Tag Archives: cunting linguist

Ending, Meet Beginning

I’m sitting here in my panties, belting out George Michael songs, as sunlight spills in.
I’m absolutely comfortable in my own skin this morning, beaming and grooving.
It’s only fitting, then, that this should be the last-ever “Smut and Steff” posting. Yep. Done like dinner, baby. By the time you read this, likely, this will already be “The Cunting Linguist” again.
I’m home, baby. Back in black, back to myself.
Only home’ll never have felt so good, thanks to my new template that’ll be uploaded within the hour or two.
Everything I ever learned about believing in myself has been learned in the process of being stupid enough to switch from “The Cunting Linguist” to “Smut and Steff” back in the bad ol’ days of 2006.  More than I can probably ever explain to y’all.*
Coming back to my writing roots? Priceless. On every level.
The end of the mistaken-self is nigh. We bringin’ it back to where we from. Damn rights.
I underestimated the brand I created. I didn’t read the value in my vision right. I’ve been kicking myself since. But just because you recognize what you’ve lost doesn’t mean you’re ready to take it back. It’s been a long road.
I’m ready.
You don’t know the character points I’ve picked up along the way, and I don’t have to explain.
Like anything in life, you don’t need all that unfolding here, now. It’ll become apparent over time.
It’s a good day.
Seeya, Smut.
Meet the Cunt.
*But lord knows imma tryin’. If you’re in the audience for Friday’s talk at Northern Voice 2010, you can be there for my first-ever telling of the whole sordid tale. God help us all.

Welcome to the New Digs!

Hey, world. You’ve reached the work-in-progress temporary new home of SmutandSteff.com.
We’re having incredible difficulties in getting my URL sorted out. It’s still going to be at least two days before that sorts out. I’m figuring a week or so. I’ve given up being upset about it.
I am, however, upset that a reader and e-friend and blogging colleague, the incredible Ang of The Sweltering Celt has been so incredibly put out after days and days of endless assistance that she’s been doing for me as under a really paltry trade. If you’re looking for help making a Blogger-to-Wordpress migration, she works pretty cheap with a PayPal donation, you know. Ang, you’re fabulous!
But, you know, good things come to those who wait. I mean, hey, look at this place, wouldja?
I’ve made all the HTML changes from the free WP Aurora Theme, which has some strange design things like blockquote that actually does the opposite of drawing you in to read it (so, I’ve changed that) and I’ve made the colours more punchy and fun. Over the next couple weeks there’ll continue to be more changes. The categories will continue to expand but then get bunched into master lists, so my archives will be much more easily searched by topic. Considering I’ve written more than 1,000 posts over the years, that’s a big benefit.
Which brings us to the sheer volume of content you’ll find here.
I’ve managed to assimilate both my blogs — The Cunting Linguist and Smut & Steff — into one monster volume. ALL my original comments — all 5,000 of them — are now found here on this site. All postings have been reverted back to the original version. For the first time ever, all that content is on one great site. This means there’s more than 500 postings that were NOT on Smut & Steff that you can now read here — specifically anything from before 2007, probably only 30% of that content was ever published on Smut & Steff.
Now, it’s funny, when I was chatting with Ang, she totally was surprised when I mentioned during the URL-switching process that I’m the owner/writer of The Cunting Linguist, which was a weirdly big success for me in 2005-2006. Switching URLs back then was easily one of the most moronic things I’ve ever done, but shit happens. Still, I’m her, she’s me, and now it’s ALL here.
Sorry the whole process is taking so long, minions, but I think it’s all going to be worth it. Patience, baby, patience. I’m irritated it’s taking so long, but I’m thrilled with how well it’s going. A lot of work ahead of me, but when I’m done, I’m done. Yay!
Enjoy the new digs, minions. But do NOT change your bookmarks or RSS feed — this blog’s location will be BACK at smutandsteff.com before you know it. No, really! Or in about a week. No, really…

