Yearly Archives: 2005

Lazy Days of Lovin' Tip

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

One of the easy things to do to make a night or day of bedroom sports better and longer is to plan ahead. Before your lover arrives for the hijinks, put a few bottles of water next to the bed — a non-spilling pitcher is a better environmental choice — and a couple nice crystal glasses, if you like that kind of touch.
Hydration keeps you ready to be active! I know, I’m a thinker. Sheer brilliance, really.

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

A Note from the Management

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

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

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

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

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

For the e-Dating Types: Six Tips

Note from Steff in 2010: It’s almost five years later, and every one of these still holds true. Please, for the love of God, people: Think about the kind of person you’ll attract through your profile, then plan accordingly. Here’s a few things not to do.

  • Look, everyone on the e-dating systems is taking a chance by putting their faces/profiles out there. Stop being a bonehead and saying, “I can’t believe I’m doing this…” or “I don’t have a lot of faith in this…” If not, then don’t!
  • We all find it a little weird, all right? In a perfect world, we’d walk into a bookstore, grin at a cutey, and have a date in five. Instead, we’re coming home after work, having a drink, and logging onto a dating service. Right. Yeah, that’s a little odd. Stop mentioning it. It’s kind of like going to a dinner party where the food’s shit: Everyone knows it, but you just nod and smile anyways.
  • If you’re a guy or gal looking for a class act to hook up with, it’s probably not the brightest idea to get a photo where you’re holding a beer bottle. Let’s think about it, all right?
  • Please, for the love of god, don’t make your profile read “If you want to know, ask.” The whole point of e-dating is the not-having-to-ask thing. Haven’t you noticed? But if you insist on staying single, have at ‘er.
  • Yes, yes, yes, we can see you’re a romantic because your profile photo is a sunset, but really, can we get a little skin? Come on.
  • And to the men out there, putting in your profile that she must be a little domesticated and know how to cook is so not gonna get you action. I just saw a guy’s profile where he demanded exactly that. And know what? He used that filthy word, too… “Laundry.”

It’s incredible the amount of oblivious folks out in the world. Sure keeps it entertaining for the rest of us, though, doesn’t it?

You are Who You Love (?)

When I was a precocious teen, I was a pretty big fan of Ayn Rand’s books. In reality, her writing’s pretty black-and-white and doesn’t have those subtle shades that a great author should have, but that’s not the point.
The love relationships in her novels (Fountainhead, Atlas Shrugged) had profoundly influenced my idea of what love should be, regardless of the author’s lack of subtlety. Everything about Dominique and Howard Roarke screamed passion to me, really.
I’m on the market again. I’d had a brief fling in October that I’d hoped might go somewhere, but it was too much, too soon, and that’s another topic for another time. I’m testing the waters, many different waters, and I’m realizing once again how damned perplexing dating can be sometimes, even when you understand why it’s that way.
I’d rather be alone, though, than with someone who doesn’t fit the rather refined expectations I have for anyone who might become my lover. I’ve been thinking about it this week. Is personality enough? Are brains adequate? Does there have to be “a whole package?”
There comes a time when you start wondering if being alone versus being together with someone who’s less that what you dream of is really a wise choice. It takes a strong person, I guess, to answer “yes” to that wondering, but I believe that’s my answer.
Ayn Rand always would assert that who you choose to love is a reflection of how worthy you believe yourself to be. When you settle, you’re telling yourself you’re simply not deserving of better.
But what constitutes “settling?” There’s a loaded question, huh? I suppose it depends on your standards. I’ve had the options of settling for guys who are on my intellectual level, with whom I could really talk, but the fact is, if chemistry’s missing, if that little sizzle-bang-bang is missing, then let’s face it, you’re with a friend, not a lover.
I don’t want a friend. Is that really so wrong? I want a lover. Someone who sets me afire. I don’t care to have yet another viable conversation partner who doesn’t stir me in ways that makes me squirm and cross my legs in public in order to quench my sudden lust. I want to have that inclination to think dirty thoughts in places I have no good reason to be thinking ‘em. And yes, I want to be able to roll over in bed, weary and satiated, and discuss a book that changed my life or laugh about a classic comedy, or whatever comes with, but that camaraderie needs to go hand-in-hand with the passion I desire.
There are those who feel it’s being too picky to simply want it all. Let’s face it. It’s a big goddamned world. With six million plus, there’s got to be a few fish out there that might wander into my net. It’s a matter of patience and faith. I don’t think there’s only “one” person for me, but there’s one type, and I’m on the hunt.
There was, however, a time when I didn’t feel I was as worthy of that level of love as I now do. There was a time when a guy being interested in me was a damned good start. There was a time when self-love wasn’t exactly tops on my to-do list. As I wrote elsewhere, learning to love myself has really been one of my greatest accomplishments. Holding out for he who is worthy of it all, it’s rough. It’s a challenge. But I suspect I’m up for it.
I do have to admit that chemistry was a hell of a lot easier to manage in high school science than it is in real life. What a mystery.
But I’m on the case, man. Just call me Sherlock. It’s time to solve the riddle.

