Birdboy

Opposites do attract, it's true. But that attraction can just be superficial, skin deep. It's when there is what is beyond what eyes can see, that attraction can turn to admiration and more. Thanks for your insights, Liana! I also thank you for your praise, Astrid. ;)

I've made clothing requests, but only very rarely and they tend to be very prosaic. They had tended to be something that would totally not raise eyebrows in public. All the same, I can understand the appeal of wanting something that is far out of your everyday experience, something that is at the back of one of your deepest desires. I've found, though, that my most successful sessions have when I've told the lady to wear what makes them most comfortable.

Ribs. I love ribs and crave them from time to time. It's funny since I love fine food so much, but one of my guilty pleasures is a big plate of the chain restaurant Tony Roma's ribs.

My alt girl told me that my story made her cry. She thanked me then, not for the story, but for making her cry! See, I told you that we had a mutual pain thing going on. ;) Thanks, everyone, for the kind words and the nominations. Additional Comments: I caught the lady I was with this afternoon, trying to sneak a glimpse at my wrist.

How time flies. I've been on this board for about four years now but I've only started posting in earnest about a year ago. It's taken me this long to reach a hundred posts, of which this is that centenary number. To mark the occasion, I've written a tale that is truly fitting in that it couldn't have been written without my being here on CERB. Enjoy, my dear readers. -- bb ................................................................................................ Long ago, I was in one of my peculiar moods. I wanted something different. Something out of the usual for me. I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted tattoos, piercings, ink writ large on a hot body and an angel's face. I wanted a crazy time with an alt girl. I found what I was looking for right away. She had bright, unnaturally red hair and creamy white skin. And of course, she had many tattoos and piercings. I dug deeper, and found her posts showing her spirited and spunky side. I read on into the night and knew I had to meet her. She would be my walk on the wild side, a suicide grrl that would give my the fun fun fun times I was looking for. But when I finally walked through her door, it was fun of a slightly different flavor. Oh, I wasn't quite as anonymous to her as I had thought I would be. She had read me like a book, as soon as she set eyes on me. She knew what I really wanted even better than I did. And without a word, she slipped that pierced tongue into my mouth, and we kissed tenderly like long-lost lovers. I hesitated for a moment, then changed gears. I was gentle, undressing her slowly, kissing every inch of that inked skin. I discovered her paint, read her personal credos, explored every piercing delicately with my fingertips and tongue. When I finally entered her, it was the homecoming for a place I never knew I missed. We lay back, afterwards, nestled snuggly between her sheets. I intertwined my fingers with hers and we chatted for a time. I looked at her tattoos one at a time, touching each one for emphasis as we talked. They told the story of her life, vignettes rendered in multicolored ink, and every one had a special meaning. She was genial and good natured, until I reached *the* tattoo. I felt her tense up as I ran my fingertips over it and I felt the tiny ripple of scar tissue. I saw the uncomfortable flicker in her eyes and changed the subject then, in the best way I knew how. I kissed her, softly, sensually. Too soon, it was time for me to go. I thought about her for days afterwards, closing my eyes and