Get to Know Yer Blogger #2:The Sex Edition

I did the first Get to Know Yer Blogger because I was too exhausted to think in linear fashion. But then I had fun doing it.
I figure, what the hell, let’s keep this wagon wheel rolling. I don’t live the wildest of lives, but it’s interesting enough. And writing these sorts of snippets all hodge-podged together is pretty fun for me.
Keep in mind, of course, of my sort-of policy of not revealing intimate particulars about my encounters. So, these are all very allusory — skimming the surfaces. You just don’t need to know, although I know you want to. But that’s the stuff I like to keep all secret to myself. What can I say?
The most recent stuff in my life is all variations of themes begun in the earlier years, so most of this is pretty distant from my world of now.
Without ado, skimming the surface of my sexual life…
The best outdoor sex I’ve ever had? In the absolute pouring rain, middle of a stormy November night. My trench coat was lain down over a muddy patch (but the least wet in the area) under a gigantic elm tree by a river. It was after midnight, no one was around, we got soaked, somewhat dirty but mostly just really wet, and got through it in record time, but it was fucking fantastic. Or fantastic fucking. Both, really.
One of the best nights ever with a lover was when we went out on a cliff, at the end of a forest path in the North Shore mountains, to catch the sunset… and when we tried to get back, it was too dark to find our way. We stayed until the sunrise, huddling together on a small jutting bit of cliff, conveniently flat, but barely larger than our two reclined bodies. Overlooking the Pacific, surrounded by rainforest. Got home six the next morning, snuck in before Mom awoke. Blissed right out. Until she “woke me up” at 7 to say Grandma had died. Weird. Highly memorable night on both counts. Really sore back. Great night.
Longest ever stay-in-and-fuck “weekend” in which pretty much nothing else was accomplished? Five days. And thinking about it still makes me grin. I need me a chance to break that record sometime. Best thing ever, all-sex weekends.
Most sex in a night? I don’t typically count. Six times that I know of, maybe more? Once is just wrong. Besides, it’s not about the number. It’s, can you handle more? Are you at the point where no amount of lube in the world is going to make this easy on ya? Then it’s probably a good time for a break.
What ever happened to sex outdoors? Now that I have an apartment, I just never get around to outdoors sex anymore. Sex on floors, however. Shit, it’s been a decade. That totally sucks. Holy to-do list item, Batman.
Sex under the stars. A lover had a rooftop patio in an apartment that was taller than the other buildings around. We’d pull the mattress out and shag ourselves silly out there, under meteor showers and anything else you can think of. If you’ve never had sex on top of an apartment building? That’s your to-do list item, then. Highly recommended. I should put a personal ad out for penthouse owners, seriously. I love the heavens.
First time I ever had casual sex or, rather, sex I knew would be a fling at best? I was 27. He was a fella I’d met travelling in California. He’d had a girlfriend, but we spent the whole night talking at the Sacramento youth hostel. We wandered around the whole town, talking until five a.m., even happening upon the band Cake rehearsing for a show at 3 a.m. and we sat in the deserted street and listened to ’em and kept chatting. Awesome chemistry, but even though he was away from his gal, he wouldn’t cheat on her — which made me think he was even hotter. Kept in touch by emails after our travels, and when he became single, he booked the world’s fastest plane ticket. He was Mr. Five-Days-Indoors. Then I showed him a little of the town, then we shagged more. His visit was for 10 days. Never spoke again, for whatever reason. But no regrets. Not a one. Had a nasty UTI after all that sex, but like I say, not a regret.
The older I get, the more aggressive a lover I become. Not sure why that is, but it is. I don’t mind, but the younger guys seem to. Silly.
That said, my biggest fumble in bed? Just assuming everyone likes variety in sex. The men who can’t handle any agression at all make me want to bitchslap them and kick them out of my home. I’ll show you some fucking aggression, boy-o. Happens a little too often. My screening is becoming more intense. Men need to be fucking be honest when they say they’re looking for a woman unafraid to say or do what she likes, ‘cos I’m that woman. Such as the guy featured in my rant The Kid and the Long, Long Night.
