I don’t do reviews. I have opinions that I’d rather keep to myself, unless an opinion is asked of me of course. But let it be told that this is in no way, shape, or form a review.

I don’t read erotica. Aside from Anne Rice’s “Exit to Eden” when I was 20 years old, which now, in retrospect, was hardly erotic. It was a story about sex. A lot of sex.

The dictionary definition of erotica is “the art of sexual love”. There. There’s the magic word. Love. It’s being able to describe sex without using the words “cock” and “pussy”. Which brings me back to the topic at hand and the reason for this post…

“Fifty Shades of Grey”. From the looks of my Facebook feed the last few weeks, I figured this was another “Twilight” movement and was NOT IN THE LEAST bit interested.

Until a girlfriend of mine who I respect sexually oh, it’s not like that, get that vision outta your head suggested I check it out.

I. Feel. Sorry. For. Any. Woman. Who. Hasn’t. Had. A. Christian. Grey. In. Her. Life.

I’m not talking sadism/masochism. I’m not talking dominatrix-type shit. Not bondage or discipline. I’d like to see him try to discipline me. One person’s kink is another person’s sex life right? I’m talking open-mindedness. There’s tasteful porn. There’s tasteful erotica. Man, it’s 2012. I’m sure you know what one can find on the internet. Get. To. Know.

I’m sad to hear about ladies who have no clue what the “Flutter” does. Or that female’s can and will ejaculate. I cringe when women don’t know the difference between said ejaculation and an orgasm. No. It’s not the same thing. And yes, you’d be surprised the amount of women who have no clue. Get. To. Know.

Unleash your damn Savannah Anastasia. The stretch marks and that extra deposit of fat on your thigh don’t matter. He doesn’t care whether your lips are glossed up or whether your pussy is shaved okay, yes, he might care about that. Get it through your damn head….

When a man is getting pussy/head, he doesn’t give a rat’s ass what you look like. I have never had a lover say, “Baby, you’re not wearing enough mascara.” He’s more concerned about making sure that mascara smudges up your pillowcase while he pounds you from behind. He doesn’t care that you didn’t have time to flat-iron your hair. He loves your after-sex ‘do more anyhow. Trust. Me. And if you don’t trust me, then GET. TO. KNOW.

Go. Be. Lovely. And. Erotic. Open your mind and figure out how many “shades” you’ve got. As long as you remember to wrap it up.

Oh and don’t forget to share your story with me ’cause you know I’m a freak.

xo

I’d forgotten how intense our relationship had been.

I was half-expecting to see him. So you could imagine the thud of my heartbeat against my chest when we locked eyes that evening, just a few days ago. Immediately my mind went into reminiscent mode…

I remember the night we met.  Well, since we’d grown up.  I’d heard he was “newly single” but paid that tidbit of information little mind. I figured he was still the soft, quiet, insecure boy he’d been years ago and we all know that’s not my type. Not now anyhow. Maybe at my tender, infatuation-prone self of 14 years of age.

He walked in and immediately I took in the black suit and the newly fit body. His face hadn’t changed and he was shaved bald. Jesus. I watched him, nonchalantly of course, and waited for our eyes to lock.

Nothing.

I was a tad disappointed and took to the bar.

Eventually so did he.

I felt his presence to the right of me, like a light whisper of breath over my skin. There was some shot-taking and regular hustle and bustle of partyers and then we were shoulder-to-shoulder. He turned to face me.

“I can’t believe how great you look”. My smile was immediate. I hated myself briefly for being the “heart-on-my-sleeve” type and showing emotion.  Why couldn’t I be calm and cool? I took the compliment and replied, “I can’t believe you remember me. You look good too Blake”.

“Come with me. I’m going for a smoke”. It wasn’t an invite. It was a damn command. Oooo. He’d come a long way from the way I remembered.

You know that feeling when you see a crush from your past you never even spoke two words to and then you’re face to face with them and you want to pour out your heart? But you don’t because you don’t know what’s going to come out of your mouth and you know you’ll sound like an idiot at whatever it is you blurt?  That was me. The confident, sassy, outspoken me was a tiny being in the back of my throat.  She was stuck.