Real Life Intrudes

I ride a scooter. Some of you may know that. Think Vespa, think urban goddess.
Or think victim waiting to happen, if you must. My brother also owns a scooter. Last Wednesday night, he failed to see a stop sign, blew through it, and was hit by an SUV. He’s in the trauma ward still, with several broken ribs, a cracked sternum, a bruised heart, bruised lung, and bleeding into his brain.
In short: I’m a little distracted. I’ll get back to this soonish, but not until things settle a little more. He’s beginning to regain consciousness slowly, but he still doesn’t realize he’s in a hospital.
He had moved recently and his place is in a disaster, so instead of just playing little sis hangin’ by the bedside, I’m also trying to create some form of normalcy in his home before he returns.
Wish life was just orgasms and kisses, but it is what it is: Complicated.
Fortunately, the best thing that ever happened to me was almost dying in a scooter accident about 15 months ago. I hope this’ll turn into a positive for him, too, but it’s too soon to tell.
I have something sitting around that might be good to post, but I don’t really know. I’ll have to look at it. Today, though, I’m Molly Maid and looking to organize the hell he calls home. Jesus. Have I mentioned how much I hate that kind of task? Moving sucks. It’s why I’m working on my seventh year in the same pad. Oh, well. Clearly you need to bleed profusely to sucker me into this shit. Good one, bro.