First time I ever played You-Show-Me-Yours– I was seven or eight and had no idea nudity was bad, since, as hung up about sex as my folks were, we always saw them naked. It was a neighbourhood boy and we were suitably in the forest before we dropped our drawers. He wanted to see how girls peed, too, but I took a pass on that. Thank goodness. I’m so not the golden showers type.
My eyes get me noticed on here, I guess, ‘cos they’re that feisty green us Irish girls play off so well. But I think my lips are my best attribute. They’re full and soft. And strong. And they serve me well. My teeth have a gap in them, not in the centre, though, off to the side. But they’re clean and white. I wrote about what my face “means” in the art of “face-reading.”
I’m deceptively shy when I meet a new guy the first time. Shy, but kind of confident. But once we’ve become acquainted, the hesitation and shyness goes right out the window.
Sexiest thing a man has ever said? Probably “Thank you.” Lots of sexy things get said in the moment, and most of them are just “said in the moment”. But it’s geneuine appreciation or after-the-fact conversations that really stick in my mind. Once every blue moon there’s that sex that’s so awesome it feels like an out-of-the-world gift to you both? And a “thank you” after that, laying spent with each other, just blows my mind. Genuine gratitude and appreciation is so fucking hot. Sexiest thing I’ve ever said? Couldn’t tell you. Not a clue. I say a lot in the moment, and remember little of it after.
I chipped my tooth. I was blindfolded and bound. A lover decided an ice cube of his really wanted to meet my clit. I spazzed and shot up in shock — unfortunately he was leaning in for a kiss. Our teeth collided. Mine chipped. We made sure we were both okay, and the sex took off from there. One of the top three sexual encounters in my life, but probably greatly romanticized because it was 15 years ago. I don’t mind. I love the memory.
I’m an outted blogger working in an office where everyone knows I write about sex. In fact, every single person in my life knows I write this blog. Most of the reason I wanted to write it was to get past my sexual hang-ups. What better way to do that than being honest about your identity? So, yeah. It’s cost me a job or two in the past, but that’s not an issue anymore. Fuck ’em. I won’t work where it’ll be a problem. My life’s too short.
Now, violence-free! I’ve never been assaulted, and have never hit anyone, in a relationship — or in life. I consider myself blessed. And intuitive about when to get the fuck out. Complacency kills, baby. Besides, I tend to take an even split in wrestling matches with lovers. I’m a strong, strong, tough gal. Just try me. No, really. 😉
Most erogenous zones? A reader asked. My neck and inner thighs. Having kept my hair short for several years now, I think of it as an unwitting gift to men. I used to have really long hair and it annoyed me that, while men loved the hair, they focused on it and not my neck. My neck’s where the focus belongs, boys, believe me. Problem solved. But they now pass “go” that much quicker as a result. Inner thighs? Need I say more? Oh, well, let’s say this: I was on the couch last night in short shorts, and it occured to me that my thighs have never been this smooth and firm. They don’t even rub together when I walk anymore. I love these thighs! I want to show them off more.
When I think of you, I touch myself. The first time I ever masturbated, George Michael was my inspiration. I wrote about it, too. You can read that here.
I still have my Catholic school kilt. Better yet, I’m one or two sizes away from fitting it for the first time since ballooning up since I was 13. How exciting. In other sexual stereotypes: Along with being a former Catholic school girl, I’ve also been a leader in Guides, a bookseller, a candy-striper, and a librarian. Christ, I even sang in the choir. That said, I’m good enough to bring home to Mom, but bad enough to keep it all very, very interesting. Plus, that penchant for voyeur sex might just make Mom’s hall closet a good place to try playing. Just be very, very quiet.
The older I get, the more my mind opens. Things I nixed only a couple years ago are now proving more and more intriguing to me. And this is why I judge nothing. Well, except golden showers and scat and stuff. Never going to happen. More thinking along the lines of advancing into BDSM and areas like that, really. Depends entirely on partners from here on out. Will they inspire exploration? That’d be nice. I’m sure you’ll hear, either way. (Here’s my Bondage for Beginners, if you’re interested.)

