red111.gif I was putting the finishing touches on dinner when Robert got home Monday evening, late but safe. (I think I’ll always be a little freaked out about his commuting in heavy rain now.) As usual, he hollered “hey” from the door and went straight to the bedroom to change clothes while I fixed him a drink and set the table. It was so Donna Reed, if Donna Reed ever cooked dinner in just a pink tank top and bikini panties.

“I see you did a little redecorating today,” I heard as my guy’s strong arms encircled my waist from behind. Then came the moist, warm snuzzle right on my neck hotspot… ohhhyes, right there.

“You like?” I managed to squeak in the middle of a shiver.

“I do like, very much,” he cooed in my ear, pressing against me. “Can dinner wait?”

Cool. I wasn’t the only one who spent the day horny. 😀

It was the first time the chair in our new play corner was used – Robert decided the occasion called for a good, old-fashioned OTK. (Pink tank tops and panties do tend to inspire him.) It was all very playful and sexy so I was darn surprised when he landed his first smack HARD! OOouuch!

“That was for the useless appendage crack,” he said, obviously having read my blog entry earlier in the afternoon. He got well into that spanking before I could defend my position, in any sense.

“Hey! I said useless for everything BUT that! OOOWW!” I laughed, winced and dodged.

“Just good for poking your orifices, hmm?” Spank, spank, spank…

“OWW! Yeah, that!” trying to wiggle off his lap, but being held more firmly while the rain of spanks continued.

“What was that… peppy penises?” he snickered, losing his battle at trying to sound serious.

“Peppy penises pumping!” I corrected. SMACK! “OW!”

“What, like pipers piping and geese a-laying? ~And a penis in a pear tree~” Robert sang, spanking in time. “Speaking of trees…”

Quite amused at his witty segue, Robert plucked me off of his lap and bent me over the quilt stand. I got darn serious after a few hearty switch strokes. (EeeeeOOOOUCH!) Robert, not so much.

“So, your assignment,” he began whilst flipping that switch in the most ouchifying manner, “is to give me three purposes of a penis… besides filling your orifices, heh.”

“OUCH! Damn, Robert! Like… um? Jeez… OUCH!”

“Come on, Annie, I know you can do it. Get creative!” he taunted.

“Well… damn… um, OUCH! OK, a flag pole? Hang a little flag on there and do it for America?” I suggested, already giggling.

“OK, there’s one. Not a good one but OK… two more.” Robert continued his switch assault on my increasingly heated haunches.

“OWWW! Ummm, you can write your name in the snow… oh wait, even better, you can write a big SOS in the snow in case we ever get lost or something.” I thought that was a good one and I was quite enjoying the visual.

“Not bad!” he agreed, rather enjoying his own visual – that of his continuing handiwork on my blistered bottom. “One more.”

“EEEEooooouch!!! Damn!” For some reason, I found it difficult to concentrate on the assignment – can’t imagine why. Hard to ignore my ass on fire… fire!

“You can use it to put out a fire!”`I squealed through clenched jaw while giggling at the silliness of it. Yessss!

“Good job!” Robert praised in a sarcastic kinda way. “So now that you know better, are you going to retract your “useless” claim? Hmmmm…?” SMACK!

“YES! I promise!” I laughed. “I will forever worship your not-useless penis. I’ll even get on my knees to it!” Sometimes I really crack myself up.

“I can think of another use for it, too, m’dear,” Robert said coming around to stand in front of me, holding the alert Beastie in front of my face teasingly. “Can you think of what that might be?”

“Um… a gag, right?”

“Exactly. Now open wide…”


Three energetically poked orifices later, I had to sincerely concede that the Penis is, indeed, a truly useful appendage and worthy of all the amulets, frescos and statuary built to its glory over the centuries. There.

