The Waiting Game: A Better Way to Play

If you’ve never seen it, there’s a brilliantly inventive, noire-ish hospital dramedy found on Sunday nights on ABC. Grey’s Anatomy inspired me to order cable again, and last night I saw it for the first time this season.

Coincidentally, earlier in the day, I had been writing about the difference between suspense and anticipation when it comes to romance relationships. When I watched the show, guess what the sub-plot was? Hmm?

One of the last lines of Sunday’s episode came after the protagonist, Meredith Grey, finally finds out where she stands in the battlefield of love with Dr. McDreamy, as he’s known, who's portrayed by Patrick Dempsey. In a voiceover, she comments, “Whoever said “What you don’t know can’t hurt you” was a complete and utter moron, because for many of us, not knowing is the worst feeling in the world.”

Recent events have reminded me that I’m one of those people. Oh, I try to play it cool, but not knowing where I stand, whether it’s movie plans with a friend or my place in the Cosmos, fills me with dread and apprehension. It’s unavoidable. Give me “suspense” and you’ll make a mess of me.

I said in my last posting that things were “confusing.” That’s just because I didn’t know when I was next hooking up with the nifty new guy I know. Face it. We’re all adults, and our lives get complicated. Some of our lives are more complicated than others can understand. Sometimes that’s by choice, sometimes destiny just takes a hand. It is what it is.

However, yesterday we cemented some plans for next week. This was what got me thinking about suspense versus anticipation. You see, I hung the phone up, furrowed my brow and thought, “Another week?” And then I realized, “Pfft, it’s only a week.” I grinned and went off and made my breakfast and had a terrific day.

I had been thinking that my uncertainty had been because I was insecure or uneasy with myself, and this was why I was so damned frustrated at all the unknowingness. Then I realized that it really was something altogether different.

I was in the room, too. I know we had some pretty wicked good times. I know what I offer. I know the expressions I saw on his face, and vice versa. I know it was pretty damned awesome. That logic, though, goes right the fuck out the window when I've got nothing empirical to back it up.

Figures, baby. Numbers, dates, times, whatever. Lay it on me. If I know we've got plans, I'm cool. Seems to me that guys are often hesitant to make plans because they want to have control of some kind. Now, I don't get that sense from this guy, so that's groovy, but it's often been the case in the past. "If I can hold that card, I hold 'em all," seems to be the line of thought sometimes. (This goes for members of both sexes, unfortunately.)

With an intelligent, strong, independent chick like me, that's not going to be the case, though. You want to hold that card, then I hope you're playing Solitaire, because that game just ain't one I aim to play. I don't have the patience or the strength. I really just don't. Headgames are for people who don't have control over their lives and who want to exert it over others to compensate. That ain't me, man.

Fortunately, I don't think I have to worry about that in my present scenario. And now I get to have those little fun thoughts in the back of my mind as to all the things I want to do with my playmate in a few days. Which brings us to another fabulous point in regards to the anticipation versus suspense argument.

If you're sitting around in suspense, you just never know when, where, or if the games are gonna get back on track. In that case, it can be pretty hard to fill in the possible blanks, so to speak. When you do know that the games are on schedule for the future, then you get to turn your imagination on. You can scheme, you can plot, you can devise.

If you have a creative lover, one that likes to keep things interesting, then the best gift you can give yourself is to give them the gift of anticipation.

But we're all so self-involved these days that it's easy to forget what anticipation can do for us.

Really, it's incredible how much damage we do to our relationships by not doing the simple things. Just committing to a date later in the week or making a quick email or a call to say "hey, you were in my thoughts. I can't talk, but wanted to hear your voice," can make all the different in cutting the tensions that eat away at our passion.

We all know modern life's demands. We know we're all spread pretty thin. Too often, we overfocus on ourselves. We frequently fail to think about lives from our partners' point of views. We fail to understand the true stresses and challenges they face, despite the fact that we've got front-row seats. We'd like to think it's all sunshine and roses because we're in their lives now, but that's pretty egomaniacal.