Get to Know Yer Blogger

I feel like telling you random things about me, mostly because I’m too fucking tired to string coherent thoughts together, so “abstract” works spiff for me. And I’m not writing about sex today, so, y’know. Mental break. 🙂
So, in no particular order, some of the things you probably don’t know about me and my life.
• When I was six years old, my family and I were in Tijuana, Mexico, for a day of shopping away from Disneyland. Somehow, I wandered off. My folks thought I’d been kidnapped and sold into slavery or something horrid, because I was gone for a whole three hours.
Then they found me. Much to their surprise, I’d managed to barter with a street vendor for a cowhide cowgirl’s vest, then also a watch, with some of my candy money, and had bought candies and was hanging out with a bunch of Mexican kids on the street, sharing my goods. Me, I had a great time. My folks, though, got robbed of $500 in cash while waiting to talk to the cops in the police station, so they were pretty mad at me. Impressed with my loot, though, and my shrewd six-year-old negotiation skillz, and hugely relieved, they let it go pretty quickly.
I still remember the smile the vendor had, being so amused at me bartering for my cowhide vest, that I loved for the next two years.
• I moved to the Yukon when I was 21 for a year. Because I was a Northern Exposure fan, and because “seeing the Northern lights” was high on my to-do list for life. The first time I ever saw ’em? Blew. My. Mind. Still do, when I luck out and catch ’em every few years.
• I ran the election campaign for a guy in my college who was running for the position of Women’s Issues Liaison. He won. How’s that for being a feminist? (Favourite conversation with him ever: Reaching the conclusion that the old looped “holy shit handles” hanging from the ceiling of his ’71 VW Beetle were “fuck straps”. Good for feet or hands, depending what part of you should be suspended, he figured.)
• I was the youngest person in my college class, 17 years old, journalism. 18 when I ran Mike’s campaign. We made the BC evening news.
• I won a car once. It was a 1979 Chevy Monza. Covered in doghair. Broke down on a bridge. But that’s just the beginning of the long winding story that you’ll find here.
• I have officially ridden so long, and so far on my scooter… (Yamaha Vino 49cc, pictured here, but now has camouflage-duct tape for a seat cover. Heh. I’m a pragmatist.) …that my 41,000+ kilometres is the equivalent of riding around the world at the Equator. Cool! Let’s do it again!
• I’ve fallen down a flight of stairs, have been thrown off a horse mid-jump over a fence, have had a scooter accident… (that hurled me off my bike, destroying mine and my friend’s, and sent me sprawling into an intersection. My friends all thought I was dead. The story is here, on my “journal” blog, The Last Ditch.) …have had three cars totalled with me in them… and I have only one scar on my body, it’s on my right nostril but I got it in grade 2, not in any of those incidents. And I’ve never, ever broken a bone. My body alignment, though, heh, is a whole ‘nother story. But I’m tough!
• I’m a decent public speaker, dare I say even good? And it doesn’t terrify me. Dentists, however, do.
• When I plan my roadtrips, I take special care to figure out where I can be for a great sunrise. I don’t know what it is, but something about driving somewhere new, great music on the radio, and a sunrise looming in an exotic new spot, why, that’s one of the best things in life.
• When I was nine and mad at a boy in my neighbourhood, I took my cowgirl boot off (loooved my cowgirl boots!) and hurled it across the yard at him, and hit him smack in the head. I was so proud. My mother heard me screaming that he was an “ASSHOLE!” and came running out as the boot met head. That went over well.
• The sex fantasy I’ve had since 16 is that of shagging in an anti-gravity chamber (think NASA). I have that filed under “unlikely”. But it’s probably my biggest sex-geek factoid. “Ooh, sex at NASA! Lift off!”
• My dream vacation I want to take when I get some more weight off and really adopt the physical lifestyle I want? Learning to surf in Morocco. Can’t help it, love the idea of a feminist sex-writing chick from Canada learning to surf in an Islamic country. And, Morocco? Ohhh. Oh!
• In keeping with the cowgirl boots and cowhide vest, as I type, to the left above my bed is the caricature/cartoon drawing of me done in Disneyland that summer of my misadventure in Tijuana — me as a six-year-old cowgirl, rodeoing on an electric riding horse.
• I sold Michael Hutchence of INXS a bunch of wooden toys for his kid when I worked on Granville Island. Three weeks later he was found dead of auto-erotic asphyxiation. (Other celebrities I’ve “served” in the retail industry are a pretty insane list, since this is MovieTown — David Duchovny, Tim Robbins, Malcolm McDowell, and way many more. But I’ve never been starstruck, so. Whatever. Malcolm McDowell though? COOL as can be.)
• I had the uncanny luck of totalling one of my cars on a snow day, on a mountain — and was caught on camera by a news cameraman. The story’s probably one of the best things I’ve ever written, about 5,000 words, in two parts, on my journal blog. Part one here, part two here.
• I’m fabulous at throwing dinner parties. But I never throw them anymore. Hmm. Oh, right, got tired of being broke off my ass after feeding everyone all the time. Broke sucks. But if I had the money? I’d be doing it weekly. Love that. Love, love, love. Bistro Chez Steff.
• I kinda always wrote a bit now and then as a kid, but it was because I wanted to be friends with a particular chick in Grade 11 that I joined my first creative writing class. My teacher, upon reading my journals I’d write while working nights in a laundromat, describing the paradoxical characters on a quest for cleanliness, and she encouraged me to start writing, and suggested I look into journalism for school. I blame this blog on her. Ms. Phelan rocks my world, even now, almost 20 years later.

