Tthe following lofty tome struck me as I was unable to get back to sleep with sunlight spilling through my cotton blinds. It rambles a bit, but indulge me. When I started this, the sky was filled with azure blue, birds singing, soaring, and the gorgeous sunlight I’ve been longing for. It’s an hour later, now, and merely a band of sunny light remains, splitting the now-gloomy onslaught of non-descript grey and charcoal clouds spreading out towards the east.
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It’s a sunny morning, a rare thing here on Canada’s West Coast in this, the doldrums of winter. A news report out of Seattle yesterday commented that it was the 22nd consecutive day with rain, and though the morning has gotten off to a beautiful start, I expect that here in Vancouver, the pattern of wetness will continue by day’s end, if the weathermen have their shit right.
Weather’s something we don’t often look far into. Rain is rain, sun is sun, and you’re lucky when it’s the latter, right?
But there’s so much more to it. It shapes us, who we are, how we act. If one was to look at population densities, for example, here on Canada’s West Coast, we’re not nearly as populated as Eastern Canada. BC has a fraction of Ontario’s population. What, then, explains our absolutely disproportionate number of serial killers?
Vancouver’s one of the most beautiful places in the world in the summer, and in the winter, one of the dreariest. This past month hasn’t been an exception. The depression that spreads through this city is insane at this time of year, and makes one think of all the strangeness that unfolds at times.
This morning, I’ve been lying there, having been conscious of the sun’s upping for the last 45 minutes, thinking. Thinking at first about public sex, and how spring evokes for me that want to get outdoors and be active, but also the passion that comes with warm, fragrant spring nights and dewy grass with flowers on the cusp of blossoming. Despite those thoughts, I found myself remembering one Vancouver winter night years ago when a lover and I threw down my trenchcoat and had mad sex atop it on the muddy river banks of the Fraser, under a soaring giant oak tree, as torrential rains fell without relent. Yes, indeed, a true west coast girl.
But then I began thinking how my mood of late has struggled to stay up, as it always does in the dreary darkness of this season, and how connected our psychologies are to light, warmth, and weather. And I thought of how sex is one of the few activities one can really enjoy at this time of year, if they’re not into snowboarding or the like.
And I thought of those who haven’t the option of just acquiring a lover the good old-fashioned way, those who need to purchase sex. And how the continued need to do so must evoke some sort of anger or bitterness in the purchaser. To tell the truth, prostitution has been on my mind a lot thanks to a fascinating novel I’m reading about a 43”-high dwarf living in Ireland’s County Cork, a beautiful book with titillating language and brilliant observations, that will probably fuel at least a couple postings on this lowly rag of debauchery.
But I thought most about that absolute bastard, Robert Pickton, Vancouver’s notorious Pig Farm Serial Killer who’s presently facing charges, with a ban on the press, for the murders of 27 women since the ‘80s, though some suggest the fucker’s responsible for the deaths of up to 60 local prostitutes – all disadvantaged women from Vancouver’s Downtown East Side, forced by life’s circumstances to work in the sex trade.
Pickton apparently lured these disenfranchised sex-trade workers to his home out in Surrey with the promise of drugs and cash, then brutally killed them after what are said to be lurid parties on his isolated pig farm, and fed them to his pigs. The recovery operation for DNA evidence on his sprawling farm and its troughs was one of the largest archaeological digs in Canadian history.
If you look at this part of the world, the beauty, the nature, the geography, it speaks mostly to being God’s country. Some years, the weather’s reprehensible, though, and you wonder what it does to people with less stability than someone like myself. I recall the year I spent living in the Yukon, where though the days were short in the winter, the sun would emerge daily and fill the air with the brightest, cleanest, most mesmerizing light I have ever seen. There, I’d met a lady who’d lived in Vancouver all her life and she said to me, “I just couldn’t fucking handle the winters anymore. The year I moved here, it was 45 days straight of rain. I felt like crying every morning by the end of all that, and nothing I could do would change my mood. I’ve never been so hopeless, so desolate…” She moved there, and had never felt that way again. I noticed that I had no depression that winter, a first for me in my life, and the only time I’ve escaped winter sadness since.