remembering her soft touch, her gentle kiss, the feel of her hard metal on my tongue. I called her and she was glad to hear from me. And soon enough I was in her arms, tasting those kisses, stroking her fine fine inked skin. We lay back afterwards. Her tattoos fascinated me, and I stroked and kissed each one of them in turn. I glanced down at the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. The tiny ripple of scar tissue it covered was barely visible in the dim light. I looked at her for a moment, then took her hand in mine. I traced her fingertip on the ridges of scar tissue barely visible on the suntanned skin on the inside of the wrist. My own wrist. "I have one too." She looked at me in surprise, then opened her mouth to say something and thought better of it. "I was young." I tensed as she ran her fingers along the scar and looked more closely. It was a little souvenir from the lowest point of the most trying years of my life. It was a small scar, barely visible. The plastic surgeon was a good one and most people didn't notice it unless I pointed it out. I remembered the blood, the wild ambulance ride, waking up bandaged with my family and friends around me. But that was just the proverbial tip of the iceberg. Sometimes the scars and the tales that are most meaningful are on the inside, not scattered in Technicolor memories on your skin. She watched me for a moment. I could tell she was thinking. She held me close then, soft kisses, her warmth and gentle perfume wafting close. She reached down and started to stroke my cock and in spite of the intensity of the moment I started to get hard. She climbed aboard, slipping me inside her. She was warm and she was tight, and she held me down as she started to ride me hard. I forgot about.. well whatever it was I was thinking about. I was getting close. I rolled her off of me, mounted her doggie. I rammed her hard, again and again. My eyes were squinched tight not only in the mad fury of the moment but also to hold back the tears. I pulled out and sprayed my fear, my pain, my years of regret all over the elaborate tattoo on the small of her back. I looked up to see her watching me. She mumbled something in that cute accent of hers and ran off, returning with a towel. Huh. It's funny, I thought. This is what I thought I was looking for at the beginning of all this, and yet it came when I was least expecting it. Sometimes true intimacy starts in this world, not with a gentle kisses and caresses but with something wild and rough. For it's only when you trust, that you truly let go. And sometimes what awaits you is not quite what you expected. Something special happened then. We shared not just the good, but the worst that had happened with each other. Our stories spilled out of each other. Every wonderful, sordid, evil detail. We held each other close, each wanting to shield the other from the world. We met into the fall and winter, sharing our lives, our love, our little tales. But sometimes you can become too close. Sometimes you can share too much. And in the end, the hurt and the pain that we had shared with each other defined our relationship and pushed us apart. Because some secrets are too big, too horrible to be contained in more than one heart. I think about her sometimes, my inked beauty, and wonder where she is and how she is doing. But she left me one gift I'll always treasure. Sometimes when I'm feeling lonely or sad I'll feel the faint white scars on my wrist with my fingertips and it'll make me think of her. She had taken away the bad memories and shame that those lines meant to me and replaced them with memories of her instead. I dream then of her smile, her pale creamy skin, her pierced tongue on mine. I smile back at her memory. And everything is alright in the world again.