Fuck The Pope.

The Catholic Church continues to dwell in the dark ages. Chillin’ in Rome on Saturday, Pope Benedict has again, and very adamantly, praised Humanae vitae, the 1968 Catholic document that declared the sanctity of human life in all its forms, including sperm and eggs, and thus issuing a Church-wide opposition to use of artificial birth control.
When choosing a new pope after John Paul II’s death, the Church decided against some of the more progressive thinkers who are wondering if, in the face of the epidemic spread of AIDS in Africa, it might be wise to begin using condoms to stem the spread of the disease. After all, Humanae vitae was written and enacted long before AIDS was either discovered or understood. Who could have conceived of a sexually-transmitted virus wiping out an entire generation of Africans in just 25 years after its “discovery”?
Today’s pope would have you believe it’s an act of courage to live according to the values espoused by Humanae vitae, but I say it’s an example of uncourageous Church that fails to see that we’re fighting against a horrendous virus that can, and may, mutate, making it even harder to prevent or even eliminate in the years ahead. But a condom is essentially the best weapon we have against AIDS. We can fight it now. Who’s to say what a future strain or mutation of AIDS might have the ability to do against us? Am I scare-mongering? No, but sometimes I get a little scared in the face of such dangerous ignorance.
The Church would rather an HIV-infected spouse have unprotected sex and risk infecting their partner than be safe and still share love without as much fear of death and disease.
JP II actively campaigned against the use of condoms to fight AIDS– in Africa!– by doing a series of speaking engagements throughout the continent in the years before his death, when Africa was already being labelled a hotbed of AIDS that had to be doused. The Church would have you believe that abstinence should be sufficient.
The powers that be in the Catholic Church have lost their grip on reality.
I was raised Catholic and went to both Catholic elementary and high school… Until, that is, it became known that my diocese had knowingly allowed a teacher to continue teaching at my Catholic high school for more than four years after they had discovered he had been molesting boys.
The spring of the year I learned that, when I was in grade nine, a girl committed suicide. The priest then told the school she would go to hell as suicide was a sin. You should have heard the heaving sobs and pained cries emitted by the student body as their grief became uncontrollable with the words “…to hell.”
That September found me going to public school. After three years of arguing with my parents about going to public school, they both were disgusted by the hypocrisy of the Church and I never was made to attend mass again.
So, I’m obviously a little biased.
Still, I am disgusted by the hypocrisy of the Church now. First it claims it’s the sanctity of human life, in all its possible forms, that drives it to fight for its protection by way of declaring all artificial contraception to be sins. Yet it’s the demise of human life they spread when all that’s needed to prevent more than 90% of the sexual transmissions of HIV & AIDS is the use of a little itty-bitty piece of latex. An entire generation has been wiped out and the Church STILL campaigns against a known way of preventing this horrific endless parade of death.
