to my man. I vibrated around this guy, got ditzy. However, we were both clearly in Not Available Land, and that felt safe enough. It felt possible I could have a good new guy friend that would be exciting but without sex stuff. Difficult, but possible. I wasn't really his rank, his speed, anyways, so if I got too attracted and felt the need to divulge, it could only be humiliating.

I clearly told this girlfriend at great length about him and how he lit me up. Of course, with the reserve I know I've got a boyfriend and I won't cheat on him but...! I invited both of them for a party. As the party approached and she inquired about any unattached guys that might be there, I mentioned this guy again, and raved about him a bit.

She threw herself at him! She was in a bit of a renewed-confidence stage, so it was cute to see her be bold and vulnerable, but I was shocked at how blind she was to me. Every moment we were alone, gushing "I think he likes me! He said he likes the flower in my hair! He touched my arm", etc etc. Me: "That's great" through gritted teeth. Over the evening, as my stomach was turning, I got more and more rigid and distant from him, because I wanted to be different, to be not that; because I thought she was being very presumptuous, and overshooting.

This guy is professional, high-quality, amazing. He's the kind of guy I would have to work hard to convince myself I deserved. He could have anyone he wanted, and he wasn't going to be interested in an easy lay. Turned out he wasn't. She invited him to her bed when everyone was finding their patch of floor to pass out on, and he opted for the floor.

To my eyes, he had been polite to her, and she'd overinterpreted his friendliness, and after he was wasted, he'd been loose with affection, and she'd thought he was into her. He hadn't been wasted enough to forget himself entirely, though, and so he found the floor. In the morning, he fled with all the classic excuses, vague memories and horror for getting too drunk the night before written all over him. I've done the bolt of shame from a seedy sun-up scene, so I recognize it. He couldn't get out fast enough, and I knew I wouldn't see him again. It was very disappointing.

He and I exchanged some devastatingly pleasant messages later about how much fun we'd had and how we should get together again- do something. BBQs were mentioned. He's polite like that. I don't think he'd seen enough of me to judge me, but I knew he'd seen enough. I knew he wouldn't go near me with a ten-foot pole now either. I don't know precisely why, but I have a good overall sense of it.

In the aftermath, she raved about all the indicators she'd taken to mean he was hot for her, and expressed much mystification that he had not taken her offer of sex. She was bursting with delight. I zipped my mouth closed about how he'd made all the same "flirtatious" overtures to me, to not diminish her pride. She was so damn thrilled with the night, ecstatic to be paid attention to. He's generous like that. I didn't want to dent her bubble, and I still don't. It wasn't too costly for me to let it all slide. My friend feels better about herself; I lose an opportunity of unknown value. I'm ok with that. It's just a guy.

But now, I might be offended enough to remind her of this man at my birthday party; tell her how I saw it. The friend in me doesn't want to hurt her. Telling her this might pile more sting and insult on the current rejection she's already feeling. Another part of me is of the opinion that illusion never helped anyone, and she might as well be informed that she is definitely capable of the exact insensitivity she's accused me of, and her self-righteousness is a little hollow. I'm not a lie-down-and-let-people-repeat-one-sided-versions-of-the-truth-about-me kinda person, either.

Being hot is a pain in the ass. Excuse me - it's not my fault that a guy's attracted to me. It happens. A lot. No matter what I wear. And in my experience, the farther away you sit, the more they chase. I think a nice little pursuit scene might have hurt her feelings worse. As it is, it must be easier to blame me, not him. But it's really not my fault he likes me.

He's a person in this too. I thought he was sweet, big-hearted, vulnerable and sensitive. I know he was strutting, proud to have us around him. I don't mind doing that for a guy. I like feeding back a man's attractive qualities, beaming at them. I think men get shorted an awful lot of praise, and get shit on alot while doing the hard work of the male-female dance. A little more equitable distribution of appreciation would go a long way to balancing our fucked-up interrelation standards. A few more confident men would mean less violence.

That said, I believe I was careful to not put out any I wanna fuck yous. I have pretty good whiskers for being too friendly. I even mentioned my man to him, early on, in a preemptive way. I have a perfectly good, gorgeous, well-equipped boyfriend whom I adore loudly (frustration at how far away he is notwithstanding), and I thought everyone else would assume the usual rules applied to me enough that I wouldn't be trolling.

I was next to oblivious about this drama developing around me (see thought-he-knew-I-was-out-of-his-league part), so I had been looking forward to seeing him again, hanging out some more (the three of us). He's fun, with unabashed male energy and opinions, qualities I like to be around. But that's out. And that pisses me off, the unnecessary amputation of something healthy because of someone else's perception.

It's a scarcity issue, of course. There is only this one man in the whole world, and she's pissed on his fire hydrant, so I shouldn't be sniffing. So lame.

Snakes and ladders

2007-07-27T11:32:00.000-07:00

I have a new crush. It exploded out of nowhere when I wasn't expecting it.