Thank you, Cato and Mutau, my literary brothers. I have an idea for another tale so stay tuned!

There is always a moment of disorientation whenever I wake up somewhere I've never slept before. The light is different here. I can sense that I'm lying in a different direction than I am when I'm at home. The bed feels different. And unusually for me today, there is a warm body beside me, soft breathing the only sound I hear. I turn and look at her. Her face is angelic in the dim light. Her brow is smooth, free from the cares of the world. I wonder idly what she is dreaming about at this moment. Her chest daintily rises and falls in her slumber. I remember everything now. I met her for the very first time the last time I was in town. She drew me in with her soft kisses, lulling me into a sense of comfort and grace before welcoming me to town with a bang. She pounced on me, frenzied savage lust the spice following the sugar. I was stunned at this woman, a unexpectedly satisfying delight. I left town starry eyed and a little in awe and I thought about her from time to time for quite a while after that trip. The day came when I knew that I would be returning. I wrote asking about an extended visit. I wrote that I enjoyed the time when when we met very much, and that I hoped for more than last time. I wanted a longer little vacation from the rough scrum of my daily life. And I wanted her to be my companion for that trip from reality. But I knew that we hardly knew each other. I knew that a brand new travelling companion on that vacation from life could be a challenge. We might find that we didn't really get along. I could be disappointed. It was a risk indeed, and I held my breath for a moment when I pressed send on my message. But she wrote back, saying that she'd be thrilled to spend so much time with me. So here I was now. I thought back to last evening, bare hours ago. She could have asked to go to any number of fancy restaurants, ordered extravagantly and she knew that I would have picked up her tab without a word. But we went to a fun place that we both had talked about, piling our plates high with buffet food, getting tipsy on silly fruity drinks with umbrellas. We had a grand time, she and I, joking and laughing. It felt natural to be with her, like she was my best friend in the whole world. And though I wanted the fun to start in earnest, those improbable girly drinks made me bold. I whispered an indecent proposal into her ear. Something I knew she wouldn't be expecting. Something a little indiscreet. Her eyes opened wide before turning to me with a smile and saying, "Sure." And that is how we came to be walking hand in hand along the river pathway, her head on my shoulder, late into the evening. We talked on and on, not about the polite subjects of barely familiar aquaintances but about some of the deeper topics that can polarize and divide. Religion. Politics. But perhaps not too surprisingly, we were in complete agreement on the subject of sex. And later that night, the subject came up again. But this time she had me right where she wanted me, riding me like the western cowgirl she was. And I bucked and snorted and played my part. She made me feel like a stallion, and we rode long and hard into the night. I held her tenderly afterwards, kissing her softly as we drifted off to sleep. I think I fell in love a little last evening. And now, the reality is starting to creep around me, inexorably, like the tide. I don't even know her real name. And I know that after tomorrow morning, we'll both go our separate ways. We'll forget about this evening and each other, and go on with our lives. I suddenly felt alone and empty, in spite of this delightful creature beside me in this bed. I looked out the window at the brightly lit office towers of the city, and saw the sky is getting every so slightly light off to the east. That morning will be here soon, before I know it. That moment of reckoning, when I watch her walk away, is close at hand. The stars glittered down, cold points of ice, mocking me. I know money can't buy happiness. But that never stops me from trying to. I look down at her. Her chest gingerly rises and falls, rises and falls. It's almost as if she knows I'm watching her. I know that if she was awake she would be kissing my mouth, stroking my back, whispering her secrets. Making me feel wanted. She's asleep, though. But she still stirs in her repose. She turned on her side, away from me before snuggling back against me. I put my arm around her waist without thinking, drawing her close to me. And she smiled in her unconscious reverie as we spoon. I feel my heart fill with joy to see her unselfconscious smile at the feel of my warmth. No, money can't buy happiness. I know that I have to find that myself. And I do find it, in the smallest of things, and sometimes when I least expect it. I'm happy from the warmth and the closeness of her. I'm happy that I can make her smile spontaneously, when both of us least expect it. And more than anything else, I'm happy that I still get to spend a couple of more hours with her. I look outside at the city, the sky deep indigo. The stars are twinkling their blessings now. My loneliness is gone. I settle back down, and nuzzle her soft, fragrant hair. I fall asleep in moments.

Scorchin' story, Liana! A collaboration would be interesting, to say the least. ;)

Thanks, Tina. Yes, I've considered it. ;) Perhaps someday. These are tales that I've lived and written about and there are some that I am still living. As Natasha Bedingfield had sung, "...the rest is still unwritten."

I fascinate my readers endlessly. My fans face to face? Well... hey, did I tell you I fascinate my readers? ;) :D

Whether 'tis nobler indeed, to live a life unfeeling or to want to be among the eternally still. Yes, it is painful to be alive, but to be alive brings the possibility of joy. Just, perhaps, not at the moment. ;)

"The Crying Game". Once you watch *the* scene, you can't see the actor in quite the same way afterwards.