It’s no coincidence that off the British Columbian coast is one of the top 10 sailing destinations in the world in the summer… but the region was clearly discovered in the winter, since its name speaks volumes: Desolation Sound.
Pickton’s not the only legendary killer from this region, and not the only one to prey on sex trade workers. There’s the Green River Killer who worked not only in Washington, but occasionally here in Vancouver. A classmate of mine in elementary school, his sister was killed by the GRK. Robert Clifford Olson, another Vancouver man, killed 11 boys that they found, but he wanted authorities to believe there might’ve been dozens more, though he refused to cooperate on his alleged conquests.
The murders are disproportionate to the populations, and to the violence found here on the whole. We don’t get a lot of gun violence or random killings, with an average of 30 murders per year, with most of those being gang- and drug-related, but when it comes to serial killers, we’ve written the book. And nothing, for the life of me, can explain it away, except for the dark, dreary, depressing weather we get from October through to April.
So… though I should be sleeping a little longer, the notion of missing what may well be the only sunny morning for another week or two, and the first in more than three weeks, well, that’s just unforgiveable. My coffee’s brewing, and all my blinds are up, to soak in the little natural light I’ll see in the days to come.
I’ve touched slightly on the local sex trade in this posting, and it’s more just setting the scene for what will be a bit of a focus at some point in the next couple weeks. We prefer to think of the sex trade as escorts with standards and high-price call-girls, but here in Vancouver, with dozens of lowbrow prostitutes disappearing off our streets, dying horrific deaths, being fed to ravenous pigs, or other debauched means of disposal, I assure you… we’ve seen it all in a more dreary light. And my little wheels have certainly been turning. It’s another reason I felt I wanted to write on promiscuity last week, since all these things combine in a strange circle of life.
Monthly Archives: January 2006
Port-a-John Porn — The Main Event!
The first part of this can be be read here.
I’ll tell you what, I ain’t never gonna be a Zen Buddhist. My patience level? Sweet fuck all. So, this one’s for all those out there who are just like me: Greedy, impatient, and far too curious. I said I’d post it tomorrow, but why wait, right? I’m the she-wants-it-when-she-want-it-how-she-wants-it type, really, so it’s somewhat hypocritical to deny you.
Besides, I received a few very ego-strokey emails today and yesterday that leave me wanting to appease others. Impatient, AND a big ol’ softie. Gotta love a girl like me. 🙂 So, without ado, part two.
So, this photo here is the stadium where all this transpired, at the University of BC campus (home of Canada’s only totally nude beach, too, so, you know, gotta love the higher-education types). Along the right side of the stadium seating (where no one is ever seated in the…
Urm, so, this is interesting. My neighbour (the one with the Canada flag in his window, GayBoy) is presently fucking his girlfriend with the blinds open, on the sofa. Hmm, fitting timing. HeLLo, NEIGHBOURS! They’re in boxers and stuff, so I don’t see much skin, but I know those moves. They’re opting for tha fast-n-furious brand of fucking, it would seem. That, or a CD’s skipping and they’re keeping pace.
…seats — since vomit’s easier to hose down on grass than clean up off the bleachers, ha) is where we found ourselves, up near the top, in those bushes, sitting on one of the bases of the pillars you can see there. A bird’s eye view on it all. The johns were lined up on the stadium floor directly in front of us, with the backs of them facing us, with about 18″ between each john, just wide enough to squeeze through.
(They just left the living room. Fuckers (literally) and I was enjoying that! I should keep my blinds up more often.)
So, the story continues–
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There was something different about the couple. Something about them stood out as they wovetogether, hand in hand, through the madding throng of people below us. I spotted them and began to watch with interest. There was a physicality in how they moved and something about it aroused me.
They had a cadence to their steps, an intimacy with each other in the casual, matter-of-fact way they held hands and moved singularly through that crowd. They were zeroing in on the hand-sanitizing basin by the long wall of port-a-johns, and I could tell something was up. I grinned, nudged GayBoy, and said, “He’s gonna get himself laid.”
GayBoy started watching them. If there’s one thing my friends know about me, it’s that I’m strangely good at picking things up about total strangers.
Sure enough, it took less than a minute or two for the couple to casually wander behind this wall of johns. Now, this rear wall, you could see behind it where we were, in the stands and beyond, but it wasn’t visible from anywhere else in the stadium.
