You Have No Right to Wreck My Shoes…

I did a shoot last Spring that’s finally up on the site where I do the nude (topless) modelling. One of the facebook “teaser” shots the site used was me in some sexy shoes; just my feet with some heels and the remnants of a reddish pedicure. These shoots are supposed to be representative of “real” bodies – crappy toe nail polish and all…

I have a facebook “model” account for this purpose and will accept any friend request with scarcely a question asked. It’s an odd account, as I haven’t the slightest idea of who most of my so-called friends are. Some of them are random men (unsurprisingly, but probably not more than half) which is what brings me to the point of this post.

I have no interest in feet, but I can appreciate the photographers’ efforts to accommodate all kinds of interests and proclivities within the various sets. However, the resulting message I got from one random “friend” still surprised me:

“I am not into feet, but your pic would wanna make me cum on yours lol.”
I ignored this for a few days, trying to figure out how, if at all, I would respond.
And then:
“Sorry Would you let me? Lol”
(I do so wish I could also paste the smileys he included in the messages as well)
I felt unconvinced that he was genuinely asking me for consent.

The lovely Sadey Quinn wrote about rape culture today, and I would argue that this is an example of it right here. While my knee-jerk response to his initial message was: “ew! I like these shoes. No!” This was immediately followed with “well what do you expect? You’re posing topless on the internet.”

My Darlings, this is wrong for a number of reasons. On the most basic level: EVERYone deserves respect. This person and I had no prior relationship that established any kind of consensual dirty talk or propositioning. For this man to think that it is acceptable for one of his first encounters with me to include asking to cum on my feet is at the very least vulgar and lazy.

And my knee-jerk reaction of  “what do you expect?” is victim-blaming. It’s a shame when it’s done to yourself, but internalized patriarchy is a bitch sometimes. Society teaches us to be ashamed of our bodies, and women*’s bodies in particular are regulated to the point of oppression. The very reason that I am involved with this site is an act of rebellion: no one has the right to tell me what choices I am “allowed” to make with my own body. And yet, it took me a while to realize that this man’s message was not appropriate, nor was I obligated to laugh it off or accept it as a matter of course.

It was of course incomprehensible to him that I could be participating in a site like this for any reason other than his titillation. Obviously if I am posing (semi) nude, then it must be to get male attention. Or perhaps female attention – but I’m sure he would feel that was dedicated to his gaze as well.

Even as I’m writing this post, I am struggling with the conflicting voices in my head: one telling me that I really wasn’t a victim, and I knew I would get comments like that, and he probably thought it was a compliment that I would appreciate; while the other is asking why it is that it’s OK for men to talk to women that way, why is it we value certain “kinds” of women less (as arguably, posing nude on the internet places me loosely into the sex worker category), why is it that many people would probably agree that I “deserve” those kinds of comments?

Rape culture teaches us that women are less important than men, that our bodies are there for consumption and commodification, and that our voices hold less weight and value. It’s a culture that ostensibly values “purity” and places judgement on a person’s “deservingness” of justice and respect- and sex workers, so-called sluts, feminists or any other kind of transgressive, confident woman does not fit into that category.

Am I broken by his comment? No. I’ve experienced a lot worse, as, I would imagine, has every women I have ever met.
And in response? I sent him this video and told him that once he had watched it completely, with an open mind – then we could talk.

*Cis-women, trans-women, hetero-women, queer-women, I am speaking here about any kind of female-identified body.


I’ve been thinking about blow jobs of late. In the giving and receiving yes, certainly. But more particularly on the politics and power dynamics surrounding them. And while that’s an area I intend to explore further, right now I am simply reflecting  on how I’ve gotten to where I am today…

I remember learning; or more accurately *figuring out* what a blow job was in grade 11 gym class. My first real boyfriend didn’t come along until that summer, so I suppose I should be grateful that the entire notion didn’t come as an utter shock once *he* introduced the idea to me. Looking back, I find it amusing that the entire concept of oral sex hadn’t crossed my consciousness before then. And slightly more amusing at how little it took to figure it out.