By a special request, I'm reposting the story that I had posted, then removed. Please enjoy this tale... again. _______________________________________________________ Pooner Diaries: Truth (originally posted 14 July 2011) I know you've been reading these stories for a while now. And by now, I imagine that you're probably wondering about me. Who I am. What it would be like to be with me in person. You want to know the truth. So you've been reading these stories, poring over every clue, every detail. Trying to put the pieces together, and to figure out who the feathered enigma behind them is. I'm going to break it to you gently. You won't find the truth in these tales. Looking for the truth on an escort review board is a search for the proverbial needle in the haystack, a pointless snipe hunt in the electronic age. For as this business is the fulfillment of fantasies, entertainment in the most intense sense, my tales are light fabrications of the sexy kind. Like my times with the ladies, my tales are meant to be enjoyed, savored, then forgotten. Till the next time. What's that you say? You're still curious? Well, perhaps I'll show you the truth sometime. You see, the truth could never be anything I could say, or anything I could do in these words here. You might glimpse a glimmer of truth in an animated discussion over coffee, unrestrained laughter as I tell a funny tale. Perhaps there will be a spark of truth in a quiet walk together down a tree-lined lane on a hot summer night as we near your home. The truth is in my fingertips on the back of your neck, my lips grazing your cheek as I move closer to whisper in your ear. The truth is in my hands stroking your hair as I gently kiss your lips, as if it were for the very first time. The truth is in our thrusts together, wild and free as we share our pleasure. The truth is in the little explosions we both have, where the world is lost to us for the briefest of moments where we are together but alone in our joy. And the truth is there when we lie together, skin cooling, our limbs twined together. The truth is there because it is when we are together I am bare to you. I will have no words to hide behind then. It is then that you see my face, hear my voice first hand. You'll see me naked. Not just because we are skin to skin, but also because you've looked into my eyes and peered into my soul. It is there that you'll find the truth you seek, and who I really am. And like art, you won't know what the truth is, but you'll know it when you see it. And I know you'll find it.

I just spent a very pleasant but much too short visit to Montreal. I never did make it to Garde Manger. I just couldn't get a reservation no how, no way and on a suggestion I walked up right at opening hoping to get seated at the bar but it was fully booked- even early in the week. But as with the rest of life, pleasant surprises abound when you least expect them. I had a magical evening at a small neighborhood restaurant well outside of Old Montreal. I was seated in an outdoor patio, eating foie gras and confit, drinking wine. Edith Piaf played in the background, everyone spoke French around me and my dinner companion. I was transported back to my brief visit to Paris for a precious few moments. I'd highly recommend Le Deux Gamins in Plateau Mont-Royal, and I know I'll be back. I also was able to spend a very happy hour or so wandering around Marche Atwater, gathering bread, pate, cheese, fruit and wine for a very simple meal later on a high balcony overlooking the city and the setting sun. It's true, sometimes the simplest pleasures are the best. And the women. Oh. My. God. The women. Old and young, thick and thin, casual and elegant. There are so many utterly beautiful women here. I seriously will have a thing for French women after this. I just want to thank everyone again for all your suggestions. I only wish I could have explored all of them, but of course, that's what future trips are for.

Thanks for the tip, Ilovegirls. I checked out Le Garde Manger on Urbanspoon and I have mixed feelings, several of the reviewers mentioned an attitude like they were doing you a favor by letting you eat there and that kind of thing really grates on me. Still, I should see for myself. I'll be making a reservation as soon as I know when I'm going to be in town.... if they'll let me make one. The Auberge du Vieux Port sounds great, but I think I have accommodations settled already as I'll be staying with a friend. I'd definitely consider it on a future trip!

Thanks again, mistert. You're a font of helpful information! Foie gras poutine? I'm conflicted about foie gras... but I know I'd be tempted to try it. Livers are overrated anyway. ;)

The Laurentians look lovely. The hiking and cycling look especially appealing, and the path is ever so more attractive when you know there'll be a fine meal and a glass of wine at the end of the day. Thanks, Emma. There are so many things I to want to do already, though, and I suspect the trip will already be exciting as opposed to relaxing. It's clear that I'm going to have to face this trip like I'm going to come back sometime, which I think I will be.

Pintxo sounds well worth checking out. It's funny, one of Winnipeg's best restaurants is Segovia and it's along a very similar theme. Their menu is almost completely Spanish tapas with no entrees offered. They offer traditional tapas done very well, but they really shine at their 'nueva cochina'. It's nominally fusion tapas, but where many fusion dishes at other restaurants are seemingly done just for novelty's sake here some of the most unlikely ingredients are combined to form the most harmonious combinations. My mouth's watering right now. Jean-Talon market is already on my list. And I'll always have the energy to seek out the perfect god-shot espresso. Thanks, great ideas. Additional Comments: I may have to make a separate trip just to take in the best of Montreal's other sensual delights!