They stopped about four johns into the line, and stood behind the unit, still visible to us. She leaned against the wall, he leaned into her. His hands splayed against the john’s wall, on either side of her head. They began making out, but his hand slipped down between them, and seemed to prep things for the soon-to-begin telltale thrusting that started as Econoline Crush, a local metal/rock band with melodic yet driving hooks, took to the stage. He jacked her up a bit against that wall, and there was no mistaking, even at our distance, that this wasn’t innocent dry-humping.
The guy’s thrusting got more intense as the music heated up, and the sex was as hot as the day’d become. Oh, if I only had a handicam. I was getting hot just watching, but GayBoy was just bothered since it was too hetero for him.
While the sex was interesting, what unfolded around them was absolutely entertaining.
This couple was oblivious to what was happening around them–the sex was clearly everything at the moment. Maybe they just didn’t care. But the sex pretty fascinating for others, too, as a small crowd was gathering.
At these outdoor gigs at Thunderbird Stadium, guys would always squeeze between the johns and emerge at the back, where they’d relieve themselves au naturel in orderf to avoid the interminable lines for the port-a-johns. The ones who were doing so now, most didn’t even notice the against-the-wall sex going on nearby. Some, though, did.
One particular guy emerged between two johns, eagerly did his bladder relieving business, zipped up, turned, and then noticed the couple. He started watching them for about two, perhaps three minutes.
This had been going on ten minutes now, so the sex was fully unbridled at this point–hard, rhythmic thrusting, and absolutely zero inhibitions.
So dude’s watching the show, grinning like a school kid on a professional day, when he suddenly about-faces and walks. About two minutes later, dude returns with five friends, all holding beers, smoking cigarettes, as they lean on the bleacher stands’ base wall, staring in fascination at the sexual escapades continuing to unfold, their heads banging to the beat of the music and so too, with the rhythmic thrusting.
It’s then that the security guards approach, and the sex has been ongoing for more than 20 minutes. (But for those of us (aka: us) who’d been noshing magic mushrooms, swilling vodka, then beer, and smoking excessive marijuana, it’d seemed like an hour. And so pretty.) The guards tap the couple on the shoulders, and the couple stops. The guy zips up. A conversation ensues, and it’s clear the guards are more amused and file this one under “too bad, but I gotta do my job,” since who can begrudge a guy whose girlfriend’s willing to go the distance in bright daylight with a crowd of 15,000 around?
Everyone breaks up amiably. The couple wander again to the hand-sanitizing bath, and you can tell by the tilt in the guy’s head that he’s watching as the guards wind their way back through the crowd, looking for real trouble to deal with.
As the “Security” shirts fade into the countless bodies buzzing on the stadium floor, the guy takes the girl’s hand and he leads her back to the row of toilets.
Within 90 seconds, they’re back to having full-on sex.
The guys with the beers and the cigarettes? They never really left. They came back and caught the rest of the show.
Another twenty minutes of top-notch, if unsanitary, sex continued to unfold there until the unseasonably hot April setting sun. The couple finally climaxed during the last song in the band’s set, and then diasppeared back into the crowd.
The moral of the story? You may think you’ve got the best seat in the house when you’re in front of the stage. Sometimes, though, sitting in the nosebleeds gives you a view of a show you never thought you’d catch.
Port-a-John Porn: Classic Steff
Readers of my other blog know, GayBoy (aka @mr_tits_pervert) is my best friend, with whom I’ve been bad the most. Occasionally he graces us with a wacky comment here.
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Arts County Fair is a local rite of passage. It’s a spring concert that’s unleashed on the last day of classes for the University of British Columbia, one of the largest universities in the country.
This year was year 11, and though me and my friends have stopped attending, in the early days, we’d seen nearly every show in the first nine years.
GayBoy and I always went together. The most notable ACF for us? The spring of 1999.
The concert lineup wasn’t anything special, but they never really are at ACF. The student union body puts the concert on as a celebration at the end of the school year, the very last day. It’s a license for insanity, with some listenable tunes on the side.
And sometimes it’s the insanity that makes it all worth while.