It wasn't because he's gorgeous, although he is. Sure, he's striking, but not my style. His eyes are deeply set under shelves of eyebrows, and he doesn't photograph very well. But when he laughs, his face transforms from being scary good-looking to being childlike. It melts me.

When I heard him talk, when I heard the places our stories overlapped, our passions overlapped, my vision receded in a rush to a zeroed focus on him. Tell me more. Tell me everything. He's ahead of me on the same path, and I want to hear his stories.

We sparked. I could see the interest in his eyes. Not a bed interest, but a human interest. You're different. I'm curious. The energy was hot and flashing.

I want to follow him around. I get distinct tailing urges on some crushes. I want to learn from you! Teach me; let me imitate you! I want to be you!

But, he's married, so even the intellect crush is an unacceptable crush. He relaxed when he was drinking, let himself talk uncensored, talk to me like we were alone. But both of us would flee, afterwards, avoiding being alone together, avoiding any more. He's smart. He knew early enough to bolt before temptation could appear. It seemed like reverse psych, the way being careful to behave and look right made the craving peak. I was freaking out, pacing with the ache of wanting more, and never getting it. Ultimately, the unfulfilled want, as time ran out, became a hole of longing in my chest that energy rushed out of, making me tired, irritably sad. Unrequited. All the questions hovering in the air.

Married. I had the fortune to have a friend nearby observant enough to leap between us, when we were talking deep, with something to divert attention back to her. Also, concerned enough to bring up his wife in conversation, randomly and often, obviously hoping to remind me he had one. Transparent and infuriating. I felt chaperoned.

I miss him. I don't know when I'll see him again; there's little chance of talking online like we could in person. I feel like I've lost something, like of the two diverging roads I was meant to catch the other, but was blocked somehow. It was out of my hands. Now the loss aches. I am Jack's emptiness and longing.

.......

The absence of my boyfriend is very painful in the background of my life. I fear his feelings have changed, that I'm losing him. The silence leaves room for me to fear what happened last summer may happen again. I think about what I've chosen, to still be with him. I wonder if I've left the door open for him to hurt me again.

I don't like talking about him, because it reminds me of what I'm unsure of. Not just him, but the construct of our relationship. How sound is it? What is it founded on again?

I'm so proud of myself

2007-07-25T03:19:00.000-07:00

I went to a movie and sat by a stranger.

I came in late, stood at the back while my eyes adjusted, and looked for a guy sitting alone. I was lucky he was almost in the back row, because I was afraid of something embarrassing happening and having everyone behind see.

First I chickened and sat a couple seats off in the same row. I wanted to be really sure his girlfriend was not gone peeing or something. My heart was pounding with what I meant to do. It was very scary, but I wasn't about to kick myself through the film for not having enough balls. Then in a lull, I moved over and asked if I could sit beside him. He looked vaguely startled but didn't hesitate.

During the movie, I wanted to touch him, or at least look at him. I had barely a glance to go on, but I was pretty sure he was cute. It was impossible to turn from the screen to look at him, and we never even brushed arms.

When we walked out together, and introduced ourselves, he turned out to be really very cute. Totally my style. Soft-spoken, maybe a little shy.

Some small talk poured out of me until we reached the sidewalk, then we pointed in opposite directions and parted. I wonder if it could have gone someplace completely different. I was really kicking myself by the time I was a few blocks away for all the leading lines I didn't use. I was so damn tired I had no wit; no spunk. I was already on my heels, though, afraid of coming on strong.

What are the chances that we would both pick the same movie to go see alone, that he would choose a conveniently approachable seat, and that I'd be willing to be so bold, for the first time? I wish we'd talked more, that I'd learned his whole name, asked whether he had a girlfriend, asked where he was going from here, asked if he wanted company. Maybe there was a reason we met.

The worst possible outcome is never getting rejected. It's not knowing what could have been.

2007-07-24T08:33:00.000-07:00

Girls who used to be fat never lose that extreme need for validation. I need attention - everybody's attention - right now! Tell me I'm cute! Tell me I'm cute!

I completely can't handle it. I look away like they're drunk and taking their clothes off.

I can't even pretend to comfort; pour out a little confirmation and pat them with it like suntan lotion.

2007-07-21T23:55:00.000-07:00

It must've been the ringtone that woke me, but I don't remember the sound, only jolting awake, noticing the cell phone stuck under my thigh in bed, screen glowing. I don't recognize it as my boyfriend's before I snap it open reflexively. On his phone, a text message just appears on the screen when it's received. I miss you so much. Pls call me soon! From Kristi.

An aquarium smashes in slow motion behind my eyes. Vomit in my throat, I frantically navigate with both thumbs into his call history. Yes, this is his phone. My phone number is listed as Home.

Three more text messages saved from Kristi - frantic pls call me's; then i miss you in my bed.

I'm standing on the shoreline facing inland, and the tide had just rushed out behind me. A billion gallons of water, in one blink of comprehension.