The End. 😀


sexjapan.jpgDear Japan, I could never forget you. There are many of us expatriates who have lived and loved in the land of the rising yen who regret that we ever left, or cannot believe that we ever enjoyed so much so soon. As for me, I have been away for a year, happily ensconced in the life of a starving student in Montreal. But Japan is not easily forgotten.I spent three years in Tokyo, working as an English teacher, freelance writer, and model, and during that time I was often asked for my own thoughts on what I felt about the culture that surrounded me and became my life. Not wanting to offend, I made the standard comments on the efficient transit services, the lively shopping and entertainment centres, and the healthy food easily available at any konbini (convenience store). I was not honest. There was something that I could not ignore and which had me involved in many double-takes: the unbelievable contrast between surface and substance. We all live with this sort of opposition, but I believe that Japan is a special case. How else can you explain manga (comic books – Japan is the number one consumer in the world) that often feature gang rape, bondage, coprophilia, and random acts of violence being read widely and publicly on that same efficient transportation system? Or enjokosai, a system where school girls get money for performing “favours” for Japanese men? And especially the vending machines, which are ubiquitous in Japan, that may contain hot drinks, cold drinks, cigarettes, porno mags, and used school girl panties?I ran to the books: Permitted and Prohibited Desires: Mothers, Comics and Censorship in Japan; Nightwork: Sexuality, Pleasure and Corporate Masculinity in a Tokyo Hostess Club. Both were written by Anne Allison, another expat, and they do contain some information about why these things are so pervasive in the culture. And here are two of my personal favorites: Making Out in Japanese and More Making Out in Japanese by Todd and Erika Geers. I have no doubts as to… to be continued(excerpt from redlight magazine, courtesy Kendall Defoe)


pic5thumb.jpgOld Whore. New Photos.July 13th, 2006 I mentioned before how getting older as an escort makes me feel insecure about my looks. Well, part of the problem was that some of my advertising photos are already 5 years old. The newest is 2 years old. Young came over this afternoon to take some new photos of me. There is nobody else I can ask to do this (my only other friend who knows is a guy, and well, I really don’t want him taking photos of my ass). And I don’t want to bother with “professional” photographers not only because of the unnecessary expense, but because the bunch who deals with escorts are pretty hit or miss. I don’t feel like sifting through the amateur-photographer-specializing-in-female-nudes crowd to find a decent one in my area. The first and last time I dealt with one of these guys everything went okay except he kept trying to convince me that I could make money doing S&M shots for a ridiculous $150 flat. He also wanted a picture of my face when we were done, trying to pretend he was testing some lighting issue. And he kept copies of my photos. He’d also used a digital camera. So a few years later I got a guy to take some nudie shots of me (”just for fun”) and I’ve been using those in my advertising. Now the time has come to update again. So Young came over for a couple hours and got shots of me in various poses and panties against different backgrounds. He grumbled a few times about how he hates “this business” of mine, but that he wanted to do this favor for his friend. How sweet. And after the photos were done, we had sex. Although neither of us planned it, I guess it should’ve been expected under the circumstances. So much for being friends with no benefits. But I’m too busy with some new situations to dwell on that right now. My new photos will be up soon and I feel better about my body already. I really don’t look that much different, but psychologically I now have no need to measure up to the body I had five years ago. So I celebrated with a small pizza.




Today, while we’re
apart, we won’t
even notice them,
these autonomic,

vascular organs
enabling us
to taste, chew,
and speak.

warm with blood
and pulsing,
they will sneak

from their castles
of teeth,
every atom

of our flushed,
forbidden flesh,
and swirl,

in the dark,
carnal language
of desire.

L.D. Thomas

Oyster bay…




It lies on its shell, raw,
wet, and shiny. With a hint
of violence, I stab it

with a three-pronged fork,
slather it with cocktail sauce,
and lay it on a cracker.

As I ease it jiggling
to my tongue, it flares
my nostrils with the scent

of the sea. When I close
my eyes and bite, is it
the oyster I eat? Or you?