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I never needed to blow off steam like I did that spring. At the time, it seemed like my mother had had a close call with death but was going to recover from her cancer. I was upbeat but trashed and needed an outlet for my stress. She never would recover, instead, she’d die less than four months later, but I didn’t know that then, whatever my suspicions might have been.
Like anyone would, I just needed a good party.
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Enter GayBoy and his vodka-filled watermelon. (GayBoy has a fondness for injecting fruits with vodka for outdoor concerts. This was the penultimate: More than a mickey had gone into this bad boy. He uses a hypodermic syringe and painstakingly does the work over several hours.)
Also enter a few packages of Scooby Snacks. Back then, there was a brief craze here where Scooby Snacks were all that. They had Mexican magic mushrooms, guarana, and ephedrine. They were mushrooms for the rave crowd and the ephedrine gave you a little kick.
Responsible writer note: They were fun for a while, but after a few instances of trying the cutesy-named “Scooby Snacks,” it all went wrong for me. The ephedrine did what they say it can do — my heart felt like it was going to explode. When you’re on highly hallucinogenic drugs, the last thing you need is to feel like heart-rupturing is a potentiality. Ephedrine can be a kick, but is scary as shit when it goes wrong. Don’t bother.
Fortunately, that day, everything went perfectly. We had fine dope. We had the Snacks. We had the vodka. We had mini-donuts and a beer garden. This was seasonal bliss: a fine early summer day that would soon result in sunstroke for these thousands of concert-goers.
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Did I mention the insanity? The beer garden would be churning out hundreds and hundreds of kegs of beer to these students. By the end of the day, there’d be lost lunches puddling the perimeter of the stadium. There’d be guys relieving themselves against every wall they could fine, in order to avoid having to stand in the endless lines for the port-a-johns.
This day, though, the spectacle had gone insane by the third act, the legendary Odds. It was The Odds’ last performance as a band that day, and those of us who’d been along for the ride were glad they were here to say goodbye in their hometown.
Music fan note: If you have no experience with the defunct Canadian band the Odds, Heterosexual Man was a classic, and MTV and MuchMusic couldn’t get enough of the video, which starred the Kids in the Hall. Total thumbs up for song and video.
GayBoy and I had amped up our drugs before their set and we were very hallucinohappy by this stage of the gig.
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By the end of the Odds, it was obvious that well over 50% of the stadium was having trouble controlling their alcohol on this crazy-warm sunstroke day. The vomiting was getting hard to take.
GayBoy and I weren’t ready to throw ourselves into the pit at the front of the stage, not yet. Econoline Crush, the next set, weren’t our favourites. (They’re not too bad, but nothing spectacular, just standard-issue grungy alt-rock.)
No, we’d hang back. Find a seat with a view. We made our way to the back of the stadium, where we found a spot to perch right next to the stadium’s seating, which was always inexplicably cordoned off for these concerts. We sat at the base of the massive roof’s pillars, and from there, we could see everything unfold.
Which was good, since we’d soon be treated to a full-on sex show.
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT TIME.
A Reader Asks: What is Promiscuity?
I like sex, a lot. A lot more than I have it, tragically, and that’s not for lack of opportunity, but, rather, because I have moral preconceptions and perhaps even fears that I just can’t get past (IE: STDs, my Catholic youth, etc.).
I’ve said before that anyone can get laid if they set their standards low enough. I still believe that, and doubt that will change anytime soon. But I went and made a comment in response to one of my readers’ comments a couple days ago and have since received an email asking me my definition of promiscuous. That alone would have given me pause for thought, since definitions are generally arbitrary, but the moral semantics of it, that’s a different beast altogether. But then the reader went on at length and that then left me utterly flummoxed. This is the hefty tome I received:
What makes one promiscuous? It seems that promiscuity has a negative connotation; Is this because of a description based on religious, cultural, moral or philosophical matters? IE: Experiencing sexual desire is limited to procreation only; monogamy; one man with one woman… And if this doesn’t fit the scheme, are we sinning or acting amoral? Is it gender related? If a woman sleeps around, more than likely she will be considered a slut. Say a man has the same amount of sexual partners… “well, boys will be boys and need to be experienced.” I don’t think a man would be “accused” of sleeping with too many partners — oh, maybe in the gay community. Okay, so what is it – the quantity? How many times with different partners – 3, 10, 25 – what is the cut-off number? Or is it a matter of timing/frequency – a different partner every month? I know some people can’t even remember the names of their lovers! And are you promiscuous if you (even just once) sleep with someone for other reasons than “just” making love? I am thinking about a “sugar daddy”, IE: financial gain other than prostitution. Or is it then a matter of feelings and emotions; consequently, the lack of emotions and/or just a fulfillment of desires and needs? Would a married family man be considered promiscuous if he (once) had sex in a swinger club — kissed the wife good-bye in the morning, and in for a quickie with another woman the same night?