Being Good But Behaving Badly

Despite the onslaught of winter here in Vancouver, I took a nice long bike ride by the river yesterday, capitalizing on the selfdom-seen sunshine while I could. On my way back through the industrial lands along the river, a large delivery truck passed me by. Its paintjob dominated by dirt, I saw a message scrawled into the caked-on dirt on the back door:
“Wish my girl was this dirty.”
I had a great laugh as I continued peddling my way home, but it left me thinking about the dualities that every lover should have, but that many don’t. In writing about something similar not too long ago, I said, “When it comes to the bedroom, I’m able to balance being sensual, doting, and romantic with being pretty wicked and dominant when I feel like it. Sex is supposed to embrace all aspects of our personalities, and it’s the one time in our lives when we really have the chance be the person from our fantasies.”
If I can get personal for a moment, I suspect I can break down the evolution of a lover as it should happen for most people, and did happen for me.
As a kid, I was raised Catholic. My parents felt the religion was important, but as with anything in my life, when I believe something, I believe it with a zealous passion. By the time I was seven or eight, I was taking the priest’s sermon and teaching it to the athiest kids in the neighbourhood. At about nine years old, I was seriously thinking I should be a nun when I grew up. Seriously.
Like I said, passionate. In my mid-teens, a few things happened that made me realize that I might believe in the principles of the church, but that the folks who ran it were pissing me off. It didn’t take me long to walk away from it, and within a couple years I began learning about other faiths and realized we’re all in this together. I lost my dogma, and just kept the ethics.
As a result, though, I grew up with a lot of really religious takes on sex. For me, it was a sin. I never had sex until I was 18, and I felt wrong about it for the first two years. It wasn’t fulfilling, not really, despite my enjoying it, because I felt like I was going to be judged by a higher power or something. Around 20, I met a guy who introduced me to bondage, and I lost a few hang-ups then, but I really never got past myself until my mid-20s.
In my late 20s, I took an extended break from sex while I Dealt With Shit, but slowly began to realize I’d been cheating myself and depriving myself. I realized that I’m by nature a very mischevious person, and a person who needs that intimacy in order to feel whole. Why did that never translate to the bedroom, I wondered? Why was I so repressed and such a good-girl lover when I knew I could sometimes be oh-so-very-bad? I decided to force myself to try out the role of the “bad girl” and see what it did for me.
What it did, was get me off. What it also did, was get my lover sizzling hot. That look in his eyes told me he wanted to devour me whole, then and there. I’d never seen such unbridled passion, though I’d always had a fulfilling sex life. What next, though, I wondered? Would he treat me different? Were we going to have a weird situation after this? I realized that depended on me. Would I act normal when it was all said and done, return to the fun, irreverent Steff I knew myself to be? I had to, I decided. I had to see if I could be both.
I did, and I was. I realized then that the lover I was behind closed doors wasn’t the only person I was at heart. I was both. I was, as they say, every woman. Every woman I wanted to be, I could be. I could be bad in order to be good to my lover, and not have that impact who I was on an ethical level.
This is a dilemma I think a lot of people need to come to terms with — that playing games and being bad in the bedroom doesn’t necessarily reflect who you really are. Living out your fantasy version of you is something that can co-exist with your reality. The trouble is simply getting past whatever moral code it is that we’ve had imprinted on us by a society that doesn’t really get the fact that duplicity isn’t always a bad thing.
Have you managed to get past your hang-ups? How did you do it? If you haven’t, are you trying to? Let’s hear it, folks.

Kissing: Oh, So Telling

Ah, the kiss.
We all remember those kisses that have left our knees weak, our hearts pounding, and us wanting more, more, and more. There’s something about a well-delivered kiss that can melt the hardest heart. There’s no sexual act that leaves us wanting more, wishing for more, than the kiss.
Me, I rate a good kisser on a curve, no matter what else he offers. I just can’t get over a great kiss. Out of all the things I do well, I think being a great kisser is one of the best things I offer in a relationship. There’s nothing more fun than laying a deep, passionate kiss on a man on a couch and getting into a heavy makeout session.
For all the fuss we make about sex — the oral, the penetrative, the games — if the kiss isn’t there, it’s hard to find real satisfaction in the rest of it.

Does he love me? I want to know
How can I tell, if he loves me so?
Is it in his eyes?
Oh no, you’ll be deceived
Is it in his signs? A
Oh no, he’ll make believe
If you want to know if he loves you so
It’s in his kiss
That’s where it is

After all, most sex trade workers will tell you the one thing they won’t do, is kiss a client on the lips. There’s something about eyes closed, tongue-probing that smacks of intimacy like no other sex act does.
I remember my first kiss, but I remember the first kiss that left me melted. It was a story-book date with a guy who was a poet. We would eventually spend seven years in and out of love, but the first time we enjoyed each other’s company was spent outdoors just like it was for any teenager. We headed to Vancouver’s famed Little Mountain and sat on a small garden bridge, talking the night away. Finally, he decided it was time to lay one on me, and we began to kiss. About a minute or two into it, a transformer in the park blew, and every light exploded into darkness. The full moon was the only illumination we had, and I can still, a decade and a half later, remember the shivers that ran up my spine.
When it comes to being single, I may miss the sex, but I mostly miss the kissing and touching that comes from straight-up intimacy. There’s more to be found in a warm body and a wet, warm kiss than there is in all the orgasms to follow.
Kissing comes down to a few things — how your mouths fit together, how you taste to each other, quality of breath, moisture, technique. Unfortunately, some people ain’t got the skill. Some people don’t have the hygeine. And some people just don’t have the passion.
Lip shape does play a pretty big factor in how a kiss comes off. If you’ve got thin or flat lips, it does make for a little less oomph, but there are things you can do to compensate.
Coming up next time, kissing techniques to leave ‘em wanting.