He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and offered me one. Having nothing to do with my hands, I accepted and he lit my cigarette.

I inhaled, letting the smoke fill my lungs and ease the nervousness I was feeling.

His eyes scanned my body.  Numerous times.  I high-fived myself in my head for wearing THAT dress, the one that hugged me everywhere.  But, at the same damn time, the insecure bitch in me suddenly tugged at the hem, wishing there were more fabric to pull over my knees.

“So”, he said, that damn twinkle in his eye.  “Come here.  Give me a hug” and he took my hand and pulled me closer.  I resisted slightly.  He was sitting on the hood of his car so when he pulled me towards him again, I fell neatly in between his legs.  Just like that.  He wrapped his hands tightly around me and squeezed.  I cannot explain how good it felt.  He lingered and the hug was a few more seconds longer than normal hugs should be.

“You’re so grown up”, he said when I pulled away.  I laughed.  “Well, yes, it’s been like, 20 years”, I said, my face still smiling.

“It hasn’t been that long has it?”, he eyed me again.  ”I’m just glad I ran into you”.

It wasn’t awkward but I was awkward.  I had no words.  I couldn’t make conversation.  I stood there looking at him with a stupid smile on my face.  I had to say something.  Anything.

“I had the biggest crush on you when we were younger”.

Fuck.

He laughed.  “Did you?”  He reached for my hand.  “Well I think I have a crush on you now”.

My insides went numb.  I was that 14-year old girl all over again.  Shy.  Quiet.  This wasn’t getting any better.  This is not how I had played the fantasy out in my head all those times.

“I think you should give me your phone number.  I’m going to want to see you after tonight”.

“I’ll give it to you inside”, I mumbled, still smiling.  “I should get back to my friends”.

“Okay.  But not until I get another hug”.

I snuggled back in between his legs and hugged him.  I let my fingers glide up and down his back this time, trying to take in as much as I possibly could to keep me satisfied.  He let out a small moan.  I pulled away immediately, anxious and excited and afraid of what was to come.

He planted a soft, very slow kiss on my cheek before finally letting go of my hand.  I smiled again before I went through the doors back inside and said, “I’ll leave you my number”.

He didn’t call.  Day one, two AND three passed before I started asking myself THOSE questions.  Day four, five and six passed.  He was no longer a question on day seven.  I was sitting out on my balcony when my cell phone rang and right there, in block letters, read:  B. MATHESON.  I stood up and paced excitedly at his name.

“You didn’t call me back”, he said when I picked up the phone.

“I didn’t get a call”, I said, relief apparent in my voice.

“I figured you would have seen my number on your phone.  I thought you weren’t interested in talking to me”, he said.

“There’s no reason why I wouldn’t want to talk to you.”  I’m sure he heard my smile.

“Good.  I say we go out for drinks tonight.  I know this great place just by the lake that serves awesome martinis.  You look like you like martinis.”

To be continued…

I stood slightly against the wall, swaying gently to the music and trying unsuccessfully to ignore the pain in my feet from the heels I decided to wear.

I swear time stood still when I saw him, just like in the movies.  My heart vibrated instantly for him. My friend poked my leg and I turned to look at her to confirm what my eyes had seen.

“Why does he look like…..?  Isn’t that…?  Did he see you?”

I shook my head, denying what my heart was trying to tell me.

He stopped in his tracks and stared intently into my eyes.  I stared back, as if trying to send him extra-sensory perception signals.  I cocked my head to one side and still he stared.  I couldn’t read the look on his face and my heart graduated from a mild vibration to a thundering pounding.

He turned to walk away and my heart sank.  It must not be him, I told myself, wanting almost to chase after him to confirm this.

He stopped again, slightly further away than his last stop and turned to look at me a second time. This time I took in his stature, his eyes, his mouth, the colour of his skin, the coat which was not unfamiliar to me, the dress shoes…

I looked deep in his eyes and smiled.  I was sure.  He didn’t look like he was sure.