A girl I was acquainted with was talking in the change room about meeting “Cedric” at a party, and how he had driven her home. And how else was she supposed to thank him other than blowing him? Based on the shocked/disgusted/judgmental looks on the faces of my other friends, I realized she had said something fairly shocking. I was fairly quiet as we walked to our next class, trying to figure out what she could have done to result in such a reaction from my fairly open and kind friends.

I knew what sex was; I wasn’t that sheltered, so I tried to sort out another activity from the context. OK: driveway; car; “blow job;” gratitude; not sex…Then it hit me what she must have done. Like a moment of divine inspiration.

Oh! That’s a thing! Interesting.

I then took a moment to process the idea that saying “thank you” is also a way of thanking someone for something. And I considered the notion that perhaps she was pressured and was trying to play it cool. Or perhaps she just liked doing it. I didn’t know, and I was too fascinated with this new concept to sit in righteous indignation over the actions of someone I only sort of knew, and really didn’t even like that much.

My first boyfriend Dave really liked sex. Ya know, not unlike many teenage boys. (If you are interested in my actual diary entry from the first time we/I had sex, please see here) And I can’t remember if it was him that told me that getting blowjobs was one of his favourite things in the entire world. It seems like something he would have said, so he gets the credit. It was at that point that I realized what a big deal it was to ALL MEN (at age 17, of course there are only absolutes). So I shrugged, and resigned myself to swallowing when he told me that it was the thing to do.

You see I never thought I would *ever* have a boyfriend. And sex seemed like some exotic thing that only the pretty and popular got to have, and I certainly didn’t feel that I fit into that category. Sexuality seemed to me more like a gift, something that lucky girls had the opportunity to express. I never judged anyone for it, nor felt that it was something that should be regulated or deemed bad or immoral. And if swallowing and blow jobs and sex were the things to do, then I would work with that. Now of course Dave was an asshole and told me that if I didn’t have sex with him soon I would be “forcing him to break up with me” and so I can appreciate the notion that I was pressured into it. I recognized the fact that I had the right to say that I wasn’t ready, but I somehow thought that he also had the “right” to express the limits of his patience. Ya know, and then make out with Maria at a party even though I *did* give it up, and then get annoyed with me for making an issue of it. Ah youth.

Anyhow, next came Rob in early University. He had more experience and would talk about how enthusiastically this one girl serviced him over the summer. I certainly don’t remember her name now, but I nicknamed her “hyper chick,” ostensibly because I felt energetic fellatio was the result of some sort of disorder. Or something. Anyhow, I was somewhat competitive, and as he was going away for a couple weeks, I wanted to give him something to remember me by. What I lacked in technique, I made up for in creativity and effort I’m sure – he received a very thorough blowing, and laughingly assured me that I had certainly guaranteed his fidelity while away. And from that, I was felt I had a skill. Blow jobs were now my *thing.*

Gawain tells me I have a “good sense of cock.” And while I find this assessment to be delightful, I still have moments of wonder at how that came to be. It’s surely a result of insecurity and naïveté in many ways. I didn’t want to be different or less than the other girls that I assumed were more experienced or skilled than I was. I had heard about being a “dead fuck” in high school, and it seemed like the worst possible thing to be. And this was from conversations with my girlfriends – not boys. But upon reflection, it made sense to me – why would someone want to be with someone just lying there? And it translated to blowjobs – why would someone want a blowjob from someone who was miserable about it?

I occasionally would like to speak with my 17 year-old self and have a calm discussion about proclivities and pleasure and manipulation and objectification. But the fact remains, a lot of this has been ingrained in me. And I also still have some sort of belief somewhere in there that sex is more for men. *Sexuality* is for women, but *sex* is for men. Ugh, so wrong and complicated and a little bit sad. But there it is. Something I am working to conquer. And I am so lucky to have a man like Gawain to work through this with.


I wanted rougher. I wanted rougher to feel like he *wanted* me. To feel like I caused him to lose control and couldn’t help himself. A combination rape/D/s fantasy. What he gave me was so utterly different that what I anticipated. I realize now that I hadn’t fully formulated what I wanted. My fantasy was a mere snippet. A moment within an encounter without any context or aftermath.