L.D. Thomas

A True Story



By Nicholas James Chapman Paget
Having wasted many an hour watching my Peel pub “team-sized” pitchers be depleted and harassing all the too-young-to-drink-anywhere-but-peel-pub-girls who, because I could hardly see straight and had my shirt uncharacteristically tucked-in would hardly tolerate my usually tolerable advances, an increasingly attractive and blurry young woman who I had been making eyes at came up to my friend and I and invited us to join her friend and her at a strip club to celebrate her recent graduation. How could I have refused such a rare and promising offer? My friend was hesitant in view of the “grandeur” of the girl with whom he had been relegated as result of my unnatural expedience at calling dibs (I never ride in the back seat of cars either, it’s a valuable talent) but, inasmuch as distracting the fat girl is the only duty friends of my generation have ever had to know, he drained his glass in one fell tilt and led the charge towards St-Catherine.

I held my new date’s hand as we walked and when we entered the dive I asked the monstrous statue of a man at the top of the stairs if we could have a discount because it was our three year anniversary but to no avail. We paid for admission and were escorted to the only seats worth having; perverts alley: close enough to smell the stripper’s depravity, broken dreams, self-loathing and sweat. As the hardly eighteen-year-old Quebec folk dancer peeled the practically postscript pleather off of her precious and petite form, I realized that I had put myself in an unfavourable position and was now faced with a conundrum: do I buy this semi-attractive hook-nosed, sunk-eyed girl I arrived with a beer, or should I stuff this five dollar bill twenty dollars deep into this ripper’s g-string? While I pondered this existential quandary, it struck me that I had unintentionally and simply second-naturedly locked eyes with the young vixen now splayed out on the sweaty metal eye-level stage and as a result, she was giving me some extra attention.

When the song ended, the stripper (whose name I would like to think was Starla) got up slowly, gathered her things and without breaking our heart-melting eye-contact, (titty-bar heart-melting, not real life heart-melting) she left the stage. Now my date, who was sitting beside me while the stripper and I engaged in what can only be described as ocular semi-consensual sodomy, politely excused herself and walked towards the washroom. I watched her as she walked and realized that in the sleazy red haze of strip-club light this blue empire-cut silk dress she wore allowed the shadows of her curves to flash and dance with each graceful step she took. Accordingly, I made a bold move; I leaned over to this renewedly desired woman’s overly-voluptuous friend and after a little pleasantry I said something along the lines of “I want to steal your beautiful friend away from you tonight.”

She laughed and I knew she would pass the message on. By this time my friend had had quite enough self-imposed sexual frustration for the evening and told us that, regrettably, he had to go. He took his leave just as my date sat down between her friend and I at which point her friend whispered something in her ear. By this time the dancers were all either worn out, off the clock, or privately milking the now plastered clientele for their coke money. I leaned over to the girl who I had realized was my last drunken hope of sloppy, regret-it-the-next-day, be-made-fun-of-by-my-friends, give-a-fake-phone-number-and-pray-she-forgets-where-I-live sex and I told her to send her friend home and to join me at my house for a glass of wine (I do actually have a bottle of Oyster Bay chilling in my fridge for just such an occasion.) In the brief moment of focus I had conjured to say this and was now struggling to maintain, she looked at me pityingly and said: “Sorry, She’s staying at my place. I can’t leave her. But you can call me…”

I broke: I had sustained some semblance of sobriety for the previous seconds but now I was free of that burden and I laughed out loud as I stood up, and finished my beer. I wished them both a good evening and as I walked past Starla (who was now on a 300 pound Philippino man’s lap) towards the exit I hollered to my esteemed fellow clients “Have a good one gentlemen” to which the general reply was the grumbling sound of people seeking sexual gratification at a strip club; a sound reserved for people deeply involved in ironic self-defeat. I stumbled out onto St-Catherine wobblier than when I had last walked on her and I headed West toward home lamenting that the lascivious part of my Thursday night was over when I was approached by an acne-scarred degenerate Asian lad outside of a door surrounded by neon lights that I had passed a hundred times before. The little dude was around twenty and he struck me as being just the type of shit a strip-club might hire to lure people in. Pleased as punch to have any encouragement to continue my lechery, I followed him in and down the stairs into a hell hole no bigger than the average public washroom with six or seven stalls.

