(Ed. Note: In my semi-drunken/contented state last evening, I wrote this and spontaneously published it without editing it. I awoke, and suddenly thought “what have I done?” and then saved as draft, suspecting I might’ve been too open. I’ve since received some very thoughtful, considerate emails, which leaves me thinking I should keep it up… although I’m not too comfortable with that, but it’s really great to get comments like those. Thanks. If you interpret this to think I’m really lonely, then don’t — I’m not. I’m just aware of my aloneness, and that’s an altogether different matter. Without further ado…)
Steff is drunk. Why, a Christmas tradition, no? GayBoy and I get together each Xmas eve to drink, and eat, and be merry, and to watch an “anti-Xmas Xmas movie.” What is that, you ask? A film that contains Christmas, but is not about it. For example, Gremlins, Die Hard, etc. This year? Bridget Jones’ Diary.
Some days, I feel like Bridget Jones. I belt out alongside classic “Ain’t you lovin’ me yet” type songs, just like Bridget. I flap my lips and say the most inappropriate things at the worst times, oh, so fucking often, really. “Flippant” is an adjective which often precedes my name. I have gotten into boatloads of trouble for saying what occurs to me in each and every job I’ve ever held. I watch cheesy films, drink a little (much), and sometimes wallow in my singleness. I often deliberate before a date about whether it will result in getting laid, and whether I should wear the sexy panties, or the “granny” panties that will hide my figure under my clothes, but be oh, so unattractive should said clothes be peeled off in a heavy makeout session on the floor.
BJD is one of those “time of the month” classics with obscene insights into the single girl. I remember working in the bookstore, and whenever someone was looking for a gift for a 25-40ish woman, I’d simply open the book to any random page, scan it, read a short snippet, and presto, sold. Why? Because it’s true. Because as many good things there are about being single, there’s ultimately something shitty about not having a warm body next to you in bed. That’s not pessimism or cynicism, it’s realism. There’s something blissful about having warm skin within reach when you’re under the covers, and we all know it. That smell, that feel, that knowledge… it’s all so very good.
And there’s no worse morning to wake alone than on Christmas, as Armistead Maupin wrote in his San Fran classics, Tales of the City. But you know what? 24 hours passes, and it’s Boxing Day. Presto, life goes on.
Although there’s nothing I want more than to not be single right now, I have to say, I’m all right with it. I’d love to wake up on Christmas with some 6’+ god of sinewy pleasure lying next to me, with an orgasm on order, but there’s something appealing about rolling out of bed on my own, to a hot bath and a pot of coffee, and not one iota of bullshit to deal with, lazy clothes at hand, and the ability to be my “worst” self on a day that really deserves laziness.
You all read this blog for whatever reason you’ve found to be here, and that’s great. Welcome to it. I write it for my own reasons. In a lot of ways, this is a journey to a new place for me, regardless of where I’ve been before. That place isn’t really something I’m comfortable sharing as of yet, and I’m proud that I know where to draw the line when it comes to divulging the secrets of Steff, despite my quest to become vulnerable at will during this past year.
I’m caught up in the spirit of what I consider to be this season, that of self-reflection, but also, that of willing change — what with New Years and its resolutions fast on our heels. While I’ve been reflecting plenty on here of late, there’s been far more screaming in my mind that I’ve kept to myself, and will continue to do so, for the short-term, at least.
Whatever the stressors, whatever the frustrations, there’s something unforgettable that I love about this season, single or not. I love the feeling of being conscious of my values, of knowing my wants, my needs. I love the spirit of giving that comes this time of year. I’d love to share that giving in every way with a man who deserves a little getting, but since I can’t, I’ll have a hot bath instead, and maybe indulge some dirty thoughts I’ve been nursing.
And y’know what? That’ll be just fine.
Category Archives: Journalling
Words, words, words: To Speak or Not to Speak?
At 1:27 am I turned the television off and found myself alone in the dark. It had been a long time since I’d last just sat there in that darkness, that silence. The day had been long, frenetic, and while good as a whole, was the kind of day that prevents you from getting the shit that needs doing done.
Suddenly, silence. Calm. Through my large sliding glass doors, the clouds have that murky coral-tinted charcoal look of a dreary winter night. But the city behind that glass is absolutely silent.
Know that old joke, why do you keep hitting yourself in the head with a hammer? Because it feels so good when it stops, the guy responds. This was one of those moments. The throbbing concussive pain that has been my life of late had momentarily ceased to be.