2007-07-18T19:20:00.001-07:00

When I grow up, I want to be promiscuous.

My boyfriend has been away for a long long time, and my body has a real problem with that. We disagree.

My lust is becoming an emergency, spilling over into the inappropriate. My hunger is aroused by solitary words, by one back of the hand vein, by a slim collarbone clearing a t-shirt, by women, by old men, by isolated bits of people.

I'm prowling tonight, my crouch and pounce instinct awakened by the horizontal denim ripples in the front of a man's jeans. I think about running my fingers up and down beside the fly, across those corrugations hardened into the fabric by habit, pushing slightly on the bulge, almost female, the pressure from inside split by the double seam.

I think about what's inside the jeans, invent, almost see the velvety pouch that reacts like the skin of a snake to touch- twitching, wrinkling, recoiling slightly, then melting again. Mmmmm.

2007-07-18T08:32:00.000-07:00

My boyfriend has a crush on the girl from Mythbusters. I don't know her name. I refuse to learn her name, because that would make her more real.

We watch Mythbusters often. It's a good show. But that red-headed, pig-tailed skirt has got something that my boyfriend wants, and it irks me. I know he loves her; he makes no bones about it, partly because he's just that guileless, partly because it amuses him that I care.

"She's on tv," he says, meaning that she's no threat because she's unlikely to ever be flesh and blood in the room with us.

"But if you ever had the chance, you'd leave me for her, wouldn't you?" I ask.

"Yes," he says, simply, obviously. He really does have a big crush on her.

I scrutinize her every time. I don't think she's THAT attractive. I believe, on self-confident days, that I am easily more beautiful than she. She's small, not especially stylish. Sometimes she has acne under her makeup. She does have that red hair.

"Why?" I demand in frustration. "Why!?"

His voice gets a little whispery. "She's on a science show," he says. "She blows things up."

Oh my God, do I ever love him.

I know why men have narrow hips.

2007-07-16T15:57:00.000-07:00

I'm a fountain of lust.

A man walked into my life the other day and demanded that I hire him. The timing was right and I acquiesced for a day. We worked together in a heat wave, the sweat pouring off of us before 7am. He's not my physical style. He's fairskinned, blue eyed, a little hairy. Slightly padded - not runner lean at all. Very redneck, very Albertan. All the clipped words and shortened sayings, the distinctive accent that no one hears but me, that sounds like they're holding half of their mouth still on purpose.

But there's something about his posture, something about his hands. Definitely something about his laugh, deep and rolling, unapologetically booming into the heat of the day between us as we told each other stories.

He's tall, big, confidently wearing the skin he has with all its flaws. He has some life under his belt. Possibly he's intelligent; I'm not sure how much brain he's hiding. He's hardworking, that's sure, keeping up with me easily. And talented. He has no idea how unusual it is for me to give another worker my trust so fast, without covertly monitoring their technique and craftsmanship. I knew he knew what he was doing, and he gave me the same trust. So we worked well together, teaching each other a few shortcuts.

He was after me for sure. There was a moment at lunch when he stared at me over his mid-air sandwich with his jaw still, and I knew he was feeling a surge of amazement, zeroing want in on me like a zoom lens, deciding I was special. He was lookingat me like he'd never seen one of me before, and then he said just that.

That same night I was at the club with my friends. I saw him arrive, holding hands with a younger, blonder, heavily mascaraed girl who carried a purse and made a bored curl of her liplined mouth. I looked away swiftly, then only moments later he was behind me, alone. "So good to see you..." He was near me often over the night, as I danced and wandered in my usual independent way. So often (and I didn't see his girl again) that it crossed my mind that it was only a random touch I'd glimpsed them share. Near the end of the night he brought me a drink, then sat directly behind me as I danced. I felt him his eyes devouring me, like I was his private dancer, and I tried to block it out, let the music seize me and erase self-conciousness the way I like to dance. He interrupted, grabbing my elbow.

"I'll see you later," he said. "I've gotta take off, my friend's freaking out." He gestured in a general way towards the bar. I wondered if he meant the girl. We arranged to make contact the next day, and said goodbye. But he wasn't gone yet. As I was being accosted under the ugly lights by everyone I knew, now drunk enough to be uncensored, I saw him sitting at a table with my friends. I lingered away from them longer though, and he disappeared from there.

Still not gone. Against a wall, the girl with both arms around his neck. His arms were at his side, his posture resistant. She was leaning on him, on her toes to reach his height. I slyly watched (and I don't believe he saw me seeing), while she put a hand around his neck and attempted to pull his head down to kiss him on the lips, stretching herself up instead to do so when he wouldn't bend.

Some primitive centre in my brain twitched its reptilian head and thought he was kinda attractive. I smiled to myself, at myself, as the beautiful girl pouted her madeup mouth, draped her arms and head against his chest, then talked up to him, her back in a lovely S-curve to press her hips into his and her head cocked, clearly wheedling for something. He was still standing as though she wasn't there at all.