Like Grandma Death says in Donnie Darko, "In the end, every living creature dies alone." We all have our lives, with their myriad complexities, to get through on our own. Most of us choose to share parts of those lives with our loved ones, but when the lights go out at night, we're right back inside our self-contained universes.

Every now and then, we have to remember that our lives are filled with enough suspense. From the day we're born to that day we die alone, suspense is all we get. What does your future hold? Do you really know?

When it comes to love and sex, isn't it time we got a little something we don't get enough of? The thrill of anticipation and eagerness?

For me, it makes me hotter. It makes me confident, secure, and inspires me to want to make the wait all that much more worthwhile. One of my readers said that a secure man is a horny man. This is true. But a secure lover is a better lover, regardless of gender.

And it's so easy to build that added security in. Anticipation is more than just looking forwards to future events. It's the knowing that there's something to look forwards to. Think about it.

Penis Enhancement: A Chick’s POV

One of my regulars sent me an email a dog’s age ago, asking for me to take on the subject of penis enhancement. He didn’t ask for information about the procedures, but commented that:

The more I talk with guys either from my gym or circle of friends the more I have found out that some really would seriously consider undergoing surgery if it meant a larger penis. Perhaps you can provide a female-centric view on these procedures as well as any experiences you have had with men who have underwent procedures.

Well. There’s a can of worms, isn’t it? First of all, I know no men who’ve experienced such a procedure. If you have, and you want to go on the record, feel free to email me. (See sidebar for the address.)

There’s a couple cliches we’ve all heard:

“Size does matter.”
“It’s not how big it is, but how he uses it.”

I wouldn’t want any larger than 8 inches, and that’s a personal preference. Some chicks want guys who are as big as they can get, and other chicks want small men. Enter another cliche: It takes all kinds.

The last guy I was with before this one was guilty of false advertising. This is where it’s probably good to point out that *I* check out a man’s package as soon as the opportunity presents itself. I doubt I’m a minority, as I think that most women have done this.

There’s nothing like a good pair of jeans to give you an idea of what the future holds. That said, I’m also aware that a number of guys are “growers” not “show-ers,” so I don’t let my first impression colour my opinion... just my anticipation.

This dude, the false-advertising guy, seemed to have a nice package. A really nice package, which was somewhat surprising considering the well-known rumour about Asian men and their offerings. I saw him wander off to the washroom after we had begun to fool around, and when he returned, he had something in his back jeans pocket and his "package" seemed considerably less... um, inspiring.

In the end, “hard" (a misnomer in itself), the guy was four-inches long. In his back pocket? Socks.

If you’re the kind of guy who will stuff socks down his cock to “impress” a date, let me save you the hassle. You’re so gonna get busted. If she doesn’t laugh you out of the bedroom, you can expect to never hear from her again. Fact is, if you have a small cock, that’s just how it goes. Don’t build shit up or pretend to be more man than you are, because it always gets outted. (For this same reason, I think chicks are fools to wear padded bras.) And if you thought your situation was embarrassing before such antics, think again.

But it's still not something guys should be sweating as much as they do.

There are chicks called “teeny queens” who are looking for small men. They just prefer that. There are “size queens” who think anything less than 6” is unthinkable. Then there are the rest of us. The ones who love what you do with your cock, no matter what size it is, so long as it’s eager to play with us, and you’re talented at what you do.

There are chicks who will walk from a guy because of his dick -- too much, too little, too unenthused, whatever. Hell, I've known chicks who've left men because they were too endowed. I knew one chick who was almost in love with a guy when she discovered how large he was erect. She never let him enter her, and she walked from the relationship because she was too scared to allow him to penetrate. It broke her heart to do it, but there's some things some chicks won't allow.

There are men who have actually chosen to reduce their cock size because they've experienced that one time too many. (I don't endorse that site, but am simply providing anecdotal evidence.)

Average size, I’m told, is five to seven inches. Most men I’ve been with have been in that range, and this man (and the last one) are the first who have been outside that range. Have I ever wanted a larger guy before now? No, actually.