He walked over quickly.

“Is that you?”

I couldn’t speak.  I nodded my head.

“What are you doing here?”, he asked.

“Same thing you are.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since 11 p.m.  You?”

“I got here at 12″.

He was smiling.  I was smiling.  We were in our own world.  Everything around me was a blur.

“I didn’t know if it was you.  You look”, he paused to look me over,  ”different”.

I looked at his mouth, waiting, anticipating, darting my eyes back and forth in the crowd, throwing all dignity and shame with the bass of the music.

I grabbed his head and kissed his mouth.  He kissed me back and instantly pressed his body up against mine.  He reached in between my legs.

He nuzzled my neck.  I took in his scent and let it fill my head completely, elation settling in.

“You’re so warm”, he breathed in my ear.

“I can’t believe you’re here.  Why didn’t I see you sooner?  I can’t believe this is happening.”

“You wrote about this”, he reminded me.

“I wrote about this!!  I wrote about this”, I almost screamed out loud.

There was no doubt of the glint I saw in his eyes.

He kissed me again, keeping his hand in between my legs.  His eyes remained open and on me.  I know this because my eyes remained open and on him.

“I need to use the washroom”, he said.

“So go”.

“Come with”.

“No.  I’ll stay here”.

“Come with”, he demanded, placing small yet convincing kisses on my mouth.

I walked ahead of him, completely oblivious to any pain in my feet at this moment and walked into the washroom.  I went directly into the nearest free stall.

He followed within seconds and put one hand in between my legs again, one hand on my throat and pushed me against the wall.  He kissed me passionately, reawakening every last nerve in my body.  Within seconds, I had fallen in love with him all over again.

This was the sexiest kiss I have ever experienced…

and it happened 3 days ago.

Lost innocence...

I just received a call from my youngest son’s school principal.

Apparently, a 13-year old girl took a nude photo of herself and forwarded it to her crush who forwarded it to a friend who forwarded it to a friend who forwarded it to my son.  The principal wanted to let me know that police had been brought in to investigate if any laws were being broken but because all of the students involved were under-age, they’re safe.  He wanted to stress to me the fact that my son was in no way involved in sending or forwarding the photo but that I should speak to my son about the danger in doing so if he ever becomes privy to that kind of bullshit information again and it falling into the wrong hands (i.e. pedophile perhaps?)

Isn’t it bullshit?

A 13-YEAR OLD LITTLE GIRL IS SENDING NUDE PHOTOS OF HERSELF!!

Okay, okay, I realize this happens on a regular and 13-year old girls are having sex and getting pregnant but this time was different.  It hit home.  My child was involved.

There’s so many thoughts and emotions going through my mind right now.  I’m heartbroken; heartbroken for so many people.  What’s going through their head?.  The little yes, little.  She’s only 13 for crying out loud! girl who sent the photo to her crush; what was she thinking?  What do 13-year old girls call their breasts anyhow?  Her mother.  That mother!  Is it ignorant of me to guess that that mother feels like a failure?  Was she around?  Where’s the father at?  How do you tell that father that his baby girl is sending infamous bathroom self-pics of her bare skin?!?  The teacher whose ears this information fell on.  The principal who had to make the call and break the news:  ”So and so sent a photo of her breasts via text message”.  How do you handle that?

And most importantly to me – MY SON.  ”No, sweetheart, just because she sent that does not make her a hoe/slut/trick”.  Because his mother has demonstrated as much self-respect as humanly possible in order to raise respectful, young men.  Men like their uncles, their father, their grandfather and their great-grandfather.  Because THIS mother gives a shit.  Because THIS mother gets involved.  Because THIS mother still believes in innocence and naivety.  Kinda ironic coming from a woman who writes erotica and posts pics of couples in outrageous sexual positions right?  Yes.  But here’s the difference:  I’m an adult woman.