Sex & Food — And Vodka Grapes

Food and sex. Fuel and the combustion engine. Mac and cheese. Some things are just go together.
Food has been associated with sin and sex ever since Adam and Eve got evicted from the Garden of Eden for swiping an apple. If you’ve ever had a caramelized apple pie, you know Adam and Eve made the right choice. Good one, guys.
For me, food heightens sex. There’s nothing like a well-timed strawberry tied into a bondage/blindfolding session. Except, of course, dark chocolate. Bitter, dark chocolate is in a sexy class all on its own.
I love buttering up a man with an elaborate meal before the evening’s indoor sports. I love a blindfold session with fruit, since the tastes have never been as brilliant as they are in that dark. And really, with all that sweating, grunting, and working out, who doesn’t appreciate a refreshing flavour explosion or a little added sustenance?
Face it, so much can be contributed to your romance by way of your pantry. Some meals can be seduction on a plate. Some foods are teasers you can feed each other to heighten the act. Some delicacies are associated entirely with romancing a lover. (Chocolate fondue, anyone?)
It’s time we acknowledge the holy union of sex and nibbling for what it is: Irresistable.

Vodka-Marinated Grapes
* Vodka
* Grapes

Yep. That’s it. If yer not hip to vodka and the goodness of it, and you don’t know your brands, stick to the following: Iceberg, Stoli, Finlandia, and that advertising whore, Absolut.
Here’s what you do. Take the grapes you like, a seedless variety, and clean them thoroughly. Puncture each one with a toothpick at least once or twice. Put them in a Ziploc baggie and freepour vodka in there until they’re swimming in a fashion worthy of approval by any Russian.
Put them in the fridge and let them get happy for one or two (three?) days. The longer, the better.
When your lover is blindfolded, pop one of those badboys into their mouth and watch the flavour sensation bring a wicked little smile to their lips. (You can taunt them by dragging the cold, dripping wet grape up their torso to their lip. Always heightens it a bit more.)
Don’t be silly and do anything hasty with that vodka, either, kids. Get yourself a little cranberry juice, a martini shaker, some ice, and mix you and your lover a couple nice martinis when you take a break from the gruelling grind.
You can do this with cubed melon, orange slices, Granny Smith apple wedges, mango pieces, whatever gets you happy. Grapes tend to absorb the yummy booze super well, though, and are my personal preference, and really respond nicely to the vodka. If you have any left over and you’re not a martini fan, you can always mix the vodka with some nice fruit for a badly-behaved fruit salad in the morning… particularly if you’re having a stay-home-and-screw Sunday.
All in the name of fun, right?

The 30-Year-Old Virgin

I posted a question from someone a long time ago, who wanted to know if a sex life was out of reach now that they were past 30 and still a virgin. I’ve recently heard back from her and life is going better and she’s getting in touch with her inner sexy vixen, and that’s made my morning.

Another reader went and started a blog talking about her own post-30 experiences with her virginity and it makes for great reading. I’d encourage you to go along on her journey of discovery. It’s very cool. You can find the 30-Year-Old Virgin’s site here. Keep it up, Virgin!