The evening started the same way as many – some talking on the futon with some touching and caressing. He likes to hear me talk, it’s a form of foreplay for him; to feel a connection, intimacy, trust. I asked him once if he would like me to greet him at the door on my knees; take him in my mouth before he’s even fully entered the room. He said no (kindly of course). He prefers talking first, that’s what turns him on. Particularly if we haven’t seen each other in a while, as is often the case.

He had some pain and asked me to massage him, his leg, thigh, groin area. I was happy to oblige as any excuse to touch him is a good one. And the request fires up some faint nurturing instinct within me. When he has pain, I tend to assume that means that sex is off the table for the evening. Well, you know what they say about assumptions…and he’s surprised me more than once in that arena.

And last night was certainly a surprise.

I used to be indifferent to sucking cock. Which is odd, since apparently I have an aptitude for it. (And I know what you’re thinking: *everyone* believes they’re good at it, because men continually give positive feedback in order to continue being serviced. Doubtless a mediocre blow job is better than no blow job at all. But for some reason I trust the men who have expressed surprise-gratitude-compliments on my skill. I get the sense that it is not just empty flattery. But I digress…)  With Gawain I actually enjoy fellatio – and will often find myself aroused by the act. Generally not in a really obvious wet, hot and throbbing kind of a way – but enough to make me ready to fuck without much more preparation required – though of course he would be happy to oblige – or watch me…

Predictably, massaging led to fondling, which led to sucking his cock, which led to the bedroom. (Note: I really must make the guest room a bit more hospitable, I have yet to have sex in there with anyone. Ridiculous after 8.5 years of living in this place). The continued cock sucking didn’t actually last that long before things changed. Suddenly he was telling me how he was going to be using me. Hard. I was somewhat taken aback as we established a safety word and how I would communicate dissent if my mouth was otherwise occupied; and then we began. I adjusted quickly, excited and curious to see where this would go.

He ordered me onto my knees with my hands behind my head. I was to hold onto my pony tail and not let go. And he slapped me. And again. Harder. He yanked down my panties with his foot and I struggled out of them without moving my hands, shocked and delighted as I heard them ripping. The conflicting thoughts and emotions that went through me even in those first few moments are almost indescribable. I strained to maintain an upright stance as he plunged into me from behind, trying to compensate for the lack of balance normally offered by my hands as I tilted forward towards the bed.

“Are you a little slut?” “Are you a fucking whore?”
Yes. Yes. Yes.
“Yes what?” “What do you call me?” He barked this at me, yanking back my hair. I had never experienced that kind of authoritarian look and tone from him before.
Yes Sir.
“You’ll say that before or after everything, understand?”
Yes Sir.

He would kiss me with gentleness and intimacy, and check in often. He had put a lot of thought into how this scenario would play out. He had to establish trust – for both of us. He had to know that I wasn’t scared, or hurt or damaged by any of this.

He fucked me hard. Moving my body around with more ferocity and speed than I was accustomed to.

“Do you like this?” “Do you want me to fuck your mouth?” “Do you like it when I slap your face with my cock?”
Yes Sir.
“Say no.”
No Sir. (Your mouth says “no” but your body says “yes.”)
But it was intoxicating. Impossible to think or focus on anything other than what my body was experiencing  – utterly captivated by the game we were playing.

I’ve always liked having my hair pulled, but I recognize now that what I had experienced before was merely a gentle-to-moderate tugging. Last night? It was pulled. Often. And the pain was surprising and stimulating.

But the part that resonates with me now? What I’ll remember the most about the evening?
His hands on my throat. A gesture I had never considered before meeting him, and it’s always been arousing. Something to do with the slight limitation of oxygen, making everything else feel more intense. As he put his hands on my throat last night, I tensed with anticipation of the familiar pleasure, but with my hands around his wrist, he picked me up and threw me to the other side of the bed.

Holding tighter to my throat than before, he did it again. And again. I was shocked at how much I liked it. I’m not one to place value judgments on anyone’s sexual proclivities; but that temporarily gave me pause. He checked in with me again, perhaps not sure how to gauge whatever look I may have had on my face, but I barely had time to process it, all I knew was that I enjoyed it, and was happy to continue.

