hot action

Before we go any further--download this song and listen to it while reading the rest of this entry.

I speak of the science and poetry of the moment of certainty. I live for this: the magical interval between knowledge of the event and the event itself.

The intuition becomes flesh and walks among us. Consider:

1. We're sitting side by side on the couch, having a seemingly innocuous conversation (as innocuous as it gets with me, anyway). You lean forward to the coffee table, to ash a cigarette or pick up a drink, and our knees touch. You sit back and smile, and your knee stays right where it is, pressing gently against my own.

In this instant the switch is thrown. Observe and you will notice that my breath deepens, my heart beats a little faster. With this physical contact the connection has become undeniable.

Electricity flows back and forth between us. It's a very exciting time for me. My muscles tingle. I have learned to smile and relax and enjoy the knowledge. Because I do know it, as surely as you know the snowball will hit the stop sign before it's even left your hand.

(god she's hot oh my god it is definitely going to happen)

Do you think knees are sexy? I do--especially when they've become surrogates for our naked, writhing bodies.

People all around, oblivious to the fact that we're sitting here on the couch and we're already doing it.

2. I've smiled, you've approached, the conversation proceeds nicely.

I point out some incidental detail, something funny going on in the bar or at the party.

You stand beside me, in close, really close, shoulder to shoulder, looking in the direction I'm looking, before commenting.

Sexy, sexy, sexy.

Physically, I love the warmth of your arm against mine. You're so close I can smell you. If I were to turn my head, my nose would be in your hair.

From here on in, our bodies will always be oriented with respect to each other.

The connection of our upper arms: a long hinge upon which I could turn at any moment and slam into you.

Also: the connection of a shared perspective. We're observing together, thinking together. We know something that these people don't.

We're like one person with two eyes.

And before long, we will be one beast with two backs.

3. This one's for the advanced class.

You've gotten me alone, you smooth operator you. I already think you're fucking hot. I'm just looking around, scoping out your place. Relaxed. Casual.

Little do I know I'm on the express train bound for Boner City:

You get up to go to the bathroom. When you come back, it's rather noticeable that your fly is unzipped, and you haven't bothered to button up your jeans.

You sit back down and look at me.

I've been known to start shivering.

Posted by philip at 03:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Oh by the way... I just thought of something else I want.

Next time you masturbate, I want you to imagine that I'm kneeling right beside you, watching, with a little smile on my face.

I want you to give me a good show.

Posted by philip at 04:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

A friend recently informed me that dude, there's so much pussy on myspace.com.

I didn't really understand how it works, this whole Friendster, MySpace phenomenon. My friend explained it thusly: "You put up a profile and then you write to cute chicks and say 'You're cute' and then you get to bang them."

That's not how I usually operate. Anyway, I already waste enough time on the Internet. I'm too lazy to go looking through some website trying to find cute girls to pester.

Can't I just put up a profile, I wondered, and sit back and let women contact me if they're interested? Apparently so. But how does that work?

"You give them your email address, then they add you."

I was confused. If a woman wants to bang me and she already has my email address, wouldn't it make more sense to just send me an email saying, hi, I want to bang you, instead of going through all this rigamarole with MySpace and profiles and whatnot?

Well apparently the whole appeal of it is that it's a network. So when you're all through banging me, you can go on to bang all my hot friends.

Ah. I get it.

OK then. I made a MySpace profile. There are some photos up for the curious. You can also find me using my Hotmail address: iceedge@hotmail.com.

"i wont bite well maybe just a litle LOL"

Posted by philip at 07:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

I hate holding hands, and I always have. Don't look so disappointed--you already knew I'd make a lousy boyfriend.

We've just met at a bar and now we're heading back to your place, and you want to hold my hand? Are you nuts. I'd rather stroll along with my hand in your back pocket, trailer-trash style.

(Or reach down the front of your jeans, to oil the machinery of locomotion.)

Walking arm-in-arm is so much more relaxing. I would be happy to walk arm-in-arm with any woman I moderately like.

But whenever I see a couple heading up the street holding hands, one word pops into my mind: pathology.

Posted by philip at 07:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I woke up today to this mental image: I was fucking your lovely mouth, slowly and gently, while you knelt in front of me with your hands tied behind your back.

Lately when I have sex I enjoy taking it slow.

To feel every nerve ending in your pussy as I slide inside, to tease--an invitation to a pounding.

Posted by philip at 06:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

earrings

Posted by philip at 02:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Nighttime view of Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, from across the harbour:

Remember this? The three smokestacks.

The last time I enjoyed this view was while you were giving me a blowjob in the front seat of your car.

I'm emailing you...

Posted by philip at 11:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

It's time to check out the hot action male-bag. (Hmm, a little itchy. Ooof... OK, that's better.)