What’s another reason a lot of chicks like average-sized guys? Well, if giving head’s something you want us doing, it’s more likely to happen more often when you’re average-sized -- or at least happen for longer. Getting a large cock in a mouth can be a pretty challenging thing, and for any chicks with jaw disorders or neck problems, it can be daunting and painful.

Finally, another plus to not getting an overly enhanced penis? Anal. If you want your lover to try anal for the first time, she’ll be less likely to do it if you have a large cock. Face it, that’s just a little freaky for some of us chicks.

This fear, this paranoia men have about their cock sizes is really just the Cosmos’ way of getting even with them for all the fucked-up shit women think about themselves: Is my ass too big? Is my hair too flat? Are my breasts weird? Does my vagina taste funny?

Personally, I’m sick and fucking tired of this new trend we’re seeing in our society, inspired by Brazil, and perfected by Barbie of Beverly Hills, in which everyone is trying to surgically correct their “flaws.” So, the best "you" that you can muster is a certain “someone” you’ve paid thousands of dollars to create under a scalpel and too-bright lighting? Whatever gets you to sleep at night, baby.

If you can’t handle who you are, and you can’t get past what you are, then maybe, yeah, you need to do something about it. But before you let a perceived problem become a real problem, maybe you’d better check the facts. The facts tell you that the majority of women are satisfied by their man’s cock size, that the majority of them don’t want anything that can’t be solved by a cock ring or some Kegel exercises. (For more on those topics, you can read a posting I did not so long ago on NYHotties and another I did here.)

Said simply, knowing what to do with your tongue, what to say, how to touch her, how to finger her, how to do all those things that add up to a wonderful night in will almost always put her in her happy place, whether you’re “average” or not, and will save you lots of bucks, grief, and maybe even a little pain.

In short? Get over yourself, boys. It’s not all about your cock.

Photographic How-To On Sexual Positioning

For anyone seeking a plethora of nice photographs on sexual positions (hetero only, I'm afraid), you could click here and here. The same site also has a seven-part how-to on Tantric Sex. A warning, though: The site has been known to exceed its bandwidth at months' end.

Bookmark, and return often, Grasshopper. This photo? Just one of a few dozen, but one I quite admire. Hmm. My to-do list just keeps growing of late. My, my. And this is why big cushy chairs are in my top four of furniture pieces. And let's hear it for the clean-up factor of leather, huh?

Addicted to love: When do you stop?

A reader contacted me recently to ask what had to be a very, very hard question to ask. To protect them, I have removed all reference to their identity.

Dear Cunt--
I have a major cheating problem. I love sex so much that it's almost compulsive, almost a disorder. My love for sex has ruined every relationship I've been in. I can't stop myself from cheating. Even if I'm completely happy in a relationship, my eyes are always wandering. Naturally I'm a sensation seeker, and I don't know how to stop it. I know that it's wrong and hurtful to cheat, yet I just keep doing it. I think maybe there is some type of psychological reason for this behavior. I've dated a few scumbags, but I've also dated some really good guys before. Either way, even if I am passionately in love, I still cheat. A friend gave me some advice recently when he said he thought that maybe I don't feel like only ONE man can truly love me, and that is why I look to others. Have you ever heard of this situation? I feel like there is something wrong with me, like I don't have control over it.
-Unintentionally Wanting

I’ve already responded to Unintentionally’s email, but I think it’s an important topic, and something people don’t like talking about.

Sex can be an addiction. Yes, there are folks out there snickering and saying shit like, “I’ll show you addicted...” But yes, it can be a compulsion, a life-affecting disorder. There are support goups for sex addiction, too.

I’m not a shrink. I don’t profess to have an inner Freud who can unlock the mysteries of the mind for my masses, but I’m at least a pretty with-it chick.

My speculation? Yeah, maybe, all right, maybe there are pangs of “no one man can ever love me enough,” kinds of sensations going on. Or maybe it’s something deeper, darker, like “no one man will ever love just me, so I need to protect myself and keep others on the horizon.” Or maybe it’s much more intense and buried than that. As Toucan Sam would say, "Only the nose knows. The nose always knows!"

