You won’t ever catch me wishing for the days of chivalrous gentlemen, but you won’t exactly find me feeling grateful for our culture of men viewing sexuality without sensuality. As a quick and easy fix.
Hey, stranger. Wanna fuck? Cool. I’ll be right over, and then be right on back home. Nice to eat you, and never see you ever again, whatever your name is. YAWN.
Listen, quickies are fine. Strangers are fine. One night stands are fine, but sex is one of the most amazing experiences imaginable, and I’m settling for fine?
What ever happened to satisfaction? Sexual courtship as its own form of seduction? Radical pleasure bordering on hedonism? I don’t want to ride a fat dick or fuck a hot body, I want to enjoy a person’s company so that any time not spent fucking isn’t boring me to tears and ruining the whole experience surrounding pleasure. I’m not looking for to trap you into romantic commitment, I just want someone to play the game with, who is good at the game, and brings excitement and a challenge to the game.
And I’m not talking about bullshit mind games, or the desire to pretend like you’re prince charming and I’m not a freak. I’m talking about the thrill of pretending I don’t know what you’re thinking, and pretending like I’m not also thinking the same: that this night is gonna go out with a BANG.
I smile knowingly at you, playing coy as foreplay’s foreplay. Delaying as teasing, building up to the fuck.
You can go off-road and tell me what you want to do to me, it doesn’t change a thing. No matter how vulgar you are, I’m still gonna smile coyly, but I’m not gonna bite. Don’t even think about making your move until you see start to see me break, I don’t even want you near my pussy until I can feel how soaking wet it is without moving an inch, and I’m practically soaked down to my thighs.
‘Cause boy, seeing how hard you’re working to restrain yourself from taking me then and there is driving. me. WILD.
Good things cum to those who wait, and and the build-up wants me want you all. night. long.
I want to go to work the next morning with a limp, or with a hoarse voice, spend the whole fucking day feeling horny every time I think about the night I just had, and rush on home to my magic wand.
Go on, tell me that isn’t worth a couple hours of your life.

Let’s play pretend for a minute, shall we?
I’ve read your messages, and they’ve left me feeling h-o-t. Like, dripping down to my thighs - hot. Self-control, common sense, smart decision making out the window, desperately yearning to go ducking wild and do something only bad girls would - hot. I agree to meet, under the condition that you’ve got to make cum at least once. That’s the rule. You spot me waiting for you before I do, recognizing the thigh highs stockings kept up with a garter belt and high heels I promised I’d wear.
Back to reality.
I’m curious, where did your imagination lead? Where do you want it to go from there? Tell me everything you’d want to do to for the rest of the evening. Not what you think I want to hear — I want to hear what YOU are thinking. Your mind, your fantasies, your desires bare before me. Who knows, I might like what I hear, a lot. Like, ‘rhymes with hot’ “a lot”.
(Ottawa and Montreal residents and frequent visitors preferred).