What, are you trying to make me work for a living? Hardy-har-har.
Here’s what the dictionary wants us to believe, for starters:
1. Having casual sexual relations frequently with different partners; indiscriminate in the choice of sexual partners.
2. Lacking standards of selection; indiscriminate.
3. Casual; random.
First things first: I’m not here to judge anyone, for anything. That said, I think the point of the definition above is that anything outside of a regular relationship, as soon as casualness or randomness enters the picture, is promiscuity. However, the tone that the word takes on depends on the perspective of the speaker. Are you judging the behaviour? If so, then the word is a negative one. Are you simply stating fact? Then it’s merely a pragmatic, honest descriptor.
Fact is, I’m actually a pretty old-fashioned girl, in some ways. I want one guy to shower with affection, and nothing more. (Although I don’t wish to be married, but that’s another posting for another time.) I don’t want to experience a rainbow of lovers, I have no interest in that. I feel a sexual relationship gets better the longer you’re in it, provided you maintain open communication and a willingness to experiment. If a guy cheated on me, I’d probably walk. That’s just me.
Have I slept with a guy on the first date? Yeah, absolutely, and that was promiscuity. Have I had sex outside of a relationship? Yeah, I have, and that was promiscuous. Would I have sex with someone other than a lover I was presently involved with? No, I doubt it. Would I consent to being the other woman? In the past, no, I haven’t (and I’ve actually busted a dude who lied and said he was single, when I knew his girlfriend). In the future, I really don’t know, but I’d find it hard to justify being the “other woman.”
I don’t think you can argue the literal definition of what promiscuity is. I think the nature of the sex you have (with emotions, without, with a commitment, without) defines whether it’s a promiscuous act or not, and that’s not really a matter of semantics, but rather, simple fact. The question then is, is that amoral? And what’s the answer? Then, dear reader, you’re absolutely entering into a philosophical debate, and a difficult one, at that.
Is morality subjective? That is, does the morality of an act depend on the situation and the beliefs of those involved? The majority of the world will tell you no, that morality is not open for discussion, because X religion deems that virtue as being Y. It’s one of the oldest arguments known to mankind, except in polygamous/polyamorous societies, and one that there’ll never be a proper answer to, and certainly nothing definitive will ever tumble from the fingers of this lowly writer.
A lot of people will comment that it’s not the act itself that indicates morality or the lack thereof, but rather, the underlying intention. Yada, yada, fucking yada.
Ultimately, I think what it all boils down to in life is, can you sleep at night? When you wake up in the morning, do you feel a little more whole, or a little less so? Are you satisfied with who you are, with what you do or have done? Can you own up to your actions on your own terms? (Owning up to things in a social, public forum is not necessarily an indicator, because there are a lot of judgmental assholes out in the world, whether it’s Pat Robertson or the dude down the street.) Granted, sociopaths have their own little club where they feel none of these questions apply, and then you indeed have to look at what a moral median might be for society at large, which is how we get laws in the first place.
I know what gets me to sleep, I know what keeps me up nights. I know what leaves me tinged with disgust, I know what leaves me with warm fuzzies day in, day out. I have few illusions of the moral high-ground I’ve set for myself, and while those standards are ones I strive to hold true to, I wouldn’t judge another for failing to meet them – unless they were involved with me, because then it should become an understanding, something to strive for together, something to embrace. Ah, proof: A romantic at heart, I is.