I was curious all night, wondering if he'd taken her home after I left, if he was fucking her now, his sweat dripping off his nose onto her face. That really turned me on. I started wondering if he'd paid her for her performance, since it piqued my interest so effectively. But then, he hadn't known I'd be there.
.........

I love it when a man shows up when he says he will. He appeared in the morning on time, and immediately resumed his aggressive flirting campaign. He asked to be paid in kisses, then asked to take me for dinner, cheekily hinting his attraction while his eyes tried to pin mine down. I looked away, demurred.

He reminds me of a gladiator. I can picture him in armor. Shoulders back, arms long and loose, tanned the colour of ale the way fair men do.

I want to wrap my legs around his waist while he stands in that spear-carrying posture, his hands instead holding my ass like a bowl in front of him, pulling me into and around him. I want to slide my skin against his in our sweat, slick and frictionless as we drip with the work of fucking in the heat, tired but energized.

Men have narrow hips so that they better fit between a woman's legs.

2007-07-13T21:11:00.000-07:00

I met a man who made me comtemplate whether or not he was attractive enough to make Holey Soles acceptable footwear.

I decided not. Holey soles are never acceptable footwear.

Target

2007-07-12T21:12:00.000-07:00

Please, Americans who may read this, be aware that I am aware there are many alert, sensitive, critically thinking and questioning people who live in the USA; many who wish for social change, personal change, global change, and work to effect that change. I've met many. However, there are many more I have not met, and I see their footprints.

I'm about to make generalizations about Americans. Please do not take offense if this is not you. But, are you any part of it?

I was south of the border the other day. I was in Target, an unexplored new territory to a Canadian. I could smell vinyl, and soap, and as I looked halfheartedly for the footwear section, dog food. It made me feel dirty, and I had to flee.

A hundred little panics started to flutter in me. The columnar shelves were too tall, imposing. Huge objects appeared in many multiples, rythymic parades of furniture. Products were tangled, dropped, kicked out of the aisle, unmaintained. The signs all screamed in stentorian fonts, and every aisle terminus was a cleverly seductive, manipulative campaign to inspire want. Meant not just to inspire desire but to suck it out of you against your will, like breath, to convince you you NEEDed this gadget, this multipack.

And everywhere, the fat people sighing and slowly sleepwalking the aisles with laden, outsized pushcarts, about to spend more than they have. You can smell the credit card debt, with heavy overtones of despair, and subtle hints of rage and desperation. Some of them are toting their small offspring who may soon become the object of angrily transferred helplessness and impotence.

There is some masochistic complicity between the store and the people in it who agree to slide, and buy, and give up their lives for plastic products. The store invites, pleads, seduces its consumers like a siren, who allow their want to outgrow what they can afford, let their bodies outgrow health and self-love, balloon into sluggish hatred and paralysis.

Like a girl saying No but meaning Yes, wanting to be taken, they hand over flat-pressed plastic rectangles and try to inhale.

2007-07-07T02:37:00.000-07:00

I got my labia pierced.

It was rather clinical, like the doctor. Gloved hands being very cautiously gentle. Except for the pierce, of course.

It hurt. I was nervous. But the pain is so brief, and really not bad at all. Every day I get bruises that hurt more. It's just the expectation and the imagining. Really, I think it should hurt more than it does. It should be a remarkable event to get pierced. Be an event of the psyche, to labour through the pain and choose this adornment in commemoration. But it's as easy as getting your legs waxed. Easier.

It seems sort of odd to choose to open your legs and discuss your pussy with a stranger (it's not the doctor's, where you have to). And there's no acknowledgment of the sexual nature of what you're doing. Heavy breathing, moaning, relief... lots of similar features of sex.

As professional as it all was, I think the intimacy of the act got sublimated; now I have a crush on the guy who did it.

I remember everything we chatted about, the way his voice changed a little after I told him what I wanted, the way he was focused and careful but still clearly enjoyed doing this piercing, the way he grinned at his work, and the way his fingers gently explored my outer pussy and rolled the lip to be pierced between them in prep.

At the time I didn't notice I had attraction to him, but afterwards, I had clear memory of it all, and wished I could replay it, be back there without being distracted. I actually thought "What else could I get pierced?" so I could go back, and then told myself I was being ridiculous.

I want to flirt with him, hug him hard and long. At this point, he's the only real world person who knows I now have a steel ring tucked against my clitoris. I hope he thinks of it and it turns him on. I hope he thinks of his mouth on it. I wonder if he gets a charge out of knowing about people's unseen piercings; of knowing he did them.

I wonder if he was hard? I think at least a deep, erotic kiss would be in order to note the shared intimacy of such a piercing. He didn't even pat my arm comfortingly.