The Waiting Game: The Better Way to Play

If you’ve never seen it, there’s a brilliantly inventive, noire-ish hospital dramedy found on Sunday nights on ABC. Grey’s Anatomyinspired me to order cable again, and last night I saw it for the first time this season.
Coincidentally, earlier in the day, I had been writing about the difference between suspense and anticipation when it comes to romance relationships. When I watched the show, guess what the sub-plot was? Hmm?
One of the last lines of Sunday’s episode came after the protagonist, Meredith Grey, finally finds out where she stands in the battlefield of love with Dr. McDreamy, as he’s known, who’s portrayed by Patrick Dempsey. In a voiceover, she comments, “Whoever said “What you don’t know can’t hurt you” was a complete and utter moron, because for many of us, not knowing is the worst feeling in the world.”
Recent events have reminded me that I’m one of those people. Oh, I try to play it cool, but not knowing where I stand, whether it’s movie plans with a friend or my place in the Cosmos, fills me with dread and apprehension. It’s unavoidable. Give me “suspense” and you’ll make a mess of me.
I said in my last posting that things were “confusing.” That’s just because I didn’t know when I was next hooking up with the nifty new guy I know. Face it. We’re all adults, and our lives get complicated. Some of our lives are more complicated than others can understand. Sometimes that’s by choice, sometimes destiny just takes a hand. It is what it is.
However, yesterday we cemented some plans for next week. This was what got me thinking about suspense versus anticipation. You see, I hung the phone up, furrowed my brow and thought, “Another week?” And then I realized, “Pfft, it’s only a week.” I grinned and went off and made my breakfast and had a terrific day.
I had been thinking that my uncertainty had been because I was insecure or uneasy with myself, and this was why I was so damned frustrated at all the unknowingness. Then I realized that it really was something altogether different.
I was in the room, too. I know we had some pretty wicked good times. I know what I offer. I know the expressions I saw on his face, and vice versa. I know it was pretty damned awesome. That logic, though, goes right the fuck out the window when I’ve got nothing empirical to back it up.
Figures, baby. Numbers, dates, times, whatever. Lay it on me. If I know we’ve got plans, I’m cool. Seems to me that guys are often hesitant to make plans because they want to have control of some kind. Now, I don’t get that sense from this guy, so that’s groovy, but it’s often been the case in the past. “If I can hold that card, I hold ’em all,” seems to be the line of thought sometimes. (This goes for members of both sexes, unfortunately.)
With an intelligent, strong, independent chick like me, that’s not going to be the case, though. You want to hold that card, then I hope you’re playing Solitaire, because that game just ain’t one I aim to play. I don’t have the patience or the strength. I really just don’t. Headgames are for people who don’t have control over their lives and who want to exert it over others to compensate. That ain’t me, man.
Fortunately, I don’t think I have to worry about that in my present scenario. And now I get to have those little fun thoughts in the back of my mind as to all the things I want to do with my playmate in a few days. Which brings us to another fabulous point in regards to the anticipation versus suspense argument.
If you’re sitting around in suspense, you just never know when, where,or if the games are gonna get back on track. In that case, it can be pretty hard to fill in the possible blanks, so to speak. When you do know that the games are on schedule for the future, then you get to turn your imagination on. You can scheme, you can plot, you can devise.
If you have a creative lover, one that likes to keep things interesting, then the best gift you can give yourself is to give them the gift of anticipation.
But we’re all so self-involved these days that it’s easy to forget what anticipation can do for us.
Really, it’s incredible how much damage we do to our relationships by not doing the simple things. Just committing to a date later in the week or making a quick email or a call to say “hey, you were in my thoughts. I can’t talk, but wanted to hear your voice,” can make all the different in cutting the tensions that eat away at our passion.
We all know modern life’s demands. We know we’re all spread pretty thin. Too often, we overfocus on ourselves. We frequently fail to think about lives from our partners’ point of views. We fail to understand the true stresses and challenges they face, despite the fact that we’ve got front-row seats. We’d like to think it’s all sunshine and roses because we’re in their lives now, but that’s pretty egomaniacal.
Like Grandma Death says in Donnie Darko, “In the end, every living creature dies alone.” We all have our lives, with their myriad complexities, to get through on our own. Most of us choose to share parts of those lives with our loved ones, but when the lights go out at night, we’re right back inside our self-contained universes.
Every now and then, we have to remember that our lives are filled with enough suspense. From the day we’re born to that day we die alone, suspense is all we get. What does your future hold? Do you really know?
When it comes to love and sex, isn’t it time we got a little something we don’t get enough of? The thrill of anticipation and eagerness?
For me, it makes me hotter. It makes me confident, secure, and inspires me to want to make the wait all that much more worthwhile. One of my readers said that a secure man is a horny man. This is true. But a secure lover is a better lover, regardless of gender.
And it’s so easy to build that added security in. Anticipation is more than just looking forwards to future events. It’s the knowing that there’s something to look forwards to. Think about it.