Promiscuity simply is what it is, sex acts committed in a random, casual manner; a hedonistic enjoyment of the flesh. And that’s not all bad, particularly if both parties are on the same page. When people get hurt, when disease gets spread, when irresponsibility transpires, then it’s something I frown on, that I judge. The rest of the time, well, we’re all adults, and if there’s agreement, then that’s all that matters. It’s the interpretation of those acts that get us into these arguments of semantics. The definition is clear, but it’s the moral interpretation of what “random” and “casual” mean that have you asking your question. Semantics, my friend, are indeed a bitch.
But what do you think of promiscuity? What do you think of my two cents?
1. (I’ve been asked in the past what I think of polyamory, and perhaps the above gives those askers a little perspective on my response, but I will likely do an entire posting on that at some point as well, because it’s an interesting topic, and one that I feel is largely misunderstood, though not quite my cup of tea.)
2. (And in regards to the posting below, yes, I’m still broke, yes, I’m still scared a little since my financial safety net has disappeared, and yes, I could still use help. Feel free to pitch in, at any amount. Thanks!)
3. (How come I never saw that episode of Warner Bros.’ Saturday morning cartoons, hmm? I guess that was before TiVo.)
Let's hear it for the sexiest guys in town
My Canadian boys just took the World Junior Hockey Gold Medal here in Vancouver. I’m sick, but no longer miserable, thanks to brilliant hockey from some of the best young players in the world. (Sadly, though I like younger men, they’re just a tad too young for me.) Yes, I really am a Canadian girl, and there just ain’t no sport in the world that compares to hockey.
With glowing hearts, we see thee rise,
the true North, strong and free.
the true North, strong and free.
ED. NOTE: For your viewing pleasure, a reader gave me a cute link to an ad, and I’ve volleyed back with two of my favourites. See the comments for linkage, and have a grin.
Q&A: Seducing A Straight Same-Sex Friend
An American broad abroad in Germany who calls herself a devoted reader wants to know:
How do I seduce my straight female friend? Or consequently, how do I deal with falling for someone not available?
When I wrote her back, I said rather bluntly, “What part of straight is so hard to understand?”
We all fall for someone we can never have. In fact, I’m about to listen to “Something I Can Never Have” by NIN. I’ve done it, and I’ve lived with the reality check I’ve had to cash. That’s just life. Most of the time, I think we fall for the unattainable because, on some level, we’re not consciously aware of the fact that we’re not ready to emotionally commit to anyone. We’d rather be lonely than really take the chance of being vulnerable, because being vulnerable means admitting your weaknesses to yourself and to another. It means taking a risk.
So, we cop out and we put our desire to be loved onto someone who we know will never respond to it — it’s kind of like never really trying to obtain your goals and dreams, but still being able to say, “Well, I never really tried, so I’ve never really failed.”
No, but you just haven’t played the game at all, have you?
We’ve all done this, and anyone who says they haven’t is just kidding themselves. It’s human nature to play it safe some of the time, particularly when we’ve been through emotional trauma, and you, dear reader, have been through exactly that, and you & I know it.
So, with shrink-mode off, let’s get back to the initial question. How do you seduce your female friend when she’s straight? I think it’s safe to say that the odds of a gay chick seducing her straight female friend are much higher than if the respective players were males. For chicks, there’s nothing threatening about being in the lovin’ arms of another woman. We don’t have to go through as much psychoanalysis to get past the experience as a guy who (feels he) needs to then examine whether he’s a “real man” or not.
Society, too, is more forgiving of lesbian encounters anyhow, since we all know most guys would throw down a sizeable wad of cash if they got to be the fly on the wall of a couple hot chicks exploring the lesbian side of things. In fact, it’s probably safe to say that most people just don’t take lesbians that seriously, considering they’re using strap-on dildos and all.
Let’s take me, for example. I’m out-and-out as straight as they get. I love all the aspects of being with a man, and can’t imagine myself ever being a lesbian for the longterm. But I very well might get playful with a girl… if all the pieces fell into place. What pieces, you ask? (But if you want some perspective on my little lesbian fantasies, read this and this.)
Back to the “pieces.” You’d have to get me good and drunk, for starters. Not because I wouldn’t know what I was doing, because I always have some self-control, but because I would want to have a really good excuse when I woke up the next morning. “Pfft, I was drunk, it’s all good… It was fun. I’ll never, ever drink again…” Heh. That said, there’s a part of me that wants to have the experience. I secretly want to have a woman come onto me, and the more I hear from chicks, the more I realize that this is a pretty common feeling. It’s something we won’t go out looking for, but if it should happen… We might just give in.