My head-hitting has all been of the cerebral sort, though, of late. My mind’s been in overdrive and I’ve had no outlet for it. I’ve actually been writing some of late, I should confess. It’s been the literary equivalent of the quickie. Fast’n’dirty, when time permits. Stolen moments, hoarded words.
I’ve yet to go back and read any of it. Tomorrow, today rather, is a day off. My plans include laziness and self-indulgence, perhaps self-pleasure. That’s a double-entendre, kids, since sitting around and reading your own work is about as intellectually masturbatory as anything can get.
I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching about this sex writing gig of late, folks. I’ve had cause to do so. A recent opportunity arose in which I could try to do a certain quantity of writing in a certain form for certain people who happened to be of a certain religious persuasion. The opportunity would essentially mean I would receive a stipend weekly, with guidance provided in order to aid me in being completely self-sufficient (read: no more corporate whoring) over the next year. The only stipulation? Certain envelopes being pushed would constitute my possibly being uninvited from the party, and the cash cow going bye-bye. (IE: Big Brother and censorship rear their ugly heads once again.)
For a few days, I held off on writing or posting on here, the very politically incorrect “Cunt,” because I wanted to toe that line. I wasn’t sure whether it was in search of simply getting money for doing what I wanted to do, or simply “holding back” with the same goal in mind. Holding back, I can handle that, I thought. It’s not like I really take it all that far, I thought.
Or do I?
But in the last couple days, I’ve woken the fuck up. I can’t toe a line. It’s hypocritical. Shit, man, I can’t even get within a sidewalk’s breadth of that line, dude. How ass-backward would that be?
Pretty goddamned, I’d say.
I think the biggest thing wrong in North American relationships today is our almost Puritanical approach to talking about anything sexual. We have so many hang-ups and inhibitions when it comes to sex. We got to get past this, people.
We refuse to talk about it. Or most people do, that is. It’s shunned. We talk about things surrounding sex — the flirtation, the outfits, the seduction, the wining’n’dining, the commitment, the logistics — but never the nitty gritty, the real stuff that affects us on an individual level.
Face it, the whole notion of sex conversation tends to be along the lines of the boring and uninvestigative, like, “Do you like that?” You know what rule number one in the world of journalism is? Never, ever ask a question which can be answered with a simple “Yes” or “No.” If you want to know your interview subject, you always, always investigate for long, thorough answers.
You’re trying to bring your partner the best pleasure they can possibly experience, and all you’ll ask is “Do you like that?” Jesus. And people wonder what’s wrong with sex today? Worse yet, even today there are a lot of women who will NOT even ask their man if they’re likin’ it. That’s a whole other issue that I just won’t address right now.
The human body isn’t one-size-fits-all. It’s complicated. We need to talk to each other. You wanna improve your sex life? TALK to your partner. Get to know what’s working and what’s not. Asking’s the only way to do it.
Be a scientist. Gather evidence. Learn. Study the subject in as many conditions as you can. Experiment. Document your findings. Verify. Rinse. And repeat.
So, then, I ask you: How could I possibly live with myself if I began to censor myself just for a meagre stipend so early in this game?
Throw a few more digits at me, though, and maybe we’ll talk. For now, no whoring’s good enough for me. Hand me that megaphone, will you? And go talk to your lover.
I’ll have a few more things to say about conversations regarding sex in the near future, a couple examples of ways to go about doing that, for those who are a little awkward on just how to find out what’s really working. It’s so damned important.
A morning quickie post
It made my day to get an email this morning that said, “It’s such a treat to read a feminist who loves men!” She went on to say that my approach to sex makes it “sound so wholesome and natural yet deliciously kinky.”
These are the emails I love. 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.
The trouble is, some of us require a person we really trust before we can be that uber-alterself. And trust isn’t all of it, either. We need to know things will be free of judgment. After all, if we will be judged for our behaviour, then where’s the incentive to perform?
Leave your hang-ups at the door, kids. Forget what society says is right or wrong. Just love the feeling of all you do, live in the moment, and forget what the preacher from the pulpit’s gonna think if he walks in.
The reader who sent me the above comments has made me giddy. I do try to be a feminist in the way I live my life, but I really, really resent women who seem to believe they have to hate men in order to be a strong woman. That’s bullshit. Let the men in your life be the men they are. There’s a lot to love about the strength and machismo found in today’s man, especially if they also bring empathy and passion into the mix.