The only other person in the place who looked like a fellow customer saw us as we entered and he and I shared the look that says “we’re in a den of depravity; don’t judge me and I won’t judge you.” Emanating from the stalls that had been plastered almost floor to ceiling with pictures of pseudo-attractive women trying desperately to make money without having any skills were all the sounds of a good time being had. My new friend led me into a stall and turned on the two television sets which lit up with four different pornographic videos on each screen depicting exactly what you would expect them to depict. He said that we were to wait and he took the one seat in this tiny cubicle that was really only big enough for one person and he pointed towards the screens and asked me if I liked the girls. I noticed but was too polite to mention that his hand had brushed past the front of my pants as he had pointed. Still spinning drunk and concordantly one-track-minded, I asked when I would get to see the live girls to which he replied “soon” and quickly changed to subject to the fact that I was particularly interested in one of the pornographic quadrants which he pointed out, again brushing past me and making slight contact with my pants. This time I attributed this inappropriate contact to the cramped quarters in which we found ourselves.

Moments later, he pointed to the screen again, and this time there was no mistaking the fact that this contact with my reserved-for-me,-my-doctor-and-females-only-area was no accident. I calmly explained to my hideous acquaintance that there would be trouble if he could not keep better control of his hands. Hearing myself say this evoked a frightful epiphany: there were no girls coming. Taking stock of the situation, I decided to flee. I stepped out of the stall and closed the door on the little gremlin who was still inside insisting that the girls would show. When I got out into what can hardly be described as a hall, I saw the man I had figured was a fellow client looking at me and almost laughing to himself as if he knew something I didn’t. So I asked “What’s the fuckin’ deal here, where’s the girls at?” He laughed a little and said “He promised you women?” I said the specific kind of nothing that says “Why the fuck else would I be here?” at which point he was kind enough to explain that there are no live women and that this place is only for viewing movies in the booths. Half-way through thanking the-holy-mother-of-Christ-almighty-and-all-that-is-good-and-holy that I had not sat down or touched anything while in the stall, I turned to this honest man who clearly did not work here and asked the obvious question: “If there are no woman and you’re not in a stall, why are you in here at all, my good man?” To which he very kindly and very casually replied “Oh, I’m here because I like to suck guys’ cocks.”

“That’ll do it.” I replied instantly putting everything together and, trying not to seem rude by running away when this man who had been so helpful and who was in his own way questing for perversion (which fostered a kind of kinship between us I suppose), I walked towards the door. Before leaving, I turned and said “Party on, gentlemen” and I heard his sympathetic laugh amongst the similar but deeper and more pathetic grumblings than I had heard as a response to my salutations at the strip bar. I tripped as I fell out of the door onto St Catherine which drew the attention of the person walking by who looked at me, looked at the door I had just exited and looked away. I asked very simply and without any aggression or threat: “yeah, so I’m coming out of this piss hole, what of it?” She stopped, looked, smiled and that is how I met the lovely Jessica.

She looked at me and smiled a smile that hinted that she had had enough to drink that night to find me funny, but not enough to make my story end either in uninhibited passion or in something that could be used against me in a court as a confession. She laughed as she said “I’m not judging” and I walked up along side her and we began heading westward; her trying to figure out if I’m just a pervert, and me trying to fool her into believing I’m not by making light of the awkward circumstances of our meeting. We spent the next hour talking while seated at a picnic bench in a sketchy dimly-lit park beside a congregation of sleeping and stinking homeless men, women and dogs. When her bus eventually arrived, she put her number into my phone and she looked up at me and smiled. I liked her smile and wanted to keep it. I smiled at the thought and then I kissed her in a PG-13 kind of way. I watched her get on her bus, saw that the sun was coming up and finally, I made my way home. I hope that you have enjoyed my story and that you have learned something from it. As for me, I have learned nothing but a pretty girl’s phone number and so I’m going to apply that lesson and I will call her right now in the hopes of living a sexier story for you to read next time. Adieu.