I'm on a going-out spree right now

2007-07-06T03:02:00.000-07:00

I am a compliment sponge. And thankfully, they keep on coming. From strangers, from friends, from drunk boys and bartenders. It's enough to keep bringing me to the bar. Like a fix, when I need it - going out is almost inevitably an opportunity to recharge the ego's batteries.

It's so lovely and beautiful and I'm so grateful. One part of me is a completely open and accepting "Thank you (I deserve it, yes I do)", another part is questioning why: "I have cellulite on my thighs, and there's a skinny nubile female 10 years younger and 10 feet away, and you're sincerely, bashfully, telling me I'm the hottest chick in the club tonight?"

I am reminded of Madonna's Material Girl- "Experience has made me rich and now they're after me".

Something must be working for me, and it's fucking awesome.

The slower the hotter.

2007-07-02T18:45:00.000-07:00

I love the boys who make their moves so slow you hardly notice.

At a party that had seen better hours, I had an easy chair to myself, facing 3 boys slouching on a long couch, their legs splayed in that easy male way, hands loosely wrapped around beer bottles. I found myself feeling dozy, and wishing for some touch. A moment after the wish, I stood and crossed the room, pushed the knees of two of the guys apart to make room for myself, and slid tightly into the space between them.

"May I?" I said to the one I did not know yet, knowing from the shy glance he'd given me earlier he'd be thrilled. On my side a little to fit between the men, I was turned towards the one I knew better, and he was turned away from me, so that the length of his nearer leg was almost on top of mine. He ignored me. My other leg rested almost in the lap of the man I knew less, and I turned my head to him. With a sigh and comment of tired satisfaction, I closed my eyes and sank briefly into a light sleep.

As I came and went from my unavoidable doze, the new boy bumped my open hand from my leg to his, took it in his, abandoned it, then imitated my loose fist and put his hand on my leg. Then moved it back to his. He was clearly at a loss for what to do with his hands, and they would flutter out to touch me then retreat. Endearing. I tucked my shoulder and arm under his arm and let my hand settle decisively on his leg; his hand stayed on his leg too, leaning against mine. I burrowed a little lower in my nest of male limbs and found a soft place for my head on his shoulder.

He picked up my hand at one point, squeezed and released it. He was pulling single fingers of mine loose and straightening them. I objected that he seemed to be examining my ragged, unpresentable hands, and he displayed his crooked labourer's hands to me in conciliation. His hand was hot and damp, and he opened his fingers wide with palm flat, inviting me to interlock my fingers in his. I didn't want to. I made a fist instead and held it against his palm, hoping he would close his whole big hand over mine the way I like, but he didn't. Instead he opened his hand on my knee, then took it back timidly; replaced it, snatched it back.

The man on my other side wandered off, and his place was taken by a girl who also sat tightly to me. I straightened myself out, so now my open legs were leaning outward against his on one side and my friend's on the other. I was slouched lower on the couch than he, so his hand on my leg landed mid thigh. His hand was fiery hot, and I suddenly became acutely aware of the current running through that tentative point of contact. I hugged his upper arm to me in encouragement, locking his hand in place on my thigh and hiding my face in his loose jacket. And that's when it really began.

He was playing a nervous game, as though he wasn't sure how I'd come to be there, or what he might be able to do. The pressure of his hand pulsed - he would almost lift it to take it away, then with a burst of confidence, grasp harder, pressuring my leg between his hand and his leg, then almost take it away again, then resqueeze. A slow, tense rythym. And each time, his hand would creep a fraction more to the inside of my thigh, and his hand would spread out and take a fuller grip. I started to die with the tease of it, as he retreated and then revealed his hunger. All my circuits came on- my nipples jumping, my lips tingling, my pussy tensing. I started to have to fight myself not to moan. I was still feigning light sleep, and didn't want anyone but him to notice how turned on I was. My hand that had been wrapped around his bicep gripped and clenched and finally closed to a desperate grip on the fabric of his sleeve, my open, breathing mouth pressed into his arm hard. I put my free hand lightly over the wrist of the hand in my leg, and he put his other hand over that one.

Twice I bit his arm through his jacket to cut off a groan of pleasure as he pulled my leg gently and innocently into his and his hand moved a millimeter down, closer to my begging pussy. I contracted my thigh and lifted the taut muscle under his hand, hoping that my ragged breathing would be seen by others as sleep. My eyes were still closed but I wanted to see him now. I'd barely glanced at him before settling beside him when I was hoping only for some male warmth.

I could feel his breath and knew his head was tucked down over mine, the brim of his hat a shield. I lifted up my eyes, but I could only see his lips without moving my head. I could have lifted my mouth only a few inches to his to kiss him. I bit my lip instead and lifted my eyelashes high, trying to see as much of his face as I could. His hand was so low on my inner thigh now that his fingertips were almost under my leg, and his wrist was about an inch from my inseam.

