hot action

This Friday and Saturday evening, the Halifax Burlesque Society will be staging a couple more shows for your titillation and for the engagement of your prurient interests. I heard a rumour that tickets are already sold out, but there might be a few at the door if you're ready and lined up at the Legion on Cogswell when doors open at 8pm.

There's also a Halifax Burlesque forum and if you check it out you might find photo-pages of girls wearing pasties on their nipples and showing off their bum-bums and possibly even prancing around the Vimy Legion in shiny red strap-on dildos.

This time around the show has a pirate theme, which I can totally get behind, so to speak. ARRRRRR!

I did sound for the last burlesque show. Looks like someone had a good time:

One of the best things about being an audio engineer is getting to work with the tools of my trade.

Posted by philip at 11:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

"That entry you posted yesterday, about the tattoo," she said. "Was that about me?"

"Uh... yes!" I said. "Yes it was."

~

"It is all right to lie to me, as long as we're having a good time."
-Ezekiel 23:20

Posted by philip at 05:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

hey stud...

Posted by philip at 11:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

The image of you bent over the back of your couch has burned itself into my brain. Nice view, nice tattoo.

I'm into other stuff too, just so you know... I like hanging out, making out, watching movies.

I'm into other stuff besides ramming you full of cock and smacking your hot ass so hard that you're squealing for me to stop.

You like that sound, do you? --Metal against metal.

Posted by philip at 12:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Sat in a booth at the Chinese restaurant. It was my great pleasure to get to watch her chow down on a hot and spicy spring roll.

I pulled her onto the seat beside me. "I want to go down on you," I said. Well, honesty is the best policy.

No server in sight, no one else sitting in our section, so... pulled up her sweater, bent over and started to run my tongue over her smooth, sexy stomach.

Whenever you crack a fortune cookie, always put the words "in bed" at the end of your fortune.

Her, just before I fell asleep: "My clit salutes you."

Me, just after I woke up: "Hi, fucky..."

Apparently at some point in the middle of the night, I rolled over and said "You're so fuckin' sexy."

Around four in the afternoon we were getting dressed and I slid my hand down between her legs to give her a little surprise. She said, "Cooch!" and then her eyebrows shot up in surprise and she fell over laughing.

So maybe some of you don't like the word "cunt" or maybe you don't like the word "twat" or whatever, but how can anyone not like the word "cooch." "Cooch" is a funny word. It's cute!

Listen up now. I want to speak to you all about an issue of great sexual importance. I'm talking about the rinsing of the noodle.

It says it right there on the condom box: "Pull out when you're done, being careful not to spill any of the precious man-batter. Then go wash off your noodle with soap and water."

If Mr. Trojan says so, then I guess he'd know so I always tried to follow these instructions religiously.

Sometimes however you find yourself entwined in your lady's arms and legs and it's a nice moment and you just don't feel like getting up to go rinse the noodle right away.

Sometimes also you have to stay in bed and make a phone call. "Hi honey... Sorry, I won't be home for supper, something just came up... What? You've laid out a nice spread for me? Well... I'll just have to warm it up when I get home... Yes, kiss kiss, I loveyoutoohoney goodbye."

But we're going to assume that you're a good boy and you've actually made it to the loo and you're ready to start rinsing. Here is where we run into one of the problems common to mankind.

Modern bathroom fixtures were obviously not designed to make it easy to wash just your private parts. In some bathrooms you can flop your schlong over into the sink. But a lot of the time, there will be some kind of sink-countertop deal and you'll find yourself running the tap and cupping your hands in a frustrating attempt to swish some water onto the family jewels.

This method is not very effective and it's impossible to avoid getting lots of water on the floor. I suppose you could just be merciless and splash water all over your crotch, and when you're done you could drop someone's towel on the floor and put your toe on it and mop things up a little bit that way.

You may be wondering, if it's so much trouble, why one doesn't just hop in the shower. The thing is, I do not want to wash the smell of sex off my body entirely.