I’m still processing. And sore.  Sore in a delicious way that just serves to remind me of the night I’d had. Sore in my hips, my chest/clavicle, and miscellaneous other places. And I was pulling out strands of hair for the rest of the night. Good thing I have enough for 3 people plus a puppy.

Last night was our first go at this. I can only imagine that each subsequent encounter like this will only prove to be more intricate and arousing. I am supremely grateful to him for surprising me with this kind of play.


I was there for a work conference, and we made plans to get together. He was originally from my own city and we’d recently re-connected via the magic of facebook. When last he’d come home, we met for lunch, and near the end of our time together he oh-so-casually asked: “so what’s up with all the porn in your facebook feed anyhow?”

Now to be clear, that so-called “porn” was mostly academic. I wrote papers on sex blogging and erotica film and was assigned reading assignments with titles like “At Home with Pornography” and “Mighty Lewd Books.” It was glorious, and led to some amusing facebook statuses – though none that I would call even remotely risqué within *my* definition of the term.

But he was leading up to more intimate questions – and somehow we managed to establish that he too was interested in more liberal forms of sensual expression, sex clubs and well…maybe exploring that with me a little more. Interesting. The semi-developed crush I’d had simmering beneath the surface since I was 19 might finally bear fruit. Took him long enough.

As it happens, we had slept together once before. Though I actually mean “slept.” A post New Year’s Eve party crash on someone’s living room futon. Though at age 20, I lacked both the confidence and the technique to take advantage of that particular situation. I felt more than up to the task this time – only 18 years later.

Dinner was overpriced, but laden with meaningful glances, not-so-accidental touches and numerous instances of encroaching each others’ personal bubbles. Neither of us minded. I rarely drink, but felt oddly in need of a few glasses of liquid courage to lubricate what I had planned for later. I have no memory of the food or the conversation, only of the tingly sense of anticipation that coloured the entire “date” portion of the evening. Which of course culminated in an invitation to escort me to my room.

We were both seeing other people, and while my situation was semi-open, I had no idea what his status was. I decided it was up to him to worry about that. Though I opened the conversation/seduction by asking that precise question. The conflicted look on his face implied that his relationship really wasn’t that open at all. Potentially problematic, but I decided to plunge ahead anyhow. Consent was his to give, so I was simply presenting him with some options. Well one really – the opportunity to get me naked after almost 20 years and a few glasses of wine.

I started simple – I was back in my room after all, I may as well get a bit more comfortable.  Slip off shoes and wrap, then sit down on the bed and remove my stockings slowly …not losing eye contact with him the entire time…bending over a little bit. A bit trite I know, but classic moves are classic for a reason, right? While not exactly leaping to help, he was watching what was happening without objection. And why would he if I was going to put on a little show for him?

However my patience for his dilemma would only last for so long. I was willing to make one last unspoken offer, and if he didn’t at least demonstrate more interest than just spectating, I would show him the door and take care of myself. I pressed up against him, breathed into his ear and asked him to unzip me. I was fully prepared to turn around and present the back of the dress, but before I had a chance, the zipper was down. Progress.

I stepped out of the dress and let him take a thorough look before stepping back towards him. I removed his jacket and began playing with the buttons of his shirt, as I watched him try to figure out what to do with his hands; clearly still conflicted. In my state of dishabille, his options were fairly limited, as  virtually anywhere he placed them would either come in contact with bare skin, or places so intimate that the covering material was basically meaningless. He settled for my back and hip, and our actions to that point had proven to be arousing for both of us. I was already hot, with a wet cunt ready to unzip his pants and suck on him until he was begging for mercy.

Instead I asked him if he had ever fondled a throbbing clit before. His eyes widened slightly and I could hear a sharp intake of breath. I assured him that my clit was in fact pulsing and quivering, and invited him to feel it, while simultaneously reaching my hand towards his clearly hardening cock….


Gawain is enormous, and hard and strong and has stamina like no one’s business. Often I would request, nay, demand that he be rougher with me. Begging him to pin me down and fuck me harder, take me like he has no control. But this was generally met with gentleness and agonizingly torturous sensuality. I have no complaints, but I couldn’t quite figure out why he wouldn’t meet that particular demand.

