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I am pleased to announce that Hot Action has received a Crystal Phallus Award for "Best Escapades," courtesy of sopef.org:
The Crystal Phallus is not to be confused with Crystal Palace, an amusement park in Moncton, New Brunswick. Although either way you're guaranteed a wild ride.
...So what is there to do in Saint John, New Brunswick at three o'clock in the morning?
Parking lot behind O'Leary's. Back seat of an Oldsmobile. Nice roomy interior.
I bit her neck. She moaned and rubbed a hand over my crotch.
People walking by on the sidewalk just outside. We slouched down lower in the seat and kissed.
All bundled up. I pulled my mittens off to feel her skin and to shock her with a colder touch. Wrestling, fumbling, getting turned on.
I unbuckled her belt, unzipped her fly. A thought came rushing in to fill up my head: I am going for it.
My bare hand slid down beneath every layer of clothing. Dripping wet. Luscious. She gasped and her head fell back against the seat.
My tongue tickling her earlobe, I breathed in her ear. So sexy...
Suddenly the driver's side door popped open. The dome light came on, harsh and bright. We turned around to blink at the interloper.
"Hey!" he said. "What are you doing in my car?"
(Dude, what does it look like.) "Umm... making out?"
"GET... OUT."
In a fury of disentanglement, we opened the back door and fell out onto the pavement. Gathered ourselves up and ran.
(The car had a sign on it: "For Sale, 1988 Oldsmobile Cutlass Siera, $2500." I couldn't resist looking it over. Anyway, who leaves their car doors unlocked in the middle of the city?)
We had barely gotten clear of the scene before laughter caught up with us. Lady leaned against the wall to buckle herself up, and we just stood there and hugged and could not stop laughing.
From halfway up the block, we watched the guy pull out of the parking lot and drive away. That's when I realized I'd left my mittens in his back seat.
Good thing it was a mild night.
So we wandered over to King Street, and wound up having sex in a stairwell in the Delta Brunswick Hotel.
This week on Zeitgeist: "Why do you think it is that so many relationships fail?"
"Your friend's friend is wearing an awful lot of makeup."
"She may be cuckoo."
I watched the two of them on the dancefloor. They were busting out some dykey dirty-dancing moves, grinding their hips together with their hands in the air. "Must be something in the water."
"Whatever it is, it seems to do good things for the breasts."
"Jesus, you don't know the half of it," I said. "They defy gravity, they defy physics, they defy all common sense."
"Ah but can you hang your boxer shorts on her left nipple."
"You could hang up your trenchcoat, and have room left for your scarf."
Pretty soon I found myself on the dancefloor making up the meat of a sexy sandwich, getting kissed by two girls at once and thinking "Hell ain't a bad place to be."
Makeup-girl was going on about having a threesome. Then she seemed to decide she wanted me all for herself. My perspective: "Hello, am I going to be consulted on this transaction?" Maybe she was just a little too drunk for my taste. I wasn't completely sold on her.
I liked her friend better.
Quote of the night/morning/following afternoon:
"At some point in your life, you're gonna want a guy to do whatever he wants with you. It might as well be me, instead of some chump who can't think of anything good."
My hand slid down across her breast and over her stomach. I grabbed her by the belt and pulled her in close, my lips against her cheek. A deep breath filled my nose with her scent.
The tip of my tongue traced a line along her jaw. I pulled her closer, bit her lightly on the neck.
She buried her face in my shoulder, then lifted her head up to kiss my ear. "Oh god," she said. "What am I going to tell my date?"
"I don't know, but you'd better think of something fast," I said. "He's standing right behind you. Now if you'll excuse me for a moment... talk to you later..."
I took my camera to the bar last night. Here's a picture of me with my hand down the pants of somebody else's date:
It has been a wonderful week. Regrettably, I must now put down my dick for a moment to take up some intellectual discussion.
The subject is male sex bloggers. For the past few days, I've been watching Aleks, Bacchus and Steve bat the birdie back and forth over the net. Now I'm running in to make a fourth racket.