I like smelling like my lady. I like smelling like us. Plus there's a finality to showering after sex, like you're washing off the residue of the act, so to speak. Having a shower makes more of a statement than saying "hey be right back, just going to the bathroom for a minute" so you can rinse off your damn noodle like the condom box tells you to.

You gotta make sure to rinse off your nuts off too while you're at it. Sweat, lube, semen, pussy juice make for a potent cocktail on the most sensitive skin on your body, and next thing you know you'll have a case of jock itch down there (also known as "batchy scrawls") and that's about as much fun as finding red ants in your picnic sandwich.

When I build my dream home, there are going to be urinals everywhere (why don't men put urinals in their homes? Makes no sense. It's the only way to piss really) and beside every urinal there's going to be sort of a urinal bidet, trademark of Philip Clark Enterprises, whose sole purpose is to facilitate the rinsing of the noodle. There'll even be a little soap dispenser at the top, in case you want to be all fancy and actually use soap when you wash your genitalia, which you should, even though it creates a whole other nuisance of making sure you've got the soap rinsed off too after you've finally got all that other stuff rinsed off.

In the meantime, the best solution you can hope for is that someone who lives at her place might have left a facecloth hanging up somewhere. Then you can grab it and give your noodle the scrubbing it deserves after a long hard session of making whoopee.

Anyways, in conclusion I'd just like to say hi, my name is Philip Clark and I just rubbed your washcloth all over my slippery cock and then I hung it right back up on the rack where I found it. Please think of me the next time you're washing your face. Xoxo.

Posted by philip at 07:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

So today's banner bites the design style of a band that probably 98% of my readers have no clue about. Well, it'll be worth it for that 2%.

"Do they owe us a shagging
Of course they do of course they do
Owe us a shagging
Course they fucking do!"

I've been thinking about a song called "Bata Motel" off the Penis Envy album. I was probably 15 or 16 when I first heard this track. It has great lyrics. Some of the words are pretty dark, and back then I understood it as a feminist protest against the "rituals of repression."

I've got 54321,
Come on my love, I know you're strong,
Push me hard, make me stagger,
The pain in my back just doesn't matter

But even then, I got kind of an erotic charge from that song. It might have something to do with Eve Libertine's vocals, which I remember as having an almost perky, breathless quality.

Maybe I'm upholding the privilege of the patriarchy by getting all horned up by a Crass song...

Drive me fast and crash me crazy,
I'll rise from the wreckage as fresh as a daisy

I'd be curious to find out what you think.

Posted by philip at 05:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

~ Three bruises on my arm in the shape of a "therefore" symbol.

"I shag, therefore I am"?

Saturday night I try to take a picture of my biceps. The lighting's not right; I can't get it right.

By Sunday morning, the bruises are already lighter in colour.

Fading away like yesterday's foregone conclusions.

~ Today, March 21, is National Breakup Day. It's a holiday I invented. One of these years, I'm going to start hyping it two months in advance and turn it into a big deal with t-shirts and e-cards and everything.

If you are content and fulfilled in your committed relationship then feel free to skip this post. I was accused of having a "condescending attitude" towards people who are happily monogamous, which is bullshit. It truly seems to work for some people.

I'm not one of them. (And apparently neither is the person who made the accusation but there's really no reason for me to be smug about that.)

What do I know about breaking up? Not much. The number of girlfriends I've had in my entire life I could count on the fingers of one hand. Anyway, here are a few random thoughts from my bounteous lack-of-knowledge.

~ Better to make it as clean a break as possible. By "clean," I mean unambiguous, even if you have to be kind of a jerk about it. Also, the longer you put it off, the more difficult it gets.

Just as marriage is consummated by the physical act of love, your new life officially begins once you've slept with someone else. "To consummate" can also mean "to finish off."

~ They say the thing that attracts you to a person is the thing you grow to hate about him or her. He's the strong, silent type; he's sullen and uncommunicative. She's perky and outgoing; she never fucking shuts up.

~ Look at your life right now. Jesus. You've got 100 problems.

Imagine if you could devote more of your time to solving them, instead of hanging out with your current partner, hiding away in that emotional comfort zone and doing all the same old shit.