I have nothing more to say.  I’m a mess right now and all I want to do is hug my children.  Maybe all parents should make it a habit of hugging their children on a regular.

Dear 2011;

You sucked some big, ugly ass.  Seriously.  I’m trying to go through all the months in order really slowly in my head and the only thing I can think of was the birth of my nephew.  Besides that very awesome, precious gift, there really wasn’t much else.

I do, however, recall a ton of disappointments; general sadness and annoyance.  Not only with me but with everyone around me.  Almost every person I talked to or was remotely acquainted with was always just, “Meh”.  No one was as great as they had anticipated to be.  No one was doing wonderful things.  No one was making money, building meaningful relationships, starting business ventures.  People were always just….”here”.  And if there was that ONE person whose life was more amazing than the next person, no one noticed because all the negativity overshadowed that one person’s awesomeness.

There were sicknesses and deaths of loved ones that I can’t even bring myself to write because it’s still heavy on my heart.  It was just…yuck.  I want to kick 2011 in the ass.

But alas, it’s New Year’s Eve.  And with a new year comes a new chapter, new beginnings, new aspirations and promises.

A new year is about getting another chance.  It’s about giving another chance.  It’s about doing more, giving more and it’s about loving more.

Do.  Give.  Love.  How easy is that right?

My promise for 2012?  I will shine positivity and luck and as much karma as I possibly can even when I’m being accused of being “fake” to anyone who comes in contact with me.  I will dissuade negativity as much as I can.  I will build on the positive relationships already budding in my life and get rid of the people that bring me down and make me physically ill.

I’m not ungrateful.  The man upstairs knows how thankful and appreciative I am for letting me see another year.  He knows my heart and I know the blessings He has bestowed upon me and my loved ones.

But here’s to a brand new year.  Thank you, yet again Lord, for getting us through this.

For 2012, I wish you all much peace, happiness, blessings, success and most of all, LOVE.

Happy New Year friends.  I love you.

xo

He's home in heaven.

So many thoughts. And I can’t find a single way to make sense of them all.

You’d think I’d have this down pat, having lost so many loved ones to this fucking disease. Fuck cancer.

Terry was 29.

Was. I can’t believe I’m using his name in the past tense.

There’s nothing I can say. I can’t express my emotions right now. All’s I know is, it’s wrong. This is wrong. Growing up as the eldest cousin on mom’s side meant I would be the first to die. At 89. And everyone would follow in the order they were born. That was my theory and that was how it would go. Nowhere in that little theory of mine was anyone supposed to die before me. And no one was going to be sick either. No one would suffer, no one would cry, no one would feel any pain. And especially not Terry. Not my little cousin with the big smile and the dark, shining, smiling eyes who never bothered the other cousins, never complained, never sulked. Ever. And anyone who knew Terry will tell you the same.

Always a smile on his face.

To be surrounded by so many friends and family at the hour of one’s death speaks volumes. He was well-loved, funny, always positive, bright, clever and an all-around beautiful person. And to say that he’ll be missed would be an understatement.

Rest in eternal paradise my sweet, sweet Terry. I’m so jealous of who you’re with and where you’re at right now.

Though we never left you
And you spoke very few words
We’ll never forget you
From the stories we’ve heard
For you, I know brother
A baby, a mothers pain
‘Cause your soul is in heaven
But your memory remains

I know, I know brother
We’ll meet again someday
I know, I know brother
We’ll walk through fields
Where children play

Your eyes shined bright
When you were a kid
Your family loved you
And all that you did
Big brother, big brother
Don't worry a bit
Your flame has not faded
Since the day it was lit

Your life was a joy
Your mommas oldest boy
And when the skies are blue
Big brother
They’re blue for you

We will smile at pictures
Of you as a boy
Before you retired
To Heavenly joy

I know, I know brother
We’ll meet again someday
I know, I know brother
We’ll walk through fields
Where children play
Lyrics from "Unknown Brother", The Black Keys, edited by Jimmy Soares

Terence Carreiro November 23, 1981 - October 4, 2011

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Let me write my thoughts quickly while I sit and wait for him.  I want to capture this moment…

It always starts the same way.  A random text message:

“Baby girl?”