Steve's blog is not a sex blog, and perhaps we should cut the guy a little slack as he has obviously stumbled into a world he does not understand. But it galls me to see him accuse Aleks of neglecting the emotional aspects of sex and providing little more than a "travelogue." That's just absurd. So I'm going after Steve on a few points.
1) "Men tell sex stories, but they leave out the details."
Not if they're good writers, they don't. The pleasure I take from a good sex blog is as much literary as it is prurient. I'm with Aleks: "I'll be damned if the erotic doesn't make for great art."
Hot Action started out quite simply as "the guide to sex with Philip Clark," but it has become much more than that. Nowadays this blog is about dipping the quill as well as the wick.
For me, sex just happens to be a powerful enough blasting cap to set off the writing charge.
2) "It is incumbent upon men to be discrete."
(Let's talk about writing for a second. I'm not normally one to pounce upon typos, but Steve subverts his own intended meaning by repeatedly using the word "discrete" when he means "discreet."
Here we have a man arguing for emotional wholeness in the sexual male, who subliminally argues that men should consist of unconnected distinct parts?
Pardon my deconstructive digression. We'll presume to recognize Steve's intentions.) Discretion, then:
3) "When you're with someone, it should be private, a unique shared experience."
Before I comment, check out this story, which made the front cover of today's Globe And Mail.
It seems the mayor of a town in BC gets her husband to take some nude photos of her in the official chamber. The pics get swiped from her home computer, are immediately emailed all over the place, and finally earn her bare-shouldered smile a front-page headline in Canada's national newspaper.
Several people express shock over the content of the photos and allege disrespect for the municipal office. The mayor contends that she has been the victim of a crime and vows revenge upon whoever stole the photos of the private, unique experience she enjoyed behind the mayoral desk.
These days, it seems private moments just don't want to stay that way.
I can't even walk from here to the store without getting my face recorded on half-a-dozen video cameras. But it's not just The Man keeping an eye on me. Since I started a sex blog, my seduction moves in public are scrutinized by people I don't even know. Some of these people would just love to see me slip up. There are haters out there in Halifax, and they crave dirt the way a junkie craves dope.
So I waived my right to privacy when I started a sex blog, and the concept of discretion has come to mean little to me. My response to the haters is to give them nothing to chew on--I try to live my life as if everything I do could become a matter of public record at any time. This policy will do wonders for a man's honesty.
As far as I'm concerned, the mortified mayor's only mistake was that she didn't post the photos on the web herself in the first place.
"That's fine for you," I can hear you saying. "But what about the privacy of the women you involve yourself with?"
Like I said, I don't take the concept of privacy too seriously, especially not in a city the size of Halifax where everyone knows everyone's business anyway. Plus I crave ownership of my own experiences--my default assumption is that if something happens to me, it's my life, and I'm going to write about it. I won't name names and will occasionally alter details of setting, and if you would care to suggest a more stringent anonymity policy, I'd be happy to listen.
As I see it, my main responsibility is to write as accurately and honestly as possible. I always picture the person involved reading the post and try to gauge if there is anything she could possibly take issue with.
But of course, it's about way more than accuracy. This is where I feel Steve really misses the point of sex blogs.
As a male sex blogger, I feel I have a duty to women to do them right. To give them my best writing, to extract the most beautiful or the most telling image from a situation, to pay tribute to them with elevated [or debased] language.
There are far more ways to make an event "unique and special" than by keeping it private.
I still occasionally meet women who will ask me not to write about them. But many more women are secretly or openly pleased to be "on the website."
Whenever that happens, I feel doubly successful.
Last night lasted all morning and into the afternoon. Last night lasted until nine o'clock this evening.
I have been on such a dominant streak lately. Perhaps it was a desire to restore some sexual balance to my world that led me to lie on my back with my arms outstretched, begging her to do anything she wanted with me.
I watched her face get flushed as the excitement of aggression started taking her over. She bit my nipples, scraped her fingernails across my chest. She bit my nipples so hard I was begging for her to stop, and then she bit them even harder, and my teeth were clenched and my head was rolling back and forth on the bed and I don't even remember what I was saying.