~ Someone has a crush on you right now, and he or she is better-looking and more intelligent than your current partner.

Or maybe you suspect that you are so unworthy and unattractive that your current partner is absolutely the best you could ever hope to do? If that's the case, then you are perfectly entitled to your belief. P.S. Please stop reading my blog.

~ Choose a partner who will make a good ex. Ask: What will this person be like to break up with? When the time comes to move on, is he or she going to turn into a total pain in the ass?

Relationships don't last, but exes are forever. So choose your future exes with care.

~ Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

~ Hot Action calendar of the year. Not this year so much, but in general. Jan/Feb: rampant promiscuity; cold weather brings people together. March: have found one or two I really like. Casual flings become torrid affairs.

April: Affairs end. Typical woman finds my promiscuity unacceptable, settles into relationship with "interesting, nice guy" boyfriend.

April is the cruellest month. Spend the month walking past houses of women I used to sleep with. Hate springtime.

May: Victoria Day weekend is an all-out fuckfest.

~ Women email me when they are between "nice guys." It's all part of the Halifax sexual cycle. I am pleased that my role is in harmony with my basic nature.

~ Dumbass, you're not truly broken up if the two of you are still sharing an apartment. Get the hell out of there already.

Go sleep on a friend's couch if you have to. Too bad you started ignoring all your single friends when you got into that lame relationship. Well, I'm sure your friends would be happy to hear from you again.

Some people seem to need that transition but half the time you're just suckering yourself.

~ A recent conversation:

"So you're still living over there? I thought you said you were a single man now?"

"I'm living there for now. We broke up, but we still get along great. We have separate rooms and everything."

"Uh huh."

"She's like a really good friend. People can break up and still be friends, you know."

"Yeah, yeah... Okay, question for you. Would you be comfortable bringing another girl back to that place and banging her?"

"Well... no. I guess I wouldn't."

"You, my friend, are not a single man."

~ One of the goals of National Breakup Day is to increase the social legitimacy of dumping someone via email. C'mon, didn't you meet her over Friendster anyway? Live by the sword, die by the sword.

~ Another goal of National Breakup Day is to reach the friends of mine who are not completely happy in their relationships but are having a hard time breaking free.

I know people who are never, ever single for more than a few weeks at a time. They seem to have codependent personalities. I sometimes joke that they're not truly happy unless they're miserable.

You say you could never be a player. But mastering the entrance requirements--confidence and independence--could be very good for your emotional health.

It's like a martial art. Once you have the knowledge, you don't have to use it. But it will give you the confidence to stand alone in a public place.

~ The number one goal of National Breakup Day is a purely selfish one. I want to increase the pool of hot single women. I want to make my world a happier place. I want to liberate those poor unhappy females who are stuck with the odious chore of having to fuck someone other than me.

I envision a world of milk and honey; a beautiful, luxurious paradise in which all the women dump their boyfriends on Sunday and then send emails to Mister Hot Action on Monday morning saying "I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one, hit me."

~ QED.

Posted by philip at 03:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

It's my birthday today. I'm 33. Fuckin' right.

My friend Scott was also born on March 18. Both of us look like teenagers, and last night we just stood around Hell's Kitchen and laaaaughed.

Sweet Jesus, I can't get over how much I love being in my 30s. Life in general is so much better than it was 10 years ago. I wouldn't go back in time for anything.

I have no plans for tonight other than going out for some Chinese food. I don't even care if I get laid. Big deal, I get laid all the time.

I have a loving, long-term monogamous relationship. Yeah, that's right. "Mono" meaning "one" and that "one" being me. I am so happy being single that words can hardly convey.

Ohhh anything I want
He gives it to me
Anything I want
He gives it but not for free
It's hateful

The Clash are playing really loud and I just had to go jump up and down on my bed. Yes, my bed, site of many evil erotic adventures and site of many many more to come!

Last year on this date, I had a slightly different agenda. Had a big dance party at the house. If you were there, you might remember: "Philip, there was nothing but beautiful women at your party."