Still continuing to hug my leg, and holding a couple fingers of my free hand authoritatively, he craned his neck to find my eyes, and smiled sweetly. It was too intense, and I averted mine. I got an impression, though, of sweet, cautious innocence and delight. He was thrilled with what he was making me feel, and thriving on it. I was aware, now, of the fabric of his coat, the logo on the zipper toggle, the brand of his shirt, the age of his belt, the style of his shorts and shoes. Now, I was caring about who he was. He was tall, bigger than I, about my age, dressed in baggy clothes. Judging by the arm I had a grip on, he was on the skinny side but strong.

His hand settled another tiny bit, and the heel of his hand made contact with the inseam of my jeans, his wrist grazing the thickly layered denim of my fly. I almost came, letting myself rock into that touch once, almost imperceptibily, grasping his sleeve for dear life, my whole face buried. I was dying, screaming, moaning on the inside, holding it all in. "It feels so good," I told him. "Your hand on my leg...feels so good," I breathed. He made a question sound, making me wonder if he had any idea exactly how fucking hot I was from just the ultra-slow travels of his one hand on my thigh.

When a feeling of perfect contentment with every element of my life combines with an elevated sense of stimulation or joy, I feel a light switch on, like the sign on top of a cab, only a burst of radiant warmth that floods and surrounds me. This halo effect defines moments that I wish would last forever, that I live to experience. Many situations, sexual and non-sexual, can create it, but all are peak moments of simple, secure perfection.

I breathed and drank in the palpable warm joy I was in, living and floating on the closeness and pleasure, as the erotic pressure of his hand stayed between my legs, brushed the outside of my jeans, transferred a feather light touch to my wanting, soaking, furnace hot pussy. He has the distinction of actually making me so wet it soaked a little through my jeans. Oh god.

Such intense longing under the mask of casual innocence, such heat and desire made possible by a mutual pretending that we were harmlessly snuggling, such intimacy made possible by being strangers to each other. Not knowing each others' messy mental constraints, just feeling the uncomplicated instinct of our gloriously desirous bodies.

Soft rough stubble

2007-07-01T09:45:00.000-07:00

My boyfriend has been away for me long enough to get prowling skin-hungry and for every contact I get to be electric and monumental. I have every intention of honouring him, and am only looking for the gentle caress of attraction acknowledged. But oh, the fine gray line.

My friend and I coerced a friend of hers to come with us to a party. I didn't know him, but I wanted to. I'm a sucker for men wearing white. It makes them look bigger and bolder. He was pretty cute. Warm, conversational, and blunt. He was commenting on girls' asses; we talked quite plainly about things he was attracted to. My girl friend was getting cuddly - that stage of drunk, and in pulling both of us into her, pulled us close to each other too. At one point, she and I were perched on the arms of an easy chair, sandwiching him between us, his arms around us both. As we leaned together to whisper, my breast pressed against his head. I could feel the texture of his ear through my thin shirt slightly rub my nipple.

He pressed the side of his head into me like a cat then. I felt the stubble of his cheek roughly drag the fine fabric of my shirt and bra, and his ear ripple again over my now-hard nipple . His hand came alive where it had just rested on my thigh; the fingers differentiated and dug into my leg with a hungry grip. I ignored him, still talking to my girl, as he nuzzled into me, swooping his cheek against my yielding breast. His hand started stroking my thigh involuntarily, his fingers and sometimes his thumb alone digging gently into me, and running the length of his reach.

Oh, the warm tickling pressure between my legs in response. So delicious.

Things I think are hot these days

2007-06-29T23:32:00.001-07:00

Ultimate Fighting Challenge (so flagrantly homo-erotic, yet all the boys feel manly watching it). The fighters even hug/kiss afterwards.

Robert Kubica's eyes in his F1 helmet (yahoo news feed photo)

Rafi Gavron (meow)

My skinny, filthy, hardknock mechanic (one of those impossibilities - I would fuck him in a heartbeat if noone ever ever ever would know, but since there are no such guarantees, it will remain such a completely secret stimulation - I'm scared even writing this here). I want him to get me dirty.

My sexy, gorgeous redhaired girlfriend, who gets dirty eyes and langourously affectionate after a few drinks. She makes my heart pound when she falls asleep in my arms or touches my hair.

Dancing.

The boys walking shirtless down the street.

One skater boy that was golden and glistening and we locked eyes and smiled (I was glued to the ground) the first time I saw him, and has been oblivious of me every other time I've encountered him. I thought I was over the skaters about a decade ago, but now I look up at the sound of the wheels every time.

Tony Jaa. I am deeply, eroticly, lustfully in love with Tony Jaa. There's this mannerism in his movement, of locked back and hamstring that looks dancelike as he slides and stops, and the way he walks and climbs stairs is so animal - it's like the ultimate culmination of human fitness - it just grabs me by the crotch and the gut and I'm helplessly on fire.

Younger men

2007-06-29T22:35:00.000-07:00

I find it very strange that as I age, the boys that are attracted to me get younger, and I do mean "boys". In the last month, I've been vigourously hit on by boys that could be my offspring.