That said, let’s say you have that experience. Let’s say you pop a cork on a great bottle of wine, have a great “girl’s night” in, and you accidentally surf the channels and land on that great lesbian love-fest, The L-Word, and you somehow start sitting a little closer on the couch, et cetera…
We interrupt this broadcast to state that seduction’s seduction, whether it’s man-woman/woman-man/man-man/woman-woman. It’s all the same. You just need to get a little closer and see what happens, that’s all. Test the waters. How would you seduce anyone? Same difference here. It’s just a taboo, that’s all. We now resume the topic…
So, you kiss. If it doesn’t work, you get embarrassed, blame it on the wine, say you’ve just been a little lonely lately and you’re being dumb, and apologize. If it does work, then you make a move to the classic caress, and maybe it escalates.
I’ll say one thing, though — I think if you’re talking about crossing the lines of sexuality with someone who’s not a player in that game normally, it’s an all-or-nothing shot. Meaning, you get ‘em into a kiss and they’re responding, then THAT is the night you take it all the way. You will more than likely not get a second shot at it, so seize the opportunity while you can.
So, the not-getting-a-second-shot thing takes us to the next topic: Love’em and leave’em, except you’re the one who’s gonna get left. More often than not, they will take you up on the experience, but they will not let it develop into anything more. You run the risk of having a really incredible night where you get to passionately introduce them to same-sex love, and because the experience of teaching someone about sex is such an incredibly large turn-on, and a psychological mind-fuck in some cases, you also run the risk of having your heart absolutely shattered when it turns out that, for them, it was nothing more than trying something new at the buffet of love. For you, it will always mean more. If you’re able to accept that it will end in something that you’ll never have — and worse yet, you intimately know now exactly what you’ve lost — then I say go full-bore ahead and take that chance.
OKAY, let’s have a discussion, shall we? What would it take, if you’re straight, for someone of the same sex to seduce you? Have you thought about it? Do you secretly wish someone would make a pass at you? Have you ever tried to drop hints? How far would you be willing to go? Would it become a skeleton in your closet? Why, or why not? Speak to me, oh, hordes of lurky people. Enquiring Steffs want to know.
Manscaping? How much?
A reader emailed me around Christmas and asked me something short and sweet:
“When you say you like your guys trimmed, how trimmed are we talking? For that matter, how trimmed have most of the guys you’ve been with been? Like, short? Really short? Shaved?”
Okay, here’s what I responded with:
I like a guy who gets rid of almost all his hair down there. My partners have used electric razors, the trimmer side, to just get rid of most of it, and that satisfies this girlie just fine. Apparently it’s easier to do with an erection, but what do I know? You may even want to experiment with the noxious chemical creams some of us girls use to get rid of the hair (Veet, etc), but that takes it right down to skin, and you may have reactions to the chemicals, in which case I got three words for ya: Burn, baby, burn.*
Less hair makes giving oral a much better experience, and makes me, personally, more likely to service the entire region, and not just the shaft. I’m not crazy about mandatory flossing during sex, that’s all. Your boys will get more attention, and all the sensitive skin around there, that’s usually covered with hair, will also get more attention.
Shaving it off completely might feel really great initially but will likely feel itchy when it starts to grow back in, since some of us girls experience that, so that’s something to be aware of. But you may even find that the hair itself, as it grows back in, can be really sensitive to sensation as it’s teased with fingers or a tongue, and that might be a really good bonus for you. Short, short is good enough for most chicks, I would imagine. Trim your inner thighs, too, if you want them nibbled lots’n’lots, but if you’re a cyclist or runner, be aware that it may cause some chaffing/in-grown hairs… Not altogether pleasant.
And if you’re one of those guys who’s hung up on size (“one of,” right, there’s an understatement) then there’s the bonus that your cock looks bigger when you do get rid of the hair, or at least drastically minimize it. Cheaper than enlargement surgery, too. That and a cock ring, and you’ll feel like King of the World.
I hear razors buzzing already.
*One of my readers has weighed in on this — he agrees, a dicey proposition. Read the comments for his experience.