I was a bad man with a bad plan. I wound up in my room trying to get a threesome going with two gorgeous women. They were flirting and getting comfortable with each other (I was already pretty fuckin' comfortable) and we all knew the score.

Then my drunk roommate comes barging into my room, stumbling around and saying, "What goes on in here?" Then he sat on my bed and starting chatting up one of my ladies.

Well I went to the market, to realise my soul
'Cause what I need I just don't have
First they curse, then they press me 'til I hurt
We say Rudie can't fail

I could feel the chemistry of the situation ebbing away. I was trying to get him out of my goddamn room, trying to play it somewhat cool while thinking "This is grounds for immediate execution by firing squad."

The interruption soured the mood. One of these women decided I hadn't been paying enough attention to her, or something. She started going on and on about "what we'd had." What we'd had: really hot post-Marquee sex three or four times.

Meanwhile the other lady is sitting on my bed saying, "Why don't we all just relax and have a good time?" and I'm thinking Hear hear.

Judge says five-to-ten, I say double that again
I'm not working for the clampdown

So the drama girl, who was really drunk, wound up leaving and then I proceeded to have awesome sex with a woman with a slammin' body who was into anything.

I'm not making any plans for tonight. Fuck! My CD player is skipping in the middle of "Guns Of Brixton", my phone's ringing...

I ate a chicken pita for lunch at Bach's Cafe. It was so big I couldn't finish it. Then by the time I got home I was starving. Sometimes I feel like I'm nothing but a big bundle of basic drives.

I'm a cock and a stomach and a brain full of questions.

~
Spanish bombs shatter the hotels
My senorita's rose was nipped in the bud.

xo

Posted by philip at 06:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

With the following sentence I have ruled out more women than I care to think about: "My sensors have failed to detect a sense of humour."

So many times, those words have formed the transition between "She seems interesting" and "...Maybe we don't have much in common, after all."

Posted by philip at 09:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

There was a bartender who used to work at the Marquee. At closing time, it would not be unusual to see that he had managed to gain the audience of a beautiful woman.

I'd notice him while I was putting away my sound gear: his arms folded on the bar, leaning over, talking, big smiles.

I would finish coiling up my cables. Once everything was put away, I'd walk up to the pretty girl and say "All set?" And then we'd leave together.

It happened enough times that the bartender started calling me Studly. "Hey, Studly!" he would say. Or else, "Well look who it is, it's Studly!"

One time he walked around from behind the bar and came over to talk to me at the soundboard.

"Hey Studly," he said. "Let me teach you something about women."

I said, "Okay."

"See, it's all about the Five F's. Do you know the Five F's?" He numbered them off for me on the fingers of his hand. "Find 'em, feel 'em, finger 'em, fuck 'em... and forget about 'em."

"That's pretty good," I said. "But what about the Four W's... have you heard of the Four W's."

"No, whatzat."

"The Fooooour Doubleyous," I said. "Whip it in... whip it out... wipe it off... walk away."

He thought about this for a second. Finally, he said, "Naaah, nah man, it's all about the Five F's."

Posted by philip at 12:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

It was overcast on Saturday night, thank god. If I'd had to count the stars in the sky on my walk home, I would've been out all night.

I'm back working at the Marquee after six weeks off due to renovations. I've enjoyed the time away from the club. It was reassuring to know that my getting laid does not, in fact, depend upon hanging out in a bar every night. That's what the Internet is for. (Hint, if you want me to email you back, send a picture.)

Although on the weekend I ran into several women I'd slept with whom I hadn't seen in a while. That was quite nice.

I've decided that the Marquee Club is a giant pussy. It pulses with life and sexuality. It has its own unique flavour. It has lots of little nooks to explore.

It can suck you in. Even when you have other plans and you're telling yourself, "Not tonight...really." Then before you know it, hours have passed.

For some it's all about pleasure and for others it means labour.

Saturday night in Hell. The band sounded good and everyone was having a good time. My mix was loud--not painful loud, but powerful loud. I was happy with my work. I ignored the drunks in the vicinity and looked up at the ceiling, listening.