“Yes baby”.

“My dick misses you”.

“I know.  So?”

“So let’s go”.

He has no idea.  He’ll never know.  ’Cause I’ll never tell him.

My heart still pounds in anticipation.  And it’s that roller-coaster feeling all over again.

He’ll lift me off this chair and he’ll pull me towards him.  He’ll give me a full-bodied hug.  You know the kind.  His hands will grab my head, he’ll kiss me deep and his hands will wander down to my behind. Then he’ll smack me.  Like he usually does.

There’s no small talk between us.  Never any uncomfortable silences.  I begin his thoughts and he completes my sentences.

He’ll stare into my eyes as he speaks.  He always does.  And he’ll tell me, “Baby girl, your eyes are so bright” and I’ll reply with, “It’s because of you”.  And he gets me.  He understands.  He always does.

He’ll kiss my forehead.  Before.  And after.

He’ll notice my hair.  And he’ll comment on it.  He’ll ask me why I’m wearing a dress or why I’m still clothed.  And then he will proceed to undress me.  Like he always does.

Yes.  It’s Sunday afternoon.  And while the Patriots kick the Chargers ass today, there will be love.

He could be anywhere he wants to but he’s choosing to be here.  With me.

He didn’t lift me off the chair.  He hugged me tight instead.

He kissed my eyes, my forehead, my fingertips and the palm of my hand.  After.

The Patriots won.  So I heard.  But he didn’t even notice.

He noticed my hair though.  ”You know I love your curls”, he said, eyeing me.  ”But you’re always pretty”.  I smiled.

Goodbyes are always bittersweet.  Bitter because we’re parting.  And sweet because…..well, because we just were.

He watched me walk away, paying close attention to the man who turned to look at me.  It warmed my heart.

He warms my heart.

He has no idea.  He’ll never know.  ’Cause I’ll never tell him.

It’s September. Fall is around the corner. This excites me. I get to prepare for hibernation.

Here’s my deal:

I met and married my husband by the time I was 21. I had my 2 children back to back within 20 months. Imagine what my life was like before I’d even reached 25 years of age. I raised those boys as best as I could, potty-trained them, taught them how to dress and shower themselves by the time they were 3 years old, taught them how not to be pussies, played referee, took them to soccer, taekwondo and back to soccer. My husband, their father, was a Super Paper Chaser and was always on his grind. I took the boys to the barber, inside with me to the public washroom and later stood by the men’s washroom and listened (in fear) to make sure they were safe when they were too old to come with me to the ladies’ room.

I barely sat down for a proper meal and gained fifty damn pounds from all the improper eating, but always had a hot meal for my children and husband to feast on. I kept clean clothes on their body and a clean home. I went to work and home and can count on one hand the amount of times I would actually sit down on my living room couch in the evening before a baby would cry out.

I had no social life. My friends were my family and my husband (God bless them). I didn’t get my hair done (I chopped it off after giving birth to make it easier to manage with the babies), never got pedicures, rarely put on makeup and wore flat shoes every day. I was a frump. An unselfish frump.

Fast forward to present year. I’m divorced single. My eldest is starting high school and my youngest is entering his last year before high school. They are legally allowed to stay home alone. They cook, do laundry, keep their rooms semi-tidy and can take public transportation. They’re also tall enough to kick someone’s ass go to the men’s room alone without my having to listen in by the door to make sure no stranger is molesting them. That was my greatest fear.