I mean, they’ve not declared the use of condoms as a sin then quietly looked the other way, like they seem to do to a greater extent with adultery and white-collar crime and other things that actually are sins committed against others. No, they’re out there banging that fucking drum and fighting it on a regular basis, with a microphone and camera, and in places where the education and savvy maybe could use a little helping hand. “Condoms are a sin, don’t wear condoms”?
That’s fucking obscene. That’s a fucking sin. Sanctity of life? Waste of life!
I think it’s a crime to do what the Church is doing. Not only that, it breaks my heart. It really does. When I was a kid, I was absolutely passionate about the Catholic creed. I had a comic book volume of the Bible, seven books I read again and again and again, dog-eared to shit, and I’m still angry at my dead mom for getting rid of ’em on me. I’d preach to the kiddies in the ‘hood about God’s good word. Thought about being a nun. Enjoyed going to mass before school every day, by choice, till I was in grade 5 or so. I was hardcore, just loved my Church.
I’m not religious, not anymore. The Church has disillusioned me time and time again. I dig Jesus. I dig Buddha. I dig Mohammed. They all have beautiful messages, and I believe in much of the values and ethics espoused by pretty much every major faith in the world. I live an honest life. I’m a good person. I’m charitable. I’m everything you should want to be. I just choose to believe that men keep fucking up faith by putting too much of man’s bullshit into something that doesn’t need to be as complicated as we have managed to make it.
Do I believe in something bigger than me? Yeah. But I don’t believe that saving my life when I choose to express the passion that lives in me as a sexual being by using a simple condom that I am being immoral. I refuse to believe that following my heart and libido and enthusiasm for life is wrong. I refuse to believe that using something created to make the act of loving someone else safe from disease and contagion should be a sin.
No moral code in the world can make that make sense to me. Anyone who believes it, I really don’t care their level of intelligence, education, or social importance; they’re a fucking nimrod. Seriously. Welcome to a little place I call Earth, where we have things like “spontanaeity”, “accidents”, and something apparently given by the Creator called “free will”.
Centuries from now, when we’re all dead and buried, and funky new people walk this plane instead of us, they’ll look at the history and say, “Okay, the Bubonic Plague… I get that, they had no plumbing, hygeine was hard, cities were overcrowded… but, AIDS? A guy in a fucking funny hat says using condoms was a sin ‘cos he thinks God told him that, so Africa doesn’t use condoms and AIDS wipes out entire generations? Fuck, man. That’s just moronic! How dumb were these people?”
Because that’s what it is. These Popes, man. I love how the first pope, St. Peter, was actually on a first-name “wanna get some wine?” basis with Jesus, but Jesus somehow forgot to mention to Pete that he thought popes should be “infallible” — ie, he “is preserved from even the possibility of error” according to the First Vatican Council of 1870, more than 1800 years after Christ apparently walked our world*. Funny how it’s not really until the Church began amassing more and more riches and power (during the middle ages), on its way to becoming the wealthiest organization in the world (think of all the art and real estate) that they decide Popes are to never, ever be wrong. That’s an awfully convenient thing to lay on one of the most powerful men in the world.
Never wrong? Gotta be kidding me! What a fucking joke. Somebody’s been lacing the sacramental wine with LSD again, man.
Fuck the Pope. Fuck the Church. Wear condoms. It’s the new rebellion. And it’ll save your life (most of the time, but not always).