~~ Myra Barnsworthy from North Battleford, Saskatchewan* would like to know:

"You did 'Are you afraid to get laid?' Part one: The male perspective. Yet, have you ever done the gals' perspective? Am I just not aware of it floating around the world wide web somewhere?

Make me aware, phil, oh why wont you make me aware!"
--

Since you insist, I will fill you in.

There is no "Afraid To Get Laid Part Two The Female Perspective." For the simple reason that making this video would involve interviewing a bunch of women who are afraid to get laid. Now why would I want to spend my precious little free time talking to women who are afraid to get laid? I'm not sure if I even know any women who are afraid to get laid. It's not like women who are afraid to get laid are anxious to come up to me and say hello and shake my hand. It's not like women who are afraid to get laid are going to spend more than ten seconds reading hotaction.ca.

If by some fluke of Internet clickery there do happen to be some women in the audience who are afraid to get laid... if you wouldn't mind being interviewed about it for a video to be posted on this website, then I would be delighted to hear from you.

There's only one catch, though--you have to be naked.

~~ Monique St. Clair from Jonquière, Québec* writes:

"Someone recently sent me a link to your archives. I had never read hotaction before and was happy to spend an afternoon doing so. Thank you.
Do you do advice?
How does a girl do it? How does she take a bar conversation to the next level, or drop subtle hints that gentlemanly or sensitive bull is not required. Every time I wind up with someone wanting to be a nice guy, walk me home and call me the next day for coffee. I thought this would be easy and I've been trying. I'm attractive, so how do I pick up?"

--
First off, congratulations. If you are thinking of taking things to "the next level," then you are already a step ahead of all the women who can't even bring themselves to approach or to converse with the object of their attraction in a bar.

I tend to observe a lot of shy smiles and quickly averted glances; attempts at physical proximity, with no attempt at eye contact; muted whisperings with friends in a corner booth.

Some guys don't even notice these signs. Some guys notice them and it just makes them want to toy with you. (And you wonder what I'm smirking about.)

But clearly you have the confidence to move beyond all that. Sounds like what you could use at this point is some advanced insight into the operation of the male mind.

It's possible that he's not hearing your message. More likely, you've failed to make him believe it.

...You know, I could write a big long essay in response to your query. And maybe I will. But for now, I'm going to throw the question open to the readership of this site--which, in my experience, is composed mainly of highly perceptive women, women of discretion and good taste, who are not afraid to get themselves good and laid.

Are there any sympathetic souls out there who can offer our anonymous horny friend some useful tips on "closing the sale"?

[*Names and places have been changed.]

Posted by philip at 08:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

To get inspired to write this post, I indulged in a little hotaction aromatherapy.

That is, I lay on my back on my bed with a pair of panties draped over my face. Deep breath. One, two, three. Release.

Deep breath. One... two... three... release.

Repeat as many times as necessary.

This story is for you, panty-girl, because I think you'll like it:

I showed up at the party with a couple of friends. I'd persuaded them to come along with the promise that the place would be full of "chopless ticks." Sure enough, it proved to be one of those debauched North End parties.

People danced. Chopless ticks got drunk and ran around the room. Girls flashed their tits and made out with each other in the corners. God knows what else. Not exactly a Naked Loft Party but pretty good for Halifax.

My friends and I stood off to the side and watched the circus. My friends discussed the ladies, compared favourites. I didn't say much of anything. I just hung out there and looked around.

Then you walked by. You were this tall, glamourous vision of sexiness. I blurted out, "Oh my god, I love her" and totally ditched my friends to go over and say hello to you.

We talked for five or ten minutes. After which we made our way into the secret room. However, just when it looked like I was about to get you alone... Pretentious Guy showed up.

Pretentious Guy wanted to talk with us about art. There was a photograph on the wall that really seemed to pique his interest. "It's just so final. Don't you think."

For a while he got immersed in his socially oblivious art prattle. I think you and I just rolled our eyes at each other behind his back. Meanwhile I kept interrupting with art theory non-sequiturs: "Oh but it speaks so much, with such a depth of meaning."

Finally Pretentious Guy decided it was time to go mingle. As soon as he left the room, I threw myself against the door and locked it and then turned around and shoved you up against the wall.

And all that ensued was totally wicked.

Looking back, I'm grateful for Pretentious Guy's interruption. All those knowing glances made me so hot for you.

Sometimes people ask me how I know when the time is right to make the first move with a lady. I usually reply that you have to be aware of a wide range of non-verbal signals.

In your case, I think it might have had something to do with the fact that the whole time I was talking to you, all I could smell was pussy.

Posted by philip at 06:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)