Imagine me now. Imagine how easy it is for me to be…..selfish. And yes, I’m selfish. I’ll be the first one to admit it too. So, before anyone complains that I have that its-all-about-me attitude let me apologize in advance:

• I’m sorry if you have to wait an hour for me to get ready for our outing. I love being a woman and putting on makeup and enjoy getting dolled up.
• I’m sorry if I don’t want to go to that club you suggested. I have another club I prefer to go to because I missed out on all the other times you were out partying while I was being unselfish.
• I’m sorry if I just don’t feel like hanging out with you tonight and listening to your money problems. I’ve got 2 beautiful boys I’d rather give my attention to at home even if they are just playing Madden.
• I’m sorry if I don’t attend your birthday party. Do you know how many birthdays I didn’t celebrate?
• I’m sorry if I don’t go to your BBQ. I just don’t feel like it. And if you don’t understand this, I really don’t care.
• I’m sorry I’m not attending your child’s birthday. A Saturday afternoon filled with screaming children? See, my children no longer scream. I’ve got a dozen books to read. I have some catching up to do considering I spent my 20′s being unselfish.
• I’m sorry if I’m always the one with the ideas, suggestions, places to go. I’m selfish. I want to go where I want to go.
• I’m sorry I take off on weekends and don’t invite you. I like my getaways alone and don’t feel the need to be around people all the time.
• And I’m sorry if I enjoy being by myself. I love me.

Peace and one love always.

xo

I met him at the club.  He was about two inches shorter than me, but the confidence level of King Fucking Kong.  He had swag times ten.  And this turned me on the minute I turned my head and locked eyes with his.  He simply tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to his ring finger with questioning eyes.  I put my left hand up and shook my head.  #NoBeyonce  He signaled for me to go on over and I, the ever shy and reserved newfound single self that I was, lowered my eyes and semi-smiled.  I wouldn’t dare, would I?

He noticed my hesitation and came over and took my hand and led me to the V.I.P. booth.

Lemme tell you about Cash Money.  He was light-skinned with hazel eyes.  His hair was waved perfectly and his face was lined up to the point where I wanted to trace my manicured fingernail along his chin to feel if it was real.  He smiled a lot.  And when he laughed, his eyes lit up like a little boy.  I swear if I were to hear DFJZ‘s laugh, it’d be the same thing.  I was smitten.  And there was only one thing I wanted to do to him.

I wanted to sit on his pretty face.

He wanted to drive me home that first night and I felt no ill ways about letting him do so.  That was sign number one that this was going to be a fun “ride”.  I’m getting butterflies now just remembering the anticipation I was feeling back then.

The drive uptown was easy and carefree.  I felt like I’d known him my whole life.  We were comfortable and smiling and flirting and even though he was driving stick, he made sure to keep touching my hand.  This was the excitement I needed in my life.  I’d never had a one-night stand.  But that night, somewhere between the glass of wine and the way he danced behind me, that shy girl decided she was getting the pipe.

I told him I didn’t want to go home just yet and led him to the park down the street from my house.  Perfect setting right?

He killed the engine and we were in complete darkness.  I could make out his silhouette and the brightness of his eyes.  It was early Spring and just the right temperature for a good romp in the car with a stranger.  How daring was I?

We sat and talked for what seemed like hours, my head filled with erotic thoughts of this exotic-looking man and what I wanted him to do to me.  I kept wishing he’d make a move, lean in for a kiss, smell my hair, nuzzle my neck, anything.  I was ready.

Finally, I built up the courage enough to turn my head seductively and whisper, “I’d really like for you to kiss me” like a 15-year old schoolgirl.  And he did.  His lips were soft and smooth and sweet (his breath was always minty fresh) and he kissed me long enough to have me wanting more.  I  smile now as I remember his face.  I ran my fingers along the definition of his arms, inviting him further.  I entwined my fingers behind his neck and pulled him closer to me, wanting to feel all THAT defining muscle on top of me.

But what he said next was the reason he remained in my life all those months, longer than any man ever stayed in my life since my separation.

In his confident, sexy, Negro way about him, he said:

“Baby girl, I’m feelin’ ya, y’know?  I want you.  I mean, I want you bad.  But I ain’t goin’ any further.  You’re gonna get this dick, I can assure you.  But it ain’t gonna happen for another three months.  I want you to know I’m fo’ real”.  Pussy move right?  I know.  But we not discussing that now.