The reasons for addictions of any kinds come from some pretty dark places. Places it takes more than just a flashlight and a curiousity to find your way around. Getting to the bottom of addictions takes courage, unflinching examination, and relentless studying. It’s hard work. It’s paralyzing at times, when you’re jumping without the only parachute that’s ever kept you insulated from the world. I don’t see why something like sex addiction would be any different.

Are you addicted? Well, has it negatively impacted your life? Have you chased away someone you love as a result? Has it ever affected your job? Has it ever affected your friendships? If you can answer yes to any of those, you might have a problem. But if you click here, you can answer a basic quiz that'll give you a better notion on all 'o this.

Like I says, I ain’t no shrink. I’m not some sorcerer of the psyche who’s able to wave a wand and make a diagnosis. This is my gut reaction, and the limit to which I feel comfortable commenting.

Sex Addicts Anonymous offers a support network that includes more than 750 meetings worldwide. There are online chat systems so you can talk to others like you. There are books, tapes, meetings, everything you need to have for an assessment of where you stand. Hell, there’s four or five groups that meet in my city, Vancouver, including one for gays and lesbians.

I’m betting there’s a few dickheads out there thinking, “Oh ho! Now there’s where to go when I need to be gettin’ a little somethin’-somethin’...” And if so, then it’s important to note that yes, you are indeed a dickhead. It ain’t a singles bar. These are people trying to eliminate unhealthy sex from their lives. Don't fuck 'em, and don't fuck with 'em.

I haven’t heard back from Unintentionally. I imagine she’s doing some soul-searching, or else she thinks I’m a twat. Either way, here’s hoping it comes together. What a shitty thing to be mired in. I'd like to hear back from you, chickie.

A few ways to get your man rock hard

Send him a very, very dirty note. He must receive the note when he’s not in your presence and can’t be for several hours. If you know his company isn’t too strict on emails received at the office, or he has a public email client like gmail or hotmail, then send him an email. If that’s not an option, before he leaves one morning, slip a printed note into his wallet. Tell him those dirty little thoughts you’re nursing about him -- doing you from behind, soaping you in the shower, taking you on the floor in front the television -- whatever gets you hot. Tell him how badly you’re wanting him to have you, and most guys will be getting hot at just the thought. But you have to describe the position and how hot it makes you in order for him to get really, really riled up. Then tell him you’ll be ready for him at a time when you know he’ll be able to be there. Tell him you’re touching yourself just thinking about it now.

Greet him naked at the door. (Or maybe in a man's dress shirt or lingerie, with nothing else.) It’s so easy to do this inconspicuously. Get naked, and when answering the door, hide behind it as you crack it open and peer coyly around at him. As he sets his stuff down, he’ll clue in quickly. Just don’t expect small talk.

When you’re naked in the bed and he needs to leave to relieve himself, stretch out on your back, pull the covers off you, spreadeagle your legs, and start massaging your clit before he returns. When he returns, reach out as if to slip your finger insider yourself, then groan in frustration and tell him “it’s itchy and I can’t reach...” or something else as preposterously girlie-girl and grin like the bad girl you know he wants you to be.

Or just masturbate as per normal when you know he’ll be entering the room. There are few men strong enough to overcome this sight.

While watching nothing special on television, lean over suddenly and take his soft cock in your mouth. Gum and suck him as you massage his inner thigh and/or prostate. This kind of oral is just like gardening... just add moisture and warmth and watch it grow nice and big and strong. I've had reports that blowjobs from the soft state are incredibly hot.

Be really, really obvious about what you want. Initiate sex. All you really need to do, if you’re not sure how to be obvious, is stand up and take your clothes off and sweetly say, “Fuck me, please.” Really, is there a guy who wouldn’t enjoy such a proposition? It may seem crass to you, but to him, it's hot, hot, hot.

_______________

You’re possibly thinking how easy it is to get guys hard anyhow, so why go through the effort? Because when you really, really want to fuck someone, you usually fuck better. Don’t you want to be fucked better? This goes back to the “pounded like a cheap steak” question I asked last week. If you’re wanting to be the cheap steak, then this will help, and it’s a great boost to his ego. To his way of thinking, it’s by being a bad girl that you’re being such a good girl.

