My Cleavage

TextSex

mycleavage — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 05:43:46 +0000

I was text messaging a “friend” last night when all of a sudden our xoxs turned slightly more erotic than a cute sign off. From c u soon to cum over NOW happened in only a few short strokes – of the keypad. A few deft manoeuvers with my thumb over my 1.5″ back-lit alpha-numeric display and I was engaged quite thoroughly in text-sex. It wasn’t just dirty texting…nope it was actual SEX. Explicit descriptors of where it was going to happen, to where it was going to go, and what he was going to do while it was going there had me dizzy with what I can only explain as textual lust. I tried to send the messages back as fast as I could (does poor spelling ruin the mood?) but my fingers could not be commanded to move faster than my brain. He was much more adept at keeping the even rhythm of the pulsating session (are all programmers this good with their fingers?) I had 61 messages in my inbox and 62 in my outbox. The texts kept coming and coming and coming and then….my memory box declared it was FULL and could no longer accept any more messages! And at the crucial moment of textual climax! Thank god my fingers were limbered up by the time we pulled ourselves together to text gnite because they had some serious work to do later that same evening.

Flirt

mycleavage — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 02:07:59 +0000

I have several guy friends. As a 21st century worldly, urban and urbane woman in her 30′s, I make no excuse for this (fathers and boyfriends, however, sometimes need convincing). I’ve never slept with any of my guy friends because quite simply that would take us beyond the friendship post and into another playing field altogether. What I know of my friends, however, what I can intimately intuite from these guys is that they wouldn’t mind exchanging our friendship indefinitely for a quick go in the sack. I know this resolutely, as some have come right out and said so. It bothers me a tad that a friendship could be so casually called in for quick bliss. But I have to admit, despite the very real fact that this sort of behaviour borders on “tsk-tsk” when I’m in a relationship, I secretly love it! Such an ego stroke it is to sit down across from someone and know they want you and you know they know they want you – and with all that sexually charged air between you – you do absolutely nothing except a lot of smiling and arm touches. It has such momentum, I wonder if it isn’t that and only that, which keeps the friendships going. Does flirting mean you can’t be friends? Does flirting have to go somewhere? Something doesn’t seem quite right if I feel such guilty pleasure hanging out with my guy friends.

Savage

mycleavage — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 04:11:01 +0000

Spilling over a little Savage on Sunday morning has become a tradition of mine in the last couple of years. There’s something special about swallowing down tea and toast while perusing Dan’s sage advice on how to deal with weird sexual fetishes, prolongued erections, or guys that just don’t get anal sex. And reading the articles together with my lover du jour, brings the experience to a whole new level. Dan has opened up topics of conversation that I would never have considered bringing up over a french-toast brunch. I think it’s just practicing good sexual health to know if my boyfriend has fantasies involving dogs, carrots or the marines. Or to find out after all these years that it’s really ok to drool over (but not invite in for tea) that 17 year old boy down the street who washes the family minivan with his shirt blessedly off every weekend in the summer. And how else could I subtly let my sweetheart know that I’ve had over a hundred bed- partners (SO not true, but I’m just saying…) Savage has perfected the craft of delving deep into one’s the sexual subconsciousness and thank god, because he has helped to clear the air on so many issues that I never knew existed! Savage’s column should be a must-read for any couple who are in need of some some sexual healing but just can’t cough up the dough or the courage to seek outside help. Savage has a no-therapist-required, strictly do-it-yourself approach! Seriously, Dan has saved me on numerous occasions – after all I just couldn’t be with someone who doesn’t agree that transvestites are just regular people too! I look forward to hanging on to Thursday’s Georgia Straight for my Sunday morning Savage read. After all a little morning Savage does a body good!

PGAD

mycleavage — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 15:33:58 +0000

This could be the sexual fetishist’s dream – but apparently it’s a disorder. I suppose if I had to choose a disorder (not that being anxious and neurotic don’t already count) PGAD would certainly rank among my top 3. So, Persistent Genital Arousal Disorder it is! Imagine being continually aroused with no other form of relief available except orgasm. Some 300 of these events per diem is almost unfathomable! I’d love to get off just by sitting in my car, or leaning against the photocopier making copies, or brushing my teeth (god I’d never have to go to the dentist again!) Blood flow to the genitals has been charted during “episodes” and comparative graphs show drastic and amazing volumes of pounding blood flowing to directly to the clit – without any sexual stimulation whatsoever! These ladies aren’t disordered, they’re sexual SUPERHEROES! Thus far, this type of “heroic” behaviour has only been documented in women. They must have figured that men are all naturally disordered where genital arousal is concerned: it’s just business as usual to deal with those pesky, unannounced boners while falling asleep, waking up, driving, eating, breathing….

Unfortunately, these women can’t just tuck it into their waistbands and hope no one will notice but perhaps they could advise on how to get away with public onanism – I’d love to know!

Heels

mycleavage — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 21:49:51 +0000

They make me feel strong, in control and very, very sexy. They are demure and domineering; subtle and slinky; haute and hot. They make me taller, they make my boobs thrust forward and they make my ass stick out. I love the way they echo authoritatively down the hall. They make people look up and move out of the way. They say, “Fuck off, Fuck You and Fuck Me” all in the same breathe. An extension of my leg, my mood, my personality – choosing to put on a pair of heels is choosing to say Yes, I understand how the system works and now I’m going to work it. The power of the heel is evident in the fact they can be worn for only a few hours at a time. Like Frodo and that damn ring, if worn too long they can cause the wearer serious grief – but for the short duration of their magnificent reign – anything you set your mind to can be accomplished, even playing in the NBA (check it out!). Inspiring respect, fear and jealousy, the role of the heel in women’s lives is not a simple one. Most can admit to owning at least one pair and all of us know that behind every great woman stands a man….holding her favourite pair of heels.