A red light bulb shines over the sound console in Hell's Kitchen. Inside the bulb, a glowing filament, divided into six sections.

The sections of the filament are joined at obtuse angles. I counted the six sections from right to left, and then from left to right.

Six is also the number of lights down one of the hallway ceilings at Bayside Junior High School in Saint John, New Brunswick. I must've counted those lights a thousand times while sitting on the corridor floor outside Room 237. How many times in Grade 8 did I get kicked out of class for being bored and disruptive?

Her scent lingered after she was gone. I looked around the club, suddenly self-conscious because I couldn't stop smiling. A kiss: and my inner voice saying, that is all the action I will need tonight.

Usually I bring pleasure to the place merely by entering it. But on Saturday the walls of the club were muscles. As soon as I got off work, they contracted and threw me out onto the street. Alone and hungry and alive.

Posted by philip at 07:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

The party was over; at least, as far as I'm concerned it was.

Then Mark knocked on my bedroom door. "Sorry to bother you," he said. "There's some guy downstairs, and he won't leave."

So I went downstairs, and this dude was sitting on the couch with his jacket on. Waiting for someone, from the looks of him.

I found myself torn between the roles of gracious-host and alpha-male.

I turned off the music. Then I looked at him and nodded and said, "You got somewhere to go, man?"

He started making inquiries after the young lady. I let him know that she was "upstairs."

Apparently a certain social situation was something other than what he thought it was.

I said, "No, I think she's doing all right."

Finally he clued in. He got up and cursed and swore and stomped out of our house.

He slammed the door on his way out. Mark and I just looked at each other in disbelief.

The chumpery of my fellow males is a never-ending source of dismay. What is your affection rooted in, if you can be hoping to share someone's company one minute and cursing her name the next?

If you really like her, shouldn't you be glad that she is safe and well taken care of? Unless your attraction is based on insecurity.

...Anyway. I believe I once stated that the definition of a date is not who you arrive with.

Posted by philip at 08:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

I was born without a shirt on, I rock to live, and I will die with an evil grin on my face.

Last time, I wrote "This is rock week on hotaction.ca" with the assumption that I would be coming up with a new post every day on the subject of music and sex. Instead, it turned out to be "rock week" in the sense that music and sex kept me so busy that I didn't get the chance to write at all.

Actually, I did write a long entry entitled "She's a rocker." It was about my groupie fetish and my love for the trappings of rock'n'roll. I was daydreaming about boots, leather jackets, studded belts. Tight t-shirts. Dark, smouldering and sexy.

It was a well-written essay but I never posted it. Something about it was bothering me. It just felt too theoretical. Anyway, I was too preoccupied with finishing the Spinoza CD of Joy Division songs to worry too much about blogging.

I shaved my head to psych up. It never fails. The unfair advantage: I can pull your hair, and you can't pull mine.

I was on my way to the studio when I decided to pay a midnight visit to a young lady I know. I was just stopping by to see how she was doing and to drop off a photograph, I swear. I didn't even lock up my bicycle.

She got locked up instead. She wound up on her couch, wrists handcuffed behind her back, her big hard nipples pointing straight up at the ceiling.

And I did everything--everything I wanted to.

"Everything" included giving her permission to have a walloping orgasm. And eventually I gave myself permission to have one too. My body roared like an ocean liner, the tide went out and a hot wave surged all over her face, neck and chest.

I released her so she could rub me in. So I could watch her spread a slow sexy smile all over her face.

It was three in the morning when I finally left her place (sexually relieved; and relieved that no one had stolen my bike). I went straight to the studio.

I shut off all the lights, plugged in a Sennheiser 421 microphone (the "Black Beauty"), and turned the Tannoy speakers up nice and loud. I didn't even bother with headphones or a microphone stand. Just planted myself in front of the console, mic in hand, with the sound blasting straight back at me.