It took a while before we could come to that – when I say “enormous” I mean it. For all the skin mags that celebrate size, it does present its challenges. It took quite a while before I could fully take him in, and I need more lube with him than I ever have before. But I think I may understand a bit better now. His caution. His caring. His concern.

I haven’t spent a great deal of time exploring women, though not for lack of willingness or interest. It simply hasn’t been where my path has taken me much to this point. But my few experiences have led to a few conclusions, and revelations. An understanding of the differences in how our bodies appear and feel and present. The first time I ever kissed a woman was here with Topaz. A truly intoxicating experience that immediately erased all thoughts of the nude admiring man inches away from us enjoying the show. Why play with him, when this utterly enchanting fantasy was there in front of me, offering herself for my exploration?

I enjoy men’s bodies. The hardness, the freedom to crawl all over them, biting, scratching, squeezing and thrusting. The trust implied, knowing that while I have the illusion of power to reduce them to pure feeling, eyes rolling back in their heads, making absurd little sounds, really with their strength I am in an utterly vulnerable position.

But women – their bodies simply beg to be fondled and caressed with each inch of bare skin tantalizingly licked and teased. Our bodies are so much softer, with tiny delicate wrists and necks and ribs…My subsequent encounters with Kimberly made me realize that I was equally reluctant to grab her hair and potentially bruise her body as I imagine Gawain can be with me.

Not that this is the rule of course. On my more wanton, wet and impatient days, Gawain is more than able to deliver me the hard fucking I beg for – but only when he’s confident that I am absolutely ready. And I have no doubt, with a little more time and experience with other women, my confidence to be rougher there too will grow. But I get it now. And I look forward to the opportunity to learn more…

Jani Lane and Chris de Burgh Walked into a Bar…

I have become somewhat of a radical in the past few years – this blog has made me a strong proponent of freedom of sexual expression, lack of restriction on one’s private bedroom (backseat? shower? kitchen counter?) activities and embracing all aspects of the beauty and potential of the human body.

Admittedly, I have a long way to go in terms of accepting the beauty of my own naked form. I lost about 90 pounds, have gained about 15 pounds back and alternate between shaming myself for the gain, and then shaming myself for the shaming. Being a feminist can be such a trial sometimes. However, along this journey, I discovered a revelation of individuals who do nude modelling. And while I haven’t quite hit the stage where I’m willing to show every single one of my pink parts (and I may never reach that point)  I have done a series of topless sets.

Needless to say (though here I *am* saying it), this has been an empowering, humbling and hilarious experience in a number of unexpected ways.

I fully anticipated getting to know a group of wonderful individuals who would be graceful and encouraging and interesting. Check.
I expected that there would be some haters out there, and that if/when my family ever stumbled across this activity, it would be uncomfortable and challenging. Check.
I expected that I would find the shoots themselves to be awkward, but also worthwhile in the end. Check.

What I didn’t expect?
To be approached on my “model” facebook account to do female wrestling – because I have an “edgy” look.
To be on a float in a parade and have my photos up on a slide show at a dance party in a bar.
To find myself completely neutral and unaffected taking off my clothes in front of a male photographer I barely know.

I have made some wonderful friends that have encouraged me to explore different aspects of sensuality, as one is a tantric healer. I have also learned to explore vegan cooking as one model is…well a vegan. Duh. Importantly, I have learned to re-consider my usage of pronouns as there are some trans models, and some models who do not identify with any specific gender identity. And perhaps most important of all, I have come to view women in a completely new and unexpected way – I am much more of a 3 on the Kinsey scale than I originally thought.

And the hilarity? Well I really didn’t expect that songsa would consider “stripper music” to be Warrant’s Cherry Pie. My shoot a couple weeks back had a 20’s/flapper theme to it – so I suggested the photographer play Patricia the Stripper to set the tone. Apparently that’s not how songsa works, and the best I could get was eighties hair bands. It set a tone alright…though I’m entirely certain just what tone it was… Less Charleston, more head banging. Still – at least it lightened the mood. While I wasn’t uncomfortable with the photographer, I was still stiff and awkward. It’s not quite as easy to look good while having your photos taken than you would think.

