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Travel is an important part of summer hot action.
Sometimes, like last night, it involves somone's boyfriend "travelling" out of town.
Sweet, sweaty summer slamming.
OK, "he's wonderful", "he's a good challenge" and so on. I believe you.
But on the other hand... "you're sexy" and "you're a nymphomaniac."
"Will you walk me home?"
I interpreted this to mean, "Will you take me home and tie my hands behind my back and attack me with my vibrator?"
So I did.
"What are you going to do with that?"
"Oh I don't know..."
Perhaps "attack" isn't the right word.
It was a slow attack. It was sexy chrome surgery.
During my time away from this website I kept on writing. One thing I wrote went something like, "I draw a distinction between 'seduction' and 'picking up.' I don't just want to be picked up, I want to be seduced."
But then I thought it over and decided, "Nah, that's bullshit."
I still think seduction has its place but I'm putting it on the back burner for now. Something about the notion of "seduction" seems to imply some sort of manipulation. Maybe I'm just too lazy to bother...
Or maybe I'm more interested in the intense kind of mutual attraction that sometimes takes place, where both people share the same feelings to the point where seduction doesn't even enter into it.
Last night at the club we spent an hour just sitting and staring into each others eyes. I can hardly remember speaking. Talk about hot.
I had a wicked time. You are a wicked girl.
After I left your place today, I had to drive around on my bike in the sunshine going, "Hot damn-a-slam-a-licious."
Driving up the street on my bike today, I recognized a woman who was at the bar last night. She was still wearing the same clothes she had on at the club.
After I passed her, I put my clenched fist in the air in a gesture of victory and solidarity. "Yeah! Walk of shame! Going home in your party dress! Buttered bun!"
I seem to have really tapped into something, so to speak, with the whole "buttered bun" thing. Last night and today the "buttered bun" was on everyone's lips, so to speak.
I hung out on the street with the boys this afternoon, trying to guess who'd had their buns buttered recently.
All right, we have to take this shit to the next level. If a buttered bun is a woman who has recently had sex with someone else, and then you sleep with her yourself, that woman becomes... I'm calling it... a "hot cross bun."
Night is falling. I haven't showered. Ha!
Had an early evening nap in the backyard and dreamed about a wicker basket full of warm, fresh dinner rolls.
I bought a copy of The Joy Of Sex at a used bookstore. I found reading it to be a surprisingly unerotic experience. It came out about thirty years ago, and you can tell.
I was looking at it with Secret Agent Scarlet, and she said, "It's like something you'd see on your mom and dad's bookshelf."
Part of the problem I have is that the male in all the illustrations is this creepy bearded bastard. The pictures don't exactly make me want to jerk off. In fact, they made me want to go shave, just to be on the safe side.
Geoffrey came in to the room when I was scanning the picture. "Is that The Joy Of Sex?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Pretty cheesy."
"Oh I don't know, this was an important book in its time," said Geoffrey. "Changed a lot of people's lives." He picked up the book and flipped through it. "Y'know, I remember coming across a copy of this in my parents' dresser drawer."
"Heh," I said.
Geoffrey voiced admiration for the style of the coloured illustrations. Although even he shuddered a bit at this picture:
One thing I did enjoy about the book was finding out fancy names for different sexual positions (croupade: Woman taken squarely from behind).
I have Dr. Alex Comfort to thank for the term "buttered bun." Apparently, there are men who are turned on by the idea of having sex with a woman who is fresh from fucking someone else. The woman in question may be referred to as a "buttered bun."
I've taken to using "buttered bun" as a pet name for my lady friends. It sounds kind of cute if you don't know what it means. (Now that I've written about it I probably won't get away with it anymore.)
I wonder if there's an equivalent male term for "buttered bun." Lord knows I've fulfilled that role a few times.
Plenty of women don't want to know about any of that. Their egos can't handle it. Other women, from the questions they ask, seem to get turned on being with a buttered boy.
To truly qualify in my opinion, you have to go from one lover's house to another's without having a shower. Having a shower serves to negate the butteriness.
Lately I've been singing my own little buttered bun song (to the tune of Spider-Man):
Buttered bun, buttered bun
Makes my breakfast so much funStumbles in at half past eight
Ready for our morning dateHey therrrrre
There goes the buttered bun
Summertime in Halifax. I'm as horny as a damn dog and the air is hot with heartbreak.
Let's examine this assumption, that I'm a cold, calculating, love-em-and-leave-em type. Actually, it is far more common for women to leave me--they move away, or get boyfriends and settle down, or just decide that the dog's life is not for them. And yet I'll still want them as badly as I did on the night we met.
Last night at the club I noticed three different women that I'd had affairs with over the past few years. They were hanging out with their boyfriends and looking more beautiful than ever.
I can't stop thinking about the time I threw you up against the kitchen door, but it all gets boiled down to a single phrase: "Lovely to see you." People who are monogamous only get their hearts broken every couple of years. With me it's almost every night. I can hardly stand it.
I'm think I'm ready to be an old man now because I could sustain myself for the rest of my life on memories. I could put salt and pepper on my memories and eat them.
(The boyfriends, need I say it. Really nice guys.)
So I was sitting at the bar by myself after work, drinking a glass of water and thinking it all over. "I wonder what the future holds," I was thinking.
On cue, a cute face appeared beside me. She introduced herself and invited me to come over and sit with her. So I joined her at a table with her older sister and her older sister's date.
The mood around the table seemed to change subtly when everyone found out I was 32 instead of 23.
Does leaving the bar with the older sister count as a double scandal? I do love a good scandal.
I'll remember this: we sit on the waterfront at 5am. She talks to me about Paris while the sky lightens into the perfect dawn of summer.
I'll remember this too: all we're doing is making out, but every time I breathe it feels like a little orgasm. I'm on my back with my arms stretched out above my head; an uncharacteristic pose. Her hand gliding a few millimetres above my chest, filling my brain with static electricity. When the charge becomes too much I snap into aggression.
I'm ready to tie her up. Take off her clothes and handcuff her and spend hours almost touching her.
But her views on relationships are rather more traditional than my own.
"So are you a little bit of a slut? Or are you this huge slut?"
I look at the ceiling and frame the perfect answer: "Ask around."
Why do people assume "slut" means "one-night-stand-never-talk-to-you-again"? If I think you're hot now, I'll still think you're hot tomorrow or next week or in 2008. You can get a boyfriend, hell you can get married and I'll still be trying to get on you.
This morning I sit on the front stoop in my bare feet and watch her get into a cab. We haven't even had sex and I'm already heartbroken. Me, the cold calculating player, looking at a gorgeous woman and wondering if I'll get to hang out with her again.
Now evening is falling. Sunrise to sunset on the first day of summer.
The warm air is a sleepy soup in which the past mingles with the present.
"Hi honey... sorry I'm running a little late... Something came up at the office."