Bar-B-Barn sounds like a must visit. I love barbeque. I think I've gotten a few suggestions now for Le garde Manger. Anyone eaten there? Additional Comments: Ah, the Montreal women. Sigh.

Thank you very much, mistert and RobX! I think that with Montreal, the problem is not in finding things to see and places to go, but rather in narrowing the options down. I'll check these places out.

I fell in love with all things French some years ago on a trip to Paris. Oh, I knew I would like the place but I was totally unprepared for how head over heels I would fall. I loved the culture, the art, the architecture. I loved the stylish women, who would smile indulgently at me as I struggled to speak my rudimentary French. And most of all, I loved the food. I loved how Parisians would visit small shops to buy just enough cheese, fresh bread, meat, and vegetables for that evening. Perhaps even some cut flowers for the table. And they would spend their evenings making and eating their leisurely suppers with a little wine and perhaps good company. I came home from that trip and tried to live my life a little differently. I wanted to have a slower pace of life. I wanted to live a simpler life and savor fewer fine things rather than mass consume many mediocre ones. But old habits die hard, and I drifted back to my old ways eventually. I'm sorry to say that my French indulgences are now few and far between. An occasional glass of French wine, a croissant from a really fine local French bakery. The odd meal at one of the few good French restaurants in my city. Smiles from my French-speaking friends as I still struggle with speaking my poor French. Returning to Paris is out of reach for me, at least for anytime soon. But I can do the next best thing, at least as far as a Canadian is concerned. For the first time in my Western-Canada dwelling life, I'm going to visit Montreal later this year. So, all you fine folk, I'm looking for suggestions for things to do and especially great places to eat. I already know about the famed smoked meats, the poutine, the squeaky cheese. But I'm wondering what else I should be checking out. I'm looking for the sublime, perhaps even the unusual. I'm not really looking for hobby-related suggestions. Those attractions in Montreal are well storied throughout the rest of Canada, and I'm sure I would have no difficulty there.

Good on you, Daniel17. You're a stronger person than I am. In most other parts of my life, when I'm done, I'm done. But in matters of the heart, well, I'm an eternal optimist, sometimes to my detriment. You've captured the tone and sensations of the situation well.

Ah, Mutau. Glad to hear from you again. Thank you!

Redacted. Changed my mind.

Here's a tale from a couple of years ago. It's my ode to curiosity, those nagging questions in your mind about the lady or gent who is the intimate stranger before you. Please enjoy. bb ______________________________________________________________ Who are you, anyway? No, really. I'd like to know. Are you the sweet lady who took my coat, and traded it for a warm embrace at the door? The porn star who rode me hard from the word go, leaving me with wobbly knees, dehydration, and exhaustion? Or the domme who commanded subservience from even before I came in the door, demanding that I not darken her doorstep without her venti Starbucks? Or the schoolgirl, sweet, petite, and dressed to thrill? The lady for the fetishist, clad in latex from head to foot. Or just the lovely, manicured feet? You are all those things, and none of them. You are what I ask of you, or what you think that I want. I suppose I shouldn't care who you really are, as long as I get what I'm looking for. I see you, and I only see what you let me see. But I still can't help but be curious. I want to see how far down the rabbit hole goes. I want to know if you walk the talk. You once described yourself to me as a social chameleon. I didn't understand then, but I do now. You will give of yourself, and give your all, to make yourself into what is asked of you. You will become that person that I want. And I will believe that you are what I asked for. As long as I don't look too closely, or think about it too much. Maybe I'll see the real you someday, whoever you are. Or maybe I just want to believe that I will, and that I'll see what I want to see. Or maybe you'll show me the real you. And I'll still like you anyway.