That shoot was my first in an actual photographer’s studio with a set and lights and well…people walking in and out. My other sets had been either at my place or someone else’s. He took 500+ shots and whittled them down to 130ish that I looked at today. I was dreading it to be honest – I had begun to wonder if sexiness was something I could only pull off in the bedroom – ya know, while actually *being* sexual? I even tried mentally seducing the photographer while posing.  Could I pose for him? Turn him on while caressing my breasts? Rubbing feathers across my nipples? Arouse him with my pouty lips and bedroom eyes? Fail. Sadly, I didn’t want him at all. And he of course was the consummate professional, going out of his way to try to make me comfortable.
And while I didn’t exactly feel seduced by myself when looking them over (does that ever actually happen?) all in all they weren’t that bad.

An utterly different experience than the photos I let Gawain take of me while fellating him the other night to be sure. I wonder how “sexy” I looked in those pictures? I imagine staring head on into a lens with a cock in my mouth is a distracting kind of explictness. Is that sexy or gratuitous? Depends on the audience I suppose. Perhaps Gawain and I would find them titillating in memory. But would the viewer prefer to look at me with a penis resting against my cheek or me sensually rubbing a feather boa against my breasts?

In any case, I am working to come to terms with my body, my sexual expression and my comfort with all of it. And the photo sessions are helping – and I’m positively dying to model the bustier I bought the other day for an aborted gothic set (darn Winter weather) – my breasts look awesome in it!

Playing at Sensuousness

I’ve taken quite a long time away from this place, though it’s never been far from my thoughts.
I even wrote a paper about erotica blogging and its impact on the evolution of female sexuality. It was riveting. Or so I tell myself.
And its true, my own sensual journey certainly happened while I was interacting with this wonderful community of bloggers, but I think it also allowed me to be open to new possibilities. And that was the most important outcome of what I will call “Era I” of this blog. But what that openness allowed me, was to explore new possibilities outside of the blog. To be willing to entertain completely new thoughts and feelings.
What I was fantasizing about before was naive, heteronormative and limiting. A liberal cis-gendered, heterosexual woman playing at sexuality. I now understand more the diversity of sensual movement and thought, the possibility of exploration with other people and what connection and intimacy could entail. That was completely missing from my previous encounters and relationships.
Men, women, transfolk, dominance, submissiveness, communication – all these ideas have come to have new meaning for me, and I look forward to sharing those thoughts, and examining them further.
This post is just an intro – but for those of you who read this blog before, you will find an utterly profound shift in its direction. While I may play at the idea of having a slave or being fucked hard in fantasy – I find I am much more interested in understanding my lived reality.


I still want him to pin me down and fuck me. I want him to ride me hard, take me like he has no control, no other means of release than to slam his aching cock into my welcoming cunt.
After two years this has not changed. My fantasies, nameless strangers, Hollywood pretty boys, hot men at work, on the street – all have faded into a vague recollection of what used to inspire my writing here.
Now it is about him. His body. His hands. His tattoos. His enormous cock that took months for me to accommodate completely.
It’s almost alarming to me that someone can take over my desire, my daydreams, my nights so utterly. Perhaps it’s the distance – the fact that I cannot have him whenever I please.
I’ve worn out my favourite vibrator with slick anticipation of our next encounter. Starting off into space at work, practically feeling his fingers slipping into my panties, flicking my clit as he pulls them down. Willing him to appear before me, bending me over my desk and slamming into me.
He wants to hear about my fantasies – that I want to service him in front of a group of other men. To have him watch while I suck on his friends cock then fuck me from behind. His thrusts shoving his friends cock deeper into my throat, deliciously gagging me while I suck and moan.
I can tell him anything – how I fellated another woman’s husband, about the positions I fucked the man I was with while we were on a “break,” how many cocks I’ve seen, touched, licked and ridden.
I want him here now – pulling my hair, his tongue between my legs, grinding his beautiful cock into my throbbing cunt…

So This is What it Means to Be a Graduate Student

So this is what I’ve done the past two years:

Started a graduate program.
Met a man with whom I have regular sex.