And with that, I was sprung……

Thank you Mr. Jonez for posting the new profile pic and for bringing me back to that time in my life.  I won’t tell you what I want to do to you every time I see you tweet.

Peace and one love always…..

xo

Lemme size you up....

Ok, maybe not so much wooed.  But they sure impressed us.  And yes, yes….they proved us wrong…..SOME men haven’t lost the art of conversation.  

It was an awesome evening.  It was so awesome that the powers-that-be are making it an annual affair.  We were in great company – even Twitter friends came out *waves at Hayle and Tisha* – in a great atmosphere and at the receiving end of some great words – including one of our faves…….”fuck”.  Know how to use it gentleman. 

Dennis

The men arrived lookin’, smellin’ like a million bucks, reciting poetry and quoting edited versions of famous rap lyrics:

Good evenin’ ladies and gentlemen, how’s everybody doin’ tonight? (alright, alright) I’d like to welcome to the stage, the lyrically acclaimed, ha…I like this young man because, when he came out, he came out with the phrase, he went from ashy to classy, ha, I like that….so everybody in the house, give a warm round of applause for………….Jimmy Smalls.  Jimmy Smalls ladies and gentlemen, give it up for him y’all.

@Tisha123's fortune that evening.....

We didn’t ask for much.  We just wanted a handful of men to show up and “converse” (not “conversate” Dennis!!)  And although some of them thought they weren’t prepared, they were confident enough to stand amidst the crowd of ladies.  Max and Skye and I sat back and gave the participants feedback (ok, Max and Skye gave feedback, I’m shy) while the ladies in the audience voted for who they thought was “Toronto’s Most Cunning Linguist“.

I was enthralled simply by being in the presence of all the testosterone beauty of the men and their words.  But there were a few pointers as denoted by the judges that I’d like to share with you:

• Quit your rambling.  We get lost in your words.  
• Chivalry isn’t dead.  Some women just don’t know how to appreciate it.
• Be smart (read: nerdy).  Our legs minds will open more freely.
• Being nervous is natural.  We like that.  
• Ask questions, show interest, be you.
  

  Rorey and Isaac

In the words of the great HLBB, “Speak your heart and hers will follow”.  Simple right?

Much to my surprise and contentment, HLBB presented the certificate to the man who wore the Air Force Ones that captured Max’s heart (and he fully admitted to having relations wearing ‘em)……

“Tonight, you’ve made a room full of women smile, and even more importantly you’ve given them hope. When they left here tonight they left thinking, ‘Yes…there are still some men out there who can talk to a woman’.

Not flirt, not insult, not argue, but talk…they way only a grown man knows how…

Your intelligence and eloquence did more than just impress us.

It made us want you.

These are your bragging rights…in writing and approved by the powerful ladies that be.

Let it be known that on June 23, 2011… you were declared TORONTO’S MOST CUNNING LINGUIST.

Congratulations to “Jimmy Smalls”, who is Toronto’s Most Cunning Linguist!”

Toronto's Most Cunning Linguist

Many thanks to the mastermind behind this event, the wonderful HLBB, the eloquent sexiness that is Skye and the one and only Max.  You ladies are the reason I write.  I am in awe of being in such poignant company.  Thank you to Good For Her who provided a goody bag and to Jeff and the wonderful staff at Tequila Bookworm.

Skye. Enough said.

HLBB's 5 inches. Growl.

My special, heartfelt shoutouts to the homies of mine that came out.  Jessi, Tiffany, Nevena, Amanda, Nicole, Ashlee and my sidekick/BFF Linda…..I owe you and love you all to death!!

My boys - Rorey, Isaac, Fabian, Dennis and Jimmy.  You proved me wrong and I’m woman enough to admit it.  You have my heart.  Thank you.

Peace and love always my dear friends.

p.s.  Much love to Mr. Dwayne Morgan.  Your CD is on steady repeat on my iPhone.  And The Man Sam Sharpe?  I’m still tingling *winks*

Maxine's shoes - More fuckable than the Air Force One's.