I turned everything up until it reached the point of feeding back, which is fucking painful (I told you, I'm very sensitive), and then I laid down the vocal track on the following recording:

~ spinoza - shadowplay [3.7MB mp3--play it LOUD]

Amazing, isn't it, how having your cock in a beautiful woman's mouth can put you in such a mellow mood.

Posted by philip at 10:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

This is going to be rock'n'roll week on hotaction.ca.

The show is over and the bar is closed.

I walk across the stage towards the back door with a dark-haired woman. I pull her along behind me with two of my fingers hooked over the top of her belt.

The place has pretty much emptied out. They've turned on the harsh overhead lights. The stage is a mess of broken glass and tangled cables.

Amongst all the debris lie fragments, the wooden pieces of a smashed guitar.
~~

~ After three years of dicking around with synthesizers, I'm singing and playing electric guitar in a rock band again. It feels like a part of me is waking up.

~ 1987. Wake up in the middle of the night to a television broadcast of static. Imagine kicking in the screen with a steel-toed boot. My face glows blue with the fantasy.

~ It seems that my rock life is inextricably tied to my sex life. I started playing in bands at around the same time I started being seriously sexually active--in my late teens. Sometimes I wonder: how do normal people get laid?

~ Of course getting on stage is just a big advertisement for myself. You want a man who's energetic, good with his hands, attention to detail when necessary, not afraid to get a little rough...

-"We dance to all the wrong songs. We enjoy all the wrong moves." - Refused

~ In my teens it was the Stooges, Black Flag. Into my 20s things got even crazier--Mohinder, Assfactor 4, Antioch Arrow. What Heartattack Magazine used to call "fast, frantic, fucked-up, hurry-up, let's-go, gotta go music."

Loud fast raw and beautiful. Just fucking GO.

~ Is your sex life like this? Energy and chaos and never knowing what's going to happen next.

~ You know that if you come within ten feet of me you might get hurt. Except maybe it's the kind of hurt you like.

~ Play every show like it's your last. There is only one thing certain in this world, and that's that nothing is certain in this world--nothing.

~ People die. People have died.

~ Every time you get up on stage, think of all your friends who can't be here because they're dead.

~ I have things to do before I die.

~ "Before I die, I will fuck her. When I do, she will moan Mozart." --Steve Albini.

~ Doing sound for open mic night: one sensitive singer-songwriter guy after another. Why does it all have to be so mopey and slow? I'm looking carefully at your cute girlfriend, thinking, Is this woman getting the slamming she really needs?

~ Your well-crafted songs of love and loss are admirable. But the more talented you become, the less I can relate.

So predictable, where's the urgency? We want rock'n'roll to be dangerous again.

~ And so shall this room be saturated with beer and blood and the smell of wet pussy.

~ Turn it up. I too am very sensitive but in different places. So turn it up until I can feel it.

~ Right now I feel full of fuckability.

~ A piece of paper torn from a notebook, with scribbled lyrics to a Colour TV song:

"Three-Legged Fox." (F# Minor)
My instincts are predatorial. Of my intent there can be no doubt.
I ate the guts of the hare that challenged me, keeping me alive 'til the trap gave out.
Warm weather, cold weather, makes no difference. I am the master of all these woods.
I took the worst winter had to throw at me.
Who knew that springtime could hurt that good.

Killing is survival.
Healing is revolution.

My instincts are predatorial; of my intent there can be no doubt.
A lightning strike sparks a blaze that encircles me.
But my fire burns from the inside out.

~~
It went out of tune, so I threw it across the stage. And then I jumped on it. I didn't mean to destroy the damn thing. But once it all started, it just felt like I was watching it all happen, like in a dream.

I will have to find another instrument for tomorrow. I will worry about that... tomorrow.

Because right now there's hot breath at my neck and her hand on my crotch and my mind is clear and focussed and proceeding smoothly along its one track.

~
Next: "She's a rocker."

Posted by philip at 11:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

We reach up because there is so much to be captured.
We make an interruption just to add to the confusion.
We are undefined. We disguise ourselves as static.
And we're alive. We just want to feel alive.

-Mohinder, The Static Cult

Posted by philip at 12:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Posted by philip at 11:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)