When

mycleavage — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 16:33:07 +0000

When is enough is enough? When do you know when to end a relationship? When do you tell him or her? All difficult questions to ask yourself but more difficult to answer truthfully. I tend to stay in relationships until the bloody, bitter end. This, I have realized over the last few duds, is definitely NOT the best way to go about the ordeal. It’s hard to be honest, brutally honest, with yourself but I believe this is the only way to proceed. I know it’s time to call it quits when the little things start driving me to distraction, like when he chews on his fingernails or when he talks to his cat in “cat language” or when he doesn’t offer EVER to pay for dinner (okay, truth: he did offer once). Or the fact that his daily uniform is jeans/tee-shirt/hoody. Or when he ALWAYS has to be right ALL the time. When these things cease to be small distractions and begin to turn into perseverative thoughts of running him through with a sharp object – I know it’s when. Things that always hold me back from saying so are my fear of not having regular access to: (1)sex (2)back rubs (3) snuggles and (4)sleepy Sunday mornings. Eventually, I find these things again (everybody does) but it’s so hard to let the goods leave with bads. Saying “when” and meaning it, I’m finding, is a lot tougher to actually do than write about. But as one New Yorker columnist states: The minute you settle for less than you deserve, you get even less than you settle for.

Spit

mycleavage — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 02:54:20 +0000

Once upon a time there was a great debate in my life: to spit or to swallow. Now, older, wiser and with a more finely developed gag reflex, the debate is no longer – SPIT it is ! I don’t really know how I ever swallowed the veritable nectar of life that is not water. It’s certainly not the most pleasant of sexual acts to experience. The texture alone! Humans are just not meant to ingest anything that resembles uncooked egg albumen. Or curdy cheese. Little Miss Muffet nothing! Not only does the stuff feel retcherous on the tongue, there is of course, the the flavour to consider. Yes, I too have been privy to such urban myths as drinking pineapple juice and eating celery. However, performing these simple ablutions certainly will not guarantee a sweet swallow – there are myriad other factors to consider before one’s squirt is saccharine. And of all the guys I’ve met, and all aforementioned substance I have swallowed, I can safely bet that men do NOT place that much emphasis or concern on changing their diets to appease potential swallow-ees! At the ripe old age of 3@#$%!, the debate is no longer:

Off to the bathroom I slunk, with a mouthful of warm, curdy spunk.

Jello

mycleavage — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 20:13:26 +0000

Forget the gold, go for the gelatin. Some things in life are hard to do, hard to swallow, hard to take. But some things, sometimes are so sweet and easy it’s like eating Jello. This is how I’ve come to think about my various assortment of lovers and relationships, past and present. Some guys are just hard to be with. They make you feel shitty, self-conscious and small. These guys concern themselves with details they shouldn’t and call you out every time you slip up. These guys are never satisfied with who you are, but rather who they want you to be. They sit around and snivel when they don’t get their way and throw fits when you, just once, want yours. These are the guys that SUCK. They are decidedly not Jello. But some guys, usually the quiet ones you would never consider or the friends you’ve known for years without ever wondering “what if”, the ones that will whip up a special soup for you because your cat is sick – these are the guys that can be so unsuspectingly sweet, so incredibly, so sexily easy. The guys that smile when you walk into the room, the ones that laugh with you in their arms, the ones who try to understand your crappy day before it’s even begun, the guys who’ve got your back no matter what. These are the guys like Jello. After a full course meal of grits and grains, thank god there’s always room for Jello.

Size

mycleavage — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 03:10:30 +0000

In the past, I’ve waffled on this subject: Does size really matter? Is bigger better? Is it the girth or the length that’s more important? I think I’ve finally reached a pointed decision thanks to the help several different lovers to remain unnamed (I’m easy but not a blabbermouth) and a wise therapist (ok, yes – mine). Sex, my dear readers, is between the ears not the legs. It starts in brain and works its synaptic nerve magic all the way down. Therefore, what turns you on, what turns me on, is everything that happens before. And everything that happens during, of course, but it’s the before stuff that lays the foudation to a solid orgasmic experience. Without the finess, without the anticipation, without the kissing, the touching, the talking…without any of it - it’s just sex. Don’t get me wrong – sometimes just sex is good and sometimes it’s great. But for mind-blowing, earth-moving, neighbour-offending sex -it’s ALL about the before stuff. And with awesome before stuff, it doesn’t really matter what size my lover is, because the build-up is incredible and everything is all lined up to happen effortlessly. Without the before stuff, you’re going to need a huge cock. Just kidding.

PersuAsian

mycleavage — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 23:02:04 +0000

Asian. Caucasian. Persuasion. Some call it yellow fever, some refer to their yellow wings. Others simply don’t deny the fact that they are AsiaPhiles. I first encountered such AsiaLust while living in Korea. It seemed that for every set of 10 expats there were at least 2 who would boldly state that they would never, never go back to dating white folks. These comments came from males, mind you and as the medium is often the message, I brushed these statements off as reverse racism or at the very least, more evidence to prove that men really are pigs. Then I returned to Canada. It must have been delayed while in transit or perhaps the whole experience finally soaked in years later but I was hit with a full-blown case of ASIAN FEVER. Every Asian guy I looked at I wanted to pounce (and living in Vancouver, that’s a whole lot of cat action!) I simply could not find white guys attractive. The scales have balanced themselves in the last few years, however and I do boast a United Nations resume of guys dated, but still – there is something so desirable in those black eyes, that flawless skin and Sunday morning dim sum.