I thought the age gap thing was my problem, that there was something broken or stalled about me that I was blinkered to men more appropriate, only drawn to the untempered naifs.

A few years ago I slept with a guy 12 years younger than I, and I would have backed out if I'd known his age. He was the most gorgeous guy I'd ever been with - one of my favorite notches. A couple years ago I slept with a guy 11 years younger. He was stunning in every way, and more than sex - another gold star weekend. I secretly cultivated a crush on a boy 9 years younger than me for ages. He's graduated and gone to university, and he gets hotter as his body and face and style changes and grows. I resisted, but was worn down by a man 8 years younger than I, and we dated for over a year. My boyfriend now is 9 years my junior. I've never been so content with someone.

But then, I get catcalled by boys still in high school, chosen on the dance floor by boys whose number ends with teen, and persistently asked out by guys that aren't drinking legal. This is too young for me - they actually aren't attractive. I suppose I do have a line - it's nice to find it.
I get the warm stroke of someone liking me, but no flickers of curiousity or temptation to give 'em a try. They're skinny and vulnerable and unformed, like their personality is still undecided.

They seem to think I'm much younger than I am (perhaps it's the poor age recognition software in the under 20 models, perhaps it's me in a rather playful and happy phase), but shockingly, nothing changes when they find out the truth of my age. No bolting in horror. I find this bizarre and amazing. I don't know what to make of it. Any way you look at it, girls their age are many times more physically beautiful than me, so it's a surprise to be drawing attention from that. Plus it's a sudden development- it's never occurred in volume like this, and 8 years ago, I couldn't have caught the eye of a boy under 20 for anything.

I'm very grateful to realize I'm beautiful while I still am. I'm glad that fact didn't elude me 'til it was too late. I wish I could have said that about myself 10 years ago, but hell- better late than never.

2007-06-27T23:13:00.000-07:00

Heard Adults Only by Slick Rick for the first time. It's not that great a song, and it's basically about Rick raping girls in the ass, but even before I recognized the vague topic of the song I was totally turned on. I had to slouch on the edge of the couch, hit Back, and shove my hand down my jeans. I came so fast. Well, I had to hit Back twice, but that was because I was afraid that with Murphy's law, someone I couldn't hear through my breathing would come to my open front door and catch me in action. Probably my elderly neighbour. People tend to knock when I'm naked.

2007-06-25T08:13:00.000-07:00

I'm wearing a garter belt and stockings inside of fuck-me boots and chilling at home alone cooking, kitchen dancing, and playing computer, with no plans. The extra four inches lets me experience my boyfriend's height. It's fucking awesome.

2007-06-24T18:43:00.000-07:00

I was out dancing, to fantastic music, among friends such a happy place for me. I was enjoying the usual approaches and compliments I was getting, and flattered by the youth and cuteness of the boys that were hitting on me.

Then I spotted one I wanted, and I can't say why I picked this one. He was a little shorter, wearing an unbranded black ball cap and blank blue T-shirt, with a kind of young tradesman look, strong without being gymmed out. Not really my usual type, but there was something compelling about him.

I moved two people away from him and shadowed him for a long time, noticing that he wasn't with anyone, and he didn't have designs on the girls that surrounded him. He was clearly in his own world, dancing in a not-especially-intriguing, repetitive, style; head down and in the beat.

Then I hovered nearer to him, directly behind him, dying to reach out for the vertical hollow of his back, where his shirt hugged the muscles gating his spine as he danced. He didn't notice for so long! People passed, disrupted his space as they spoke to me, we were side by side, yet he didn't glance up and see me for the longest time. Finally his gaze accidently struck me, and I smiled my best nervous and awkward but I-want-to-do-all-kinds-of-things-to-you smile, and he got it.

The next hour was a maddeningly arousing slow dance of approach, as we got nearer and nearer. He was so different, though. He did not at any time reach out and pull me to him. And in pauses, neither of us reached out an introductory hand and asked for a name. We did not speak to each other for over an hour, although several people I knew spoke to me, so he would have heard my name. One of my earlier suitors also came up to me with grabby hands and I sent him off.

We only inched towards each other, looking up quickly once in awhile, sharing the subtlest of smiles and eyes met. I wanted to be behind him again, to touch him, since I was desperate to, and he wasn't taking liberties with me. Mostly I was in front of him, or beside him, and when I moved to switch places, he would turn with me. Fucking incredibly hot, the tension between us, especially not defused by speech. I got so wet, even before our hands brushed, or the crowd pushed us together.

I got a grip on the hem of his t-shirt once and tugged, then grabbed his side at the waist with a hard, desirous grip, switching to do the same on his other side, run my hand up higher over his lat and then down to just hook my fingers in that delicious hollow of his spine, and release him fast. I could feel him breathe, and wide-eyed he almost give me a first full smile. I spun away from him a step, trying to get a grip on myself again, and drifted a little into a more tightly packed area of people, glancing back at him to make sure he'd follow. He was there, his hands brushing my pants, sometimes my hands at my sides. When I could catch them I'd squeeze his wrist, a finger.