Both sexes have wonderful things to offer. Being proud of our genders is something both sexes need to stop apologizing for. I want my men strong, assertive, and sometimes macho. It doesn’t make me any less of a feminist — maybe it makes me moreso, because it doesn’t threaten me.
Tonight or tomorrow, I’ll be posting some links to articles I’ve written in the last month, off-site. Stay tuned.
wishing otherwise
wistful jazz wails in the background. the drive bustles with beatniks and bohemians, baddies and babes. stale cigarette smoke wafts towards me. i see the source. you.
i only glance at you for the briefest second, but you catch my eye. that smoldering look you got’s really something else, i think, returning to my book. while i reread the same passage, i sense you watching me. this time, looking up, i slowly take you in.
you’ve got crumpled olive green cargo pants on, but they’re just tight enough around your round bubble ass. you’re wearing two tanktops, layered, one white and one black, and a leather jacket’s slung over your forearm, obscuring some of your tattoos. surprised at myself, i openly admire your breasts as i continue up you and meet your glance.
“glance” is too light a word for that look of yours. your eyes are locked on me like a fighter plane acquiring a target. so brazen, so bold. so intimidating.
i find myself wishing i had that in me, but today i don’t. i smile weakly, then break the gaze, dropping down to my book, back to my safety zone.
out of the corner of my eye, i see you shoot me a final glance as you join up with your approaching friend. sad to see you leave, i at least watch you go.
now, days later, i revel in my regret for the courage that came too late, and for the chance squandered so quickly.
A Detour: Acquisitions
Normally, I tend to write about sex on this blog. At the beginning, though, I had said it would be frequently about sex, but occasionally I might write about something else that was possibly inappropriate for my other blog.
So. This is one of those times. Certain people read my other blog.
Some of us are fortunate enough to have steady, reliable drug dealers. Now, me, I only do dope. I’m mostly well-behaved. Recently, though, I had a stoner concert to attend and thought I should acquire some… inspiration. I found out then that my formerly regular dealer is, get this, on “hiatus.”
“They give you those, do they?” I asked.
“When you ask ’em nicely, yes,” he said.
Deciding that This Concert was worth the effort, I figured, “What the fuck? Let’s see what I can do.”
So, without ado, I decided to negotiate an acquisition on the streets. I headed to Vancouver’s primo chemo district to get me some cheebah. Now, keep in mind, I’ve done this once in my life. I’ve somehow always had connections — a variety thereof. Buying on the street has never been required.
How does one tactfully approach someone and, essentially, ask, “Say, are you a dealer?” Why not just tack onto that, “And hey, I have a family of four that needs killing. You up?”
But this is how you do it. Find a way to observe the street for a few minutes. Walk up it, then down it. Make note of who’s stationary, and better yet, leaning on a wall. Find a way to keep an eye on the scene for a few. Who stays put? Who crosses a sidewalk to talk to someone, then crosses back? Do they use hand gestures? Do they keep looking around, twitching?
Dealers.
Now you walk back towards him/them, and making eye contact, you raise your eyebrows.
That’s it. You’ve done it. Easy as pie. Now: “Holdin’?” “Whatchoo need?” “Weed.” “Yup. How much?” “20.”
Next thing you know, you’re holding two dime bags. Go home. Get happy.
e-Dating: a Rant
I have recently gotten back into the world of e-dating. This is my third attempt. I’m not a clubber. I’m kind of a shy chick until I have an “in,” and despite getting increasingly flirtatious in real life, it seems that every fucking man I meet is attached, married, or gay. So I’m going where the odds are better.
e-dating began for me in the spring of 2004, and I thought it was a great new tool. No, actually, it’s mostly where you find the tools. Still, there are a few diamonds in the dark, dark mine.
The first date I had was with Paul, who had an inability to relax. Over the course of a 90-minute meal, Paul drank five beers and had the worst body language you could imagine: He sat there with his leg shaking violently under the table for the entire meal.
“It’s just him,” I thought. “Things will improve.”
The next date was with this cute Asian guy, and we decided to go watch a hockey game in a pub and have a couple drinks. Well, the pub I recommended wound up taking some 45 minutes to deliver a plate of nachos to us, and dude literally held me personally responsible and couldn’t shake the annoyance regarding bad service. His mood was the shits, so I naturally let him pay, and I fucked off.