The pain was delicious, I felt dirty, I wanted to be bitten hard and scratched deeply. And mostly I wanted to put my head between her legs and suck her hot, hard clit like there was no tomorrow.
She doesn't like to think about my other lovers, so I couldn't tell her about the little fantasy I had.
The fantasy was this: the next time I take off my shirt in front of another woman, to be seen covered in scratches and marks. Her marks.
I can't assume that she shares any version of this fantasy. Nonetheless, I left her a pretty little hickey on the side of her neck.
To the beautiful woman with the black lipstick: Black lipstick. Holy hell. So hot. It was a pleasure to meet you, a pleasure to watch those lips open up into a wicked, sexy smile. I have a curious desire to own you.
"So are you going to go home now and write something nice about me on your website?"
Write something on your own website, you little brat.
No one else is home right now; just me and the cat. I was sitting in the living room and reading and enjoying the silence in the house.
A copy of I Ching was sitting on the bookshelf beside the couch. I picked it up and opened it at random to this:
21. Biting Through.
"Having something in the jaws is called biting through, biting and getting through. Hardness and softness are divided, there is action and understanding. Thunder and lightning combine into a pattern."
I went upstairs and started to tidy up my room. I was sorting my laundry when I found the bra you'd been asking about. Yes, I still have it. So you want it back, do you?
I raised the bra to my mouth and and took a bit of the shiny black material in my teeth. I imagined biting through to the hard, sensitive nipple on the other side.
The smell of your breasts was still powerful on the garment and my cock started to get hard right away.
I rubbed your bra slowly across my cheek and my neck.
Remember the last time I fucked you? Do you remember how I made you stick your ass out for me, so I could take you like a dirty little tramp? Do you remember how hard you made me come?
I took off my t-shirt and held your bra up against my own nipples. I imagined holding you against me, the feel of your amazing breasts against my chest. I had to pinch my own nipples as I wished I could be pinching yours.
The satiny material of the bra felt good against my chest and my stomach.
I pulled down my pants. My cock was standing straight up. Remember how I pulled your hair? Pulled you back onto me?
When I give you back this bra, I want you to put it on and to think about what I did with it: I want you to picture me wrapping one of the cups of your bra around my hard cock and slowly jerking myself off with it.
As I imagined sliding my cock all the way into you, slow and hard and deep.
A big, clear drop of liquid appeared at the head of my cock. If you were here, I know you'd want to lick it off. Because you are a wicked girl.
I rubbed the head of my dick all the over the inside of your bra, both cups. Another big drop of fluid pulsed and wobbled at the end of my cock. I rubbed my pre-come all over the outside of your bra, too.
When I give you back this bra, I want you to put it on and to think about what a dirty girl you are. Walking around with a pair of underwear on that has my sex rubbed all over it.
Your nipples chafing against the residue of my juices. The same juices that make my penis hot and slippery for you right now.
Mmmm. I want to eat you out from behind while you're wearing nothing else but this bra. I want to lick your nasty shaved pussy. Shove my tongue right into your tight cunt. I want to fuck you hard while you're wearing this black bra.
Getting wildly turned on, and I briefly entertained a notion of going all the way, going all the way all over your sexy black bra. But sometimes I like to make myself wait. I like to discipline myself. A little discipline goes a long way...
So you want your bra back?
What are you willing to do to get it?
The last weekend of November has come and gone. I tried not to make a big deal of it. Anyone who's known me for a while has been hearing me go on about this for years.
Just a refresher: traditionally, the last weekend of November is when the girls of Halifax go out and get boyfriends. The first two weeks of December tend to represent the sexual low point of my year: "The women are too preoccupied with new boyfriends, exams, xmas preparations and clinical depression."
I'm not too worried about it this year, though. We had an unusually mild November and it doesn't feel as though the December nesting instinct has kicked in with quite the same intensity.
If you do have any friends who have contracted a new boyfriend this past weekend, feel free to make fun of them. It's just so un-hot-action.
I sent out a test email to the Hotlist last night. If you've subscribed and you didn't receive the message, check your email preferences to make sure it didn't get filtered.
The message was only about four sentences long, but writing it gave me a big happy boner.