I could feel his face against my neck as he danced behind me, his hands so cautiously and casually touching me - more brushing me, and his legs against the back of mine, for moments. I got a finger hooked into his pocket; got to run my thumb down a few inches of his leg, feeling his hard thigh through his jeans; grab a little chunk of denim and quickly tug his hips into mine. We were dancing so close, and in time, but never pulling each other into the contact, just each leaning towards it and then pulling back. I thought I'd die from the want, yet I was so happy that he wasn't pushy, wasn't taking. I was dying to feel the whole length of his body against my back and legs, and he could have encircled my waist and crushed me to him at any time - I would have melted into him and probably lost all resolve - but it was almost hotter that he didn't. His legs against mine from behind - oh God. Such a tease, and so subtle. It was part of my intention for noone to notice, and I think we managed it.

Later we spoke, to share a water bottle, and he told me where he was from, but we never exchanged names. When I really fully saw his face and his smile, he was really cute, with a tentative shyness in his eyes.

He vanished on me. He told me he had to leave with his buddies for the moment, and he would be right back, but I didn't see him again.

That kind of interrupted attraction is so powerful, it just makes the want grow. I would have liked to get his name, just tell him how much fun that was and that I thought he was sexy, and leave. No more than that innocent stimulation and fantasy fodder, but no less, either, and I got denied. I want him so badly, but everything else now is only going to happen in my head, in my bed alone. Except now I'm passionately hoping to see him again b/c it didn't finish "right".

I believe he meant to return, but something prevented him, or we just missed each other as I roamed the party as well. I speculate that he was very surprised that I chose and pursued him the way I did. I suspect that would be a very unusual experience for him. I'm guessing that's he may be quite shy, or he may have a relationship that wasn't representing that night (like I do), b/c he definitely had the search- and-destroy setting switched Off.

But I am very grateful for such a sweet, erotic connection to happen in the dark with the dirty bass pumping into us.

I love men. I love men so much . I love them hungrily, greedily, with their hard beauty, and in all their wonderfully difficult and vulnerable variety.

Cybele is:

2007-06-23T05:41:00.000-07:00

horny as hell and not gonna take it anymore
drunk
starved for touch
masturbating
having inappropriate feelings for a 15yr old
going to take a bath and jerk off
in dire need of a cock
naked
all worked up from surfing porn
going to do cat impressions nude and take pictures
looking for a random guy so I can jump on his face

Things you can't say when you're "friends" with your ex-boyfriend's mom and your neighbours. Welcome to the facebook age.

In other respects, it's nice. There's a guy.... I spent one warm, pre-sexual night with him in my first weeks post-virginity. Then, with impossible odds, we both walked into the same shoe store on the other side of the country, many years later. We exchanged two letters each then, and his last said he was having a baby with someone he'd been off and on with, and settling with her.

Another several years, and he searches and finds me on FB. There's still obvious cyber-chemistry 'twixt us. He's had more children with her; she's petite and gorgeous; he seems frustrated with his situation.

I'm not sure if I'm counselling someone to remain in his marriage, or if I'm just a glittering talisman of the road not taken, glimpsed from his road more travelled.

I haven't thrown out his cards though. They're right in front of me.

2007-06-23T05:20:00.000-07:00

I was hitchhiking a short distance; got a ride from a fairly attractive guy that lives in my town. We went through the typical 20km questions - hockey teams, jobs, summer pastimes, marital status, kids.

I said I had a man; he's away for the summer though and that's hard. He said "I have a wife."

"Any kids?" I asked. "No."

"Are you going to have kids?" I'm always interested in where people stand on this issue.

"I don't know. I think she wants kids."

I laughed at him. "Well, that means you're going to have kids, buddy!" We were in easy banter mode. I was almost at my stop, though, so I truncated my outline of where I stand on offspring and told him where he could pull over for me.

"Well, it's been a pleasure driving with such a beautiful woman as yourself..." He was rolling to a halt on the crunchy gravel. I laughed. The standard she's-about-to-get-away-forever unburdening.

"Well, thanks for picking me up, J----." I had one foot on the ground, one hip and leg still in his 3/4 ton. "I should give you my number. We should get together sometime," he was saying.

"You're MARRIED!" I froze, astounded. We'd been talking about his wife not 2 minutes ago. Not to mention MY committed relationship, such as it is.

"Yeah, she's ok with that," he retorted quickly.

I shook my head. "Whatever." I took my other leg out of his truck.

"No, seriously, call me sometime. Please. Anytime." He was holding his card out at me, shaking it. "Please, call me. We'll do something." He was intensely serious. I took the card from him. There were two in his hand.

"Right. Thanks again." I smirked as I turned with the door slam and started down my friend's driveway, shaking my head, itching to tell her about the nerve of this guy, and rubbing the two cards together in my pocket.