Since then, I’ve probably had about three dozen dates. Maybe three have really went well, but the connection ultimately wasn’t mutual. The rest have flat-out tanked.
I have another one scheduled for Saturday, and I’m really looking forwards to it. Something sounds different about this guy, but I’m having a hard time sending my skepticism away.
Let me say this as plainly as I can: There are a LOT of losers out there. I’m pretty sure that’s not exclusive to the men’s side of this deal. From what I’ve heard, there are a lot of pathetic women in the picture, too.
Where did common sense go? Does anyone have a brain anymore? Is etiquette really as elusive as it seems to be? Does anyone understand how to attract the opposite sex in print? And finally, can people please learn to fucking spell and punctuate their dating profiles?
I had tried the “dating” and “relationships” sections on Lavalife, one of the prime dating systems in cyberland, and finally decided to say “fuck that,” and have moved on to the very pointed “intimates” section.
Intimates is where folks go when sex is an important factor in relationships. If you’re into “alternative” lifestyles, it’s also a great place to find those interested in the same things.
That said, there’s some scary shit out there, and I’ve slowly learned how to tell the freaks from the pack. Sadly, the freaks dominate the pack.
When I first posted my profile in the “intimates” section, I had more than a hundred local men respond in the first two days. Why? Well, for starters, I know how to write something sexy. I was honest and blunt. I said I was overweight, though I’d lost quite a bit of what I’d used to weigh already, but I was very, very confident in my abilities.
I touched on my interests, explained things I thought were romantic, and alluded to the music and movies I enjoy, plus the other activities I liked. Most specifically, though, I said what qualities I wanted in a man, and what I didn’t want.
To this day, I’m continually baffled by the stupidity of other people’s profiles, and their approaches towards the dating field.
A few cases in point:
“Peachmuncher” said, “I love to munch peaches.” Let me clue you guys in. Sure, there are men who don’t like oral. (I have yet to encounter one in my sex life, though.) But the fact is, the majority of men seem to love giving oral. You think it’s a selling point? No, it’s a cliche. Have some creativity and use anything else for a line than that. For god’s sake, have some DEPTH. Oral ain’t going to last all night, every night, and you better be bringing something else to the arena.
The Illiterate. I cannot tell you how many men seem to hit on me who have none of the qualities I list as being ones I’m seeking in my profile. Read the fucking profile. Consider it a checklist. If you don’t meet the criteria, then move the hell on. When I say “No older men” and I’m 31, if you’re more than 40, move the hell on. This goes for the morons who are my FATHER’S age and hitting on me — in their 50s and beyond.
One brainiac retorted to my “Not interested in older men” response to his advances with “But a hard cock is ageless.” I simply responded, “Yeah, with a little fucking blue pill, right?” and then I blocked him.
If she’s not interested in age (or vice versa) then take your reality check and walk, bub.
The Stupid. The line of the night of late was a guy who didn’t even say hello, just messaged me with “I’m looking to get fucked tonight.” His name was “22inches14internal”. I lost all my tact and responded with, “you’re a piece of WORK, pal. One word for ya: Hoover.”
Which brings us to names. Choosing really stupid names like “HungLikeHorsie” and “SheCumsFirst” and “Thick1forU” are probably not going to net you any significant catches. But if skanky hoes do it for ya, then have at it.
The Sad and Disenchanted. Sure, some people might be interested in distance, but when someone says “Not interested in distance” and that they like “to have sex often,” the odds are pretty good that your being located more than 50 miles away is going to take you out of the running, let alone the twits who are 2400 miles away yet still think they have a chance.
The Grammatically Challenged. When a chick says she’s intelligent, and you claim you’re looking for a “smart, sexy” woman, but you fail to use any grammar or spelling or punctuation in your ad or in your communications with her, then you’ve got to expect little or no response from the calibre of chick (or guy) you’re seeking.
After all, how hard is it to understand that the profile you put in the e-dating world is your handshake, your business card, your first impression? It is. It’s EVERYTHING, people. Spend a little time on it! Write something that evokes you. Then spell-check it. Check the grammar. And when it’s nice and good, then you can post it.
The Non-Photogenic. Taking a photo where you’re in your stained t-shirt with holes in it, sitting in front of your computer with bad hair and a tired expression on your face will do nothing towards getting you laid! Taking a photo of yourself in the mirror where the flash pops and the viewer gets to see nothing of you will also do nothing towards getting you laid. A big panoramic shot of you standing in front of Matterhorn Mountain? Also not gonna do it. You’re talking about a 2” wide or smaller photo on the net, in a panoramic, you’re a flickin’ blip on the screen.