Leave your hang-ups behind, girls. You’ll be surprised how fun breaking down your old boundaries can be. Try one of these out, and have a fun evening in.

Works for me. ;) What do you think, guys? Anything else she can do to further her agenda?

The Struggle to Love Oneself

I am imperfect. Maybe it's a newsflash to you, but it’s something I’ve been far too aware of for my entire life.

As a kid, I was plagued with health problems. It wasn’t until my early teens that my epilepsy went away and we discovered that the causes of my endless troubles ultimately stemmed from a rare kidney disorder.

Nearly two decades later, my health issues are things of my distant past, but I’m still a member of the bonus lover plan. I’m not some svelte sexy thing who’s able to squeeze into a size six, and some part of me doubts I ever will be. No, like my personality, my body’s larger than life, and it suits me fine.

I'd rather not ever be thin, despite struggling to lose nearly 20% of my body weight these past two years. During that journey to toneness, I’ve gained a better sense of self than I’ve ever known. Who I am, though, is larger than life, and that'll never change. Presumably, my body will remain the first clue of my nature for others.

On that same journey, I’ve discovered something else. The “ideal” beauty is seldom our “real” beauty in the eyes of the everylover. While we all lust after our glossy magazine celebs, when it comes to having them as lovers, day in day out, we wouldn’t be interested. Why is that?

I’ve been trying to understand the seemingly incongruous nature between lust and desire. I’m more than able to lust after nearly any man I see, since sexuality for me isn’t a formula, but rather something almost impalpable. You have it or you don’t. When it comes to desire and attraction for the longterm, though, I find myself zeroing in on men who carry a little extra weight on their large frames, provided they dress well and groom well. What is it that makes me want them? I'll never know, but I know they're what's in my mind when I touch myself in the dark.

The point is, we all have a certain make and model that drives our desire, and it may not be worthy of a glossy magazine spread, but they’ll spread just fine for us, thank you very much.

Until this past year, I was always aggressive in my interpersonal dealings, in an attempt to mask my everpresent insecurities. Somewhere along the way, probably when I escaped death last August in a scooter (think Vespa-ish) accident, I realized the insanity of not loving myself for who and what I was, since I had almost ceased to be and had another chance at this merry-go-round called Life. Loving myself then became my number one goal.

After all this time, all this work, I can say it’s true now. I’m a vixen in my own right, in my own way. I’ve also discovered something I’d forgotten: No man has ever complained about my body size to me. The contrary. Back in the day, though, I thought they were trying to make me feel better. I didn’t want to believe they could want me or love me for who I was... because what would that say about them, then?

Now, what it says about a man is evident to me: They understand passion, desire, and they know it when they see it. They see me for all of what I offer -- intelligence, wit, charm, stylings, deviousness, sensitivity, romance, dominance, submissiveness, all wrapped into one package that’s just the right size to hold the dynamism of what I bring to the bed and to life as a whole.

A few years ago, I read a study that revealed those who were carrying a little extra weight generally had better sex lives. The scientists were at first stymied by this discovery, until they realized a very simple truth: Food, when done the way food ought to be, is as erotic and sensual as anything we can experience. Those who were overweight were in touch with their sensual selves and sought to enjoy all the delectable goodness offered by life, in whatever form they came, be it bed-bound, baked, or otherwise.

I have found myself besieged by young women of late, all of them emailing me about their inabilities to orgasm. I find myself having to keep explain to them that they got to love themselves -- physically and emotionally -- before they can handle the Big O. The odds are against them, though, and it's largely why we sexually peak in our 30s. As young women, we suffer through the most inexplicable expectations from society and the hang-ups we develop are legion. There was a good mainstream example last year in the form of a short-lived TV show called Life as We Know It, with Kelly Osborne in it. A guy fell for her, but admitted he couldn’t handle having her as a girlfriend, because what would his buddies think if he was slapping thighs with a tubby girl?