*That’s when it was first written into the Catholic doctrine, 1870, but there was a good many who believed it as far back as the Medieval times, so about a thousand years or so, but a thousand years after Christ still.

Let the Games Begin

Ah, the inaugural posting.
Where to begin? The balls? The shaft? A fine question.
But no, we’ll start with something a little less tasty. Let’s go for that age-old question of why. Why the Cunting Linguist.
Hmm. Good question.
I’ve always enjoyed innuendo. I enjoy batting it around. I love being a tease, sexually and intellectually. It’s all a game.
Unfortunately, a lot of people didn’t pick up the handbook, and too many people ignore the fucking rules.
That said, people who’ve read me elsewhere are thinking, “So, it’ll be mostly rants about sex?”
Honestly? I haven’t a fucking clue. I’m starting to think it’d be fun to write some erotica as well — my style, whatever that might be. It’ll definitely include stories from my past. I’ve already promised to tell the tale of when I chipped a tooth during sex.
And I will, but it’s a long story and involves another face from my past, one I miss and would love to encounter along a bare wall with the lights down low.
An epic finish to that tale, one that would see both the players utterly satiated, and then totally denied a future encounter when The Truth would enter the picture. If there’s one ex-lover I want to phone when it’s 3:00 in the morning on a hot night, no breeze, and that familiar tingle and shortening of breath finds me alone in my bed… It’d be J.
I have a lot of strong feelings about sex. I think we’re denied a lot of pleasure due to hang-ups in society. That said, I’m still a pretty old-fashioned girl in some regards, since I’ve never been promiscuous, and I’m not into swinging or the like.
No, for me it’s still about romance, creativity, sex toys, light bondage, teasing, taunting, toying, food, stimulants, erotica, music, location, and lighting. How dull.
I’ll admit, I’m a little curious about sadomasochism, but I honestly have to say that I enjoy pleasure and reward, doting and toying. Punishment isn’t really my bag. But I wouldn’t want to be judgmental, if you know what I mean.


Still, I’ve encountered a surprising amount of men who think they’re open and adventurous when it comes to sex, but you mention the word “bondage” and there’s this image they conjure of some dom maxed-out in leather with a bull-whip and studded collars.
Sure, if stereotypes fit your bill. I have no bullwhip, and very little leather, but I’m more than willing to get into a bound situation, as either the binder or the bindee. It’s all about variety, n’est ce pas?
I’ll definitely be writing on things of those calibre. Tackling those tough dilemmas, like, to shave or not to shave.
I may even post recipes from my aphrodisiac cookbook. No, I’m not kidding. Yes, I do have one. And yes, it does work wonders, but then so does a handjob.
I’m open to receiving questions from y’all, preferably via email so I get the element of surprise when I post the question. I’d laugh my ass off if you sent in whack questions that are completely bullshit, and I’d still answer them. You’re creative, do something with it.
* * *
BUT… I really don’t want to pigeon-hole this site into “just sex.” It seems shallow, at first blush.
Then again, it seems to me that sex is used in everything from video games to burger advertisements. Confining the topic to sex-related might open up a whole interesting subculture of issues to examine.
But there’ll always be oral sex. Sucking, nibbling, chewing, licking. All those lovely verbs that bring a grin to my lips every time my imagination kicks in. “Oral pleasure.” Of all the euphemisms used in sex, that’s the best one. That’s the one that reminds you: It’s about pleasure.
Let’s hope I bring you some. Stick around, and we’ll see where this game of cat-and-mouse will lead. This could be fun.