Make it a frickin’ head shot, people, or at the very least, your upper body and head. Is that so hard? Put on a nice shirt. Do your makeup or shave or whatever the hell it is that gets you looking your best, and then take a photo. It doesn’t have to be the level of Vogue’s photography, but you could put some effort into it. You can ad an awesome full-body shot in your additional photos.
If you’re in an intimates section like I am, use your brains. A photo of JUST you cock or tits or ass is not going to do the trick. Having a nice cock is easy enough, and so too is having the face of a horse. I won’t be choosing my mate because he has a nice rigid cock and nothing else. Think about it. Jesus Christ. You have no idea how often I’ve seen shots of just a guy’s ass.
The Computer-Phobic. You’re using electronic dating for your social life but you get pissed off at having to chat in MSN or something? Get past it! That’s the new culture. Sure, you can talk on the phone, too, but don’t insult someone because they favour MSN or something. I tend to stick to online chatting for a bit so I can gauge intelligence in print.
And finally, a word about etiquette. So far, I’ve experienced a lot of guys who make plans and blow them the fuck off. For every date I make, half are kept. Fortunately, they’re often guys I’m only half-interested in, so it ultimately doesn’t matter. It worked out great the night I accidentally set my hair on fire and smelled like burnt dog, though. Having him blow me off was just perfect that night, especially since admitting that I set my hair on fire would’ve been a major crushing blow to my ego. I guess I need to tell you about that now. Hmm. Later.
But normally, guys seem to think it doesn’t warrant a simple courtesy email or call. “Sorry, I lost my interest. Things have changed. Can’t make it.”
It’s respect, people, and EVERYONE deserves it. The e-dating world is full of enough bullshit, but you deliberately adding to it is completely uncool. You can block the person after you’ve shown them basic respect, if you don’t want to deal with their bullshit after the fact. But at least give them that much.
Now, the pluses of e-dating? For a chick like me, I really get to test the waters intellectually. The funny thing has been that most guys say they’re looking for a smart chick. I’m a disarming chick — I’m funny, I’m easy-going, but when I turn on the smarts, you best look out.
So the fine print tends to have been thus far, “As long as she’s not smarter than me.”
E-dating has allowed me to cut through that crap and establish my intellect. I scare off more men than I attract, and that’s just fine with me. I’ve had a couple decent dates, and they’ve been fun.
Unfortunately, most haven’t been. One guy was guilty of false advertising when he stuck a sock down his pants to make himself seem larger, and when we finally got to fooling around, his cock was miniscule. My hand was wider than his “hard” cock was long.
Why the games? The chick’s gonna find out, guys. Ditto for girls with padded bras. What in the HELL are you thinking? Be yourself. Someone’s gonna dig it. There are “teeny queens” out there, and guys who don’t like big boobs. Putting on an act is just moronic.
Fact is, most of dating is rife with failure. Most dates turn out ludicrous. Most marriages fail, for God’s sake.
But the fun is in the hunt. Get over the bad happenings and move the hell on, but don’t add to the negativity by being a cunt in the hunt. Have a little decency.
POST-SCRIPT: A commenter is freaking out about their first upcoming e-date. I say go! Do it! E-dating’s great positive is that it’s like a conveyor belt of dating. Everyone knows it’s supposed to be a short hookup. Meet for coffee and a walk. If they blow, so do you — right on outta there. 🙂 I won’t stop e-dating, I just won’t hesitate to tell a guy to take a hike, either.
on girl love
the more i write this blog, the more i think of girl love.
it’s not that i’m attracted to women, because on the larger scale, i’m not. but there are those few people who transcend gender and sexuality. those people with such effusive senses of self that it’s nigh impossible to not get turned on watching them.
every now and then, there’s a chick with the right hair, the right clothes, the right demeanour, and some kinda sexy goin’ on, all combined to a T.
my god, my interest flares. it’s kind of like the perfect alignment of the sexual cosmos. but it would take a lotta woman to get my lovin’.
that said, if i were lured to the pussy side, it’d have to be because of the softness and the contours of a woman’s body. i wouldn’t go for skinny chicks, i don’t think. a little curve would be necessary, but how much curve wouldn’t really matter. anything but the grand flats, if you know what i’m saying.
as a photographer, i know i would be aroused by having a really hot chick naked on my bed. i can’t help it. physicality in front of me just gets me riled. i’d have to seize the opportunity to shoot her, and in so doing, my intrigue would escalate. i’d need to touch, to explore.
i mean, having her just lie there, naked, natural, and at my beck and call? my god. i’m not strong enough to resist that.