My new pinup girl outfit – I am dying to find the
time to actually go out and wear it.

Made out with a girl.
Made out with another girl.
Made out with yet another girl, which included second base.
Had sex with a different man.
Went back to regular sex with the original man.
Took a course on pornography and erotica.
Fellated another woman’s husband.
Went to a sex club.
Went to a bigger sex club.
Went on a trip with a hot sex blogger.
Had two men show us their penises (penii?) outside of a club.
Met many nude models.
Am now considering joining the nude models by doing my own photo session to be posted on their website.

I have less than a month to go before my degree is completed.
And then? I will learn to write for fun again. I miss this place.
Will be back soon.

When in Rome II

Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, I didn’t completely strip. I was wearing just the cutest little matching bra and panty set, so I mostly ignored the (very ugly) towels supplied and strutted around in that.

So, Kimberley, Topaz, The Victim and I crawled up onto a bed close to the entrance and looked around in curiosity. Dimly lit, many beds, water, condoms, discreet security walking through, and couples fucking. It was amazing. I was genuinely impressed with how…professional and kind of classy it was.

And Skippy. Oh Skippy. Stroking mine and Topaz’s legs and taking it like a champ when we made it clear that neither of us had any intention of fucking him tonight. (Although Topaz implied that I should give him a mercy fuck. No thank you.)

And then I saw him. This dark chiseled specimen wandering around just kind of watching everyone. The girls (and The Victim) all told me that I should go “talk” to him – but I was temporarily intimidated by the prospect. Kimberley was increasinly engaged with The Victim and eventually Topaz and I decided to head back out. Kimberley handed me her shoes and her bra for the road and off we went, leaving Skippy behind (I kid you not) high fiving the fucking couples for a job well done.

I mentioned to her on the way out that we should have made out just to mess with him and she said that she would have been up for it. This was good to know.

Security stopped us as we were dressing to ask about Skippy. It seems that men should be attached to someone in order to be back there. Apparently voyeurism isn’t permitted? (Which even now makes me wonder what Chiseled Specimen was doing back there, as he appeared alone). We declared that Skippy was certainly not with us, and gave him leave to do whatever he wanted with him (although secretly hoping that he wouldn’t kick him out, since that would mean he would come find us).

Another drink later and Topaz was catigating me for my slut fail moment. Not any worse than I was castigating myself of course. With a shot of liquid courage, and the threat of last call looming we decided to head back to at least proposition Chiseled Specimen so the night wouldn’t be a total waste (for me anyways).

So back we went, undressed again and met Chiseled Specimen in the hallway. I admit, up close he wasn’t quite the specimen that he had seemed from a distance, but I plunged ahead anyhow. I said something inane and he invited the two of to the back. Topaz trailing along in support, knowing I wasn’t quite up for going it on my own. I confess, to me he seemed a lot more interested in her than in my charms, and who could blame him, but he certainly didn’t seem turned off by my attentions nonetheless.

Topaz, however is much more perceptive to men’s signals than I, and clearly noticed that he was much more interested in watching than participating. Before I knew it, she was straddling me and had her luscious tongue in my mouth. And my darling readers, that was the highlight of the night for me. Topaz. Her lips, her tongue, her breasts and her body. They changed all my perceptions on being with a woman.

At that point I couldn’t have cared less about Chiseled Specimen. She could have gone on kissing me all night. I craved more and more as the moments passed. I could see Kimberley watching us, and the Specimen was rapt. I touched her breasts and could feel myself heating up and my breathing increase…

Skippy showed up. Commentating. High Fiving.


Both of us started laughing and that was it. We tried to resume, but really? The moment was gone.

It was the end of the night anyhow.

We all headed out, got dressed and met up in the ladies room to debrief. It was a bizarre, hilarious, fun and profound evening. One that re-programmed some of my own proclivities and fantasies. For that, I have Topaz to thank. And Kimberley for her sense of wild liberation – if she hadn’t been so carefree and open to the experience, my life would not have been so affected.

I can’t wait to go back.