We live in a society that’s so hung up on appearances that we’ve forgotten the beauty that comes from within. We’ve forgotten how incredibly hot and sexy it can be when someone simply digs themselves for who they are, regardless of their appearance, and can bring that passion and goodness into play in every thing they do every day.

I recall once being asked why I wanted to lose weight. I bit my lip, looked at the ground, thought about it, and responded “Because I want my inside beauty to match my outsides.”

These days, on a good day, I know I already match. In the last decade of my life, I have overcome enormous obstacles -- the death of a parent, massive debt, illnesses, a couple near-death experiences, and writer’s block that hounded me for half a decade. But my greatest accomplishment is this: Loving myself.

One of my all-time favourite quotes is Oscar Wilde’s. “To love one’s self is the beginning of a life-long romance.” What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart, and now it shows.

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.

My Take: The Fuckable Friend

I was asked a while back to address the issue of The Fuckable Friend. You’ve been friends for years. You tell each other everything. Now it seems like sex could be a fun indoor sport to play with each other. And hey, with winter coming on, don’t we all need more of those?

We’ve all had those friendships -- the ones where innuendo comes up far too often for our comfort. But it’s just so darn fun, that innuendo.

I personally have always caused grief in my friendships that way. I really enjoy the toying, but it’s become a problem a few times in the past. It has never worked out, regardless of how great the sex was. (And it always was. Can’t beat “friend sex.”)

The important thing about fucking a friend is this: If it works, are you ready for a commitment?

Fact is, if the sex is on, the friendship is on, then you’ve got no excuse to avoid a commitment, have you? What a great predicament to be in... a fuckworthy friend you can tolerate in the morning. Stop the presses. Ride that ride a while and see where it takes you.

One of the wonderful things about having sex with a friend is that you’ll be able to laugh about it without having to apologize. You have that synergy where you’re both in on the joke. The thing that sex with a friend always tends to offer is the ability to have fun and be intimate simultaneously while fucking.

“Yeah, but isn’t that what having sex is?” Well, most of the time, not really. How many of us can truly say we’ve been involved with our best friend? It’s a pretty rare experience. But sex with friends offers that rare look at true fun intimacy.

If you can get over how fucking weird it is to be schtupping your friend, that is.

Odds are, you’ve had all those great accidental “friend” moments. The bad burps, the stupid things said, the idiocy displayed, the utter humiliation, the total hurt. And it was always okay, easy to handle, ‘cos you were always just friends. It was voluntary.

Now, though... choice is the first thing to go. It becomes obligation, and that can be a real problem. You sit there and think, “Oh, I wouldn’t be that petty.” It ain’t petty, it’s human nature. Few of us are conditioned to like other people having any control over our lives. It’s asking a lot.

Let’s put this simply: It’s really, really, really hard finding good friends... And it’s so fucking easy to lose a lover... But loving a friend can be a truly awesome experience, and sometimes that’s worth the risk.

If you’re gonna take that risk, you need to be able to commit to ‘em if it works out. Otherwise, you’ll not only lose a lover, but a friend. Will I fuck a friend again? Current selection, no. But I wouldn’t rule the behaviour out in the future, either. Will not rule it out.

It’s always been fun, and the friends I’ve lost, well, one is regrettable. The others are still worth a smile. Good people, but expendable. Incredible sex.

There aren’t many friendships able to overcome a not-right-for-a-relationship, but-let’s-still-be-friends foray into fucking. Most of the ones that do try to resume the friendship will invariably realize how strange it has become after the sex. You don’t feel comfortable talking about crushes, you avoid movies with sex scenes in them, you get awkward talking about physical problems. It’s a lesser, less fulfilling version of your old relationship, fraught with stilted strangeness and abbreviated exchanges.

The few and the far between are in fact able to transcend all that shit and become stronger friends as a result of it. What lucky bastards.

Do you fuck your friend? Your call. Your gamble. If you secretly think, “I bet she’d still be fun in five years, and man, I never get sick of hanging around her...” then maybe sex might be the way to get something real started.

Or it might just be a great lay.

Just so long as you know the cost.

I'm sure that if I asked, my wonderful readers could share some of their experiences on the matter with you, as well. Have at 'im, kids.

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.