__________
the closest i’ve probably ever come to taking a chick up on the offer was back in the day when i had long hair, up in the yukon.
now, you need to know that my hair is probably among the thickest i’ve ever seen. even thinned out, it tends to be 3-4″ thick when long.
these days, riding a bike and needing to wear a nasty motorcycle helmet daily, i keep it extremely short and punky.
but back then, my hair would get me the most amazing reactions from total strangers. the nicest compliment i’ve ever received, to this day, came from a passer-by on the street.
that day, a man was about 30 or so feet away, walking past to a store, when he caught my eye on a sidewalk cafe, double-took, and crossed over to me.
“excuse me. look, i’m not coming on to you. i’m married, but i just needed to tell you that you have the most beautiful hair i’ve ever seen, and i hope you never cut it. that’s all i wanted to say.” he smiled. “have a great day.”
and he spun around, just like that. never saw him again.
the next most memorable “hair moment,” for me, was in the yukon, in legendary dawson city, when i encountered yukon girl.
i was camping with some friends for a couple nights at a site with no facilities, so i was just cleaning up in a public washroom up there when this chick comes out of a stall. i was smoothing some product in my hair and she saw my face in the mirror. she stepped into my reflection, and said to me, “are you a leo?”
and i laughed, “no.”
so she said, “with that lion’s mane of hair, honey, you oughtta be.”
she growled playfully, and i couldn’t help but grin. i turned to face her. she then proceeded to tell me her campsite number and that she was probably staying behind in her tent that night as her friends were going to the music fest.
she stepped closer, her tits nearly touching mine. “maybe you want to come play.”
i was younger and a little shocked. i’d had chicks come onto me occasionally, but never this brazenly, and never this hot.
today, i’d have gone and played.
she was my height, about 5’7, and hot long auburn dreadlocks, but the really nice kind. basically, she was a hot, hot hippy chick.
now, i don’t usually dig hippies ‘cos hygeine’s so big for me, and some of them just take it too fucking far. she, however, had taken it nowhere near far. in fact she never left “fine.”
i was very hot for her, to tell the truth. i was just scared — scared of the experience, scared of my sexuality, scared of what it might mean.
but not anymore. i’ve had few regrets in my life, but passing on that opportunity would be one. i can’t help but imagine sinking my teeth into a piece of that.
are you out there, yukon girl? honey, if opportunity’s knocking, i’m answering.
anonymous encounters
i awoke from a dream in the dead of night. this on my mind.
* * *
shared moments in darkness
suggested, stolen
but always squandered.
a refuge
in this detached loneliness,
you’re nothing of permanence
just fleeting
in the stupid immature hopes
something more might be
but in reality
nothing can be, nor will be
as all things end
just beyond that door.
between the sheets
i got some laundry done today, including my favourite sheets, the 250-thread count egyptian cotton ones. naturally, the bed is now immaculately dressed.
the heat wave is breaking briefly, just for tonight. it’s fallen several degrees and a breeze has been conjured for the first time in about a week, with today being the most insufferable yet–until now.
soon, i’ll have a hot bath with baby oil, and toy with myself in the tub before i crawl naked into bed.
but thanks to this slightly cool breeze wafting in off the ocean, and with any luck, completely unclad, i’ll cool down and remain a little on the chilled side all night long.
i sleep naked year-round, but it’s so much more enjoyable in the summer. i love the sensation of being naked under a single sheet on a hot night, the top sheet often completely askew, maybe a leg dangles over the side of the bed, a nipple protrudes, when a warm breeze whispers over my skin.
when it comes to that taunting breeze, nothing evokes the simple eroticism of summer for me better than sleeping naked — except fucking outdoors.
but tonight, the only option i have is that of crawling into bed alone, naked. so, without ado.
* * *
in case you hadn’t noticed, visuals will be a big part of this site. i intend to have a lot of erotic images posted, and many will be nudes. that said, i think porn is uninspiring, so i prefer fine art nudes or retro porn from the ’50s and beyond.
hopefully, this site will have a unique look and feel as a result. if you find images you think are suitable for The Cunting Linguist, please email them to me. thanks.