Birdboy

Hey you. Yeah, you. I'm talking to you. You know who you are. I think we're alone now. I just want to tell you something. I know, you're wondering why I'm talking to you like this. Why don't I just call you or email you, or send a PM. It's not that simple. I want so much to tell you what I'm thinking, but I just can't. It's not that easy. I try so hard to be cool around you. I act so casually when we talk. I want you to think that I'm just your run of the mill horny dude. Just another guy on the board. Just another client. We've known each other for a while. We talk, we joke, we whisper our secrets to each other. We have some laughs, have some fun. Simple, right? Maybe not. You see, I have this wild crush on you. My heart races whenever I see one of your posts, or whenever I see one of your pictures. My heart aches when I haven't heard from you in a while. I yearn to be in touch with you, and I curse the distance and the rules of comportment that divides us. I want more. More than I could possibly ask of you. More than I would ever have any right to, in this crazy hobby and business. I just couldn't possibly really tell you the way that I really feel. I don't want to become another entry in your gallery of creepy guys. Someone who you might even think is bare inches away from being a stalker. Someone who might complicate your life, and distract you from being good at what you do. This is why I'm telling you, but I'm not really telling you. It's easier this way. You might suspect, but you'll never, ever know for sure that I ever felt this way. I know this crush will pass eventually, and I'll be back to my old self. But right now, I ache to be near you, to touch you, to hold you, to shelter you from harm. Take care, my pretty one. See you soon. I can't wait.

Yes indeed, diems should be carpe'd. Thanks, reddog. Just think for a moment, what opportunities are you letting pass you by now? Thank you, Dorinda! That's much nicer than the accolades I read last week, scribbled on a bathroom stall wall. "Birdboy gives good word- 555-1212". :lol: Ah, Alexis. A collaboration with you would be divine. Let's do lunch and discuss all the possibilities.... :)

Thank you everyone, for your delightful praise! It's response like this that makes it all worthwhile. Ah, Jolie. Glad you enjoyed it. Need help with your back getting scrubbed in that cold shower? :wink: Moonshadow, welcome to the dark side. We'll have you mainlining on Silhoutte romances in no time. Remember, the first taste is free. :sm185: Antlerman and Mutau, the Diaries are just a little bit of fun for me. It's my other writing that keeps a roof over my head. And Alexis.. I could be lost in your charms while you were lost in my words. Perhaps Mutau is on to something with that collaboration idea. :grin:

I've never been nervous around her before. She has that gift of putting most people at ease, and I was no exception. I'm not easily rattled. But what has made me tense is the pull of a siren call into uncharted waters. She is a friend. We have much in common. A similar outlook on life, similar tastes. Shared personality traits. We clicked from the very first moment. We talk for hours, and we talk often. I've made friends of many ladies in this hobby. But she's different. She's just a friend. A friend who also just happens to be an escort. And just being friends has always been OK with us. But I now feel a certain undercurrent, a certain tension when I'm with her. We share the simple pleasure of the mutual tease, the subtle and sometimes not so subtle flirting that we do with each other. I also feel it in the way she touches my forearm when we talk, and the way we lean in conspiratorically, very closely, when we share secrets. We've always done these things. We come by this flirting naturally, it's in our respective natures. It would amuse us and this tease always ran like water off of a swan's back, immediately forgotten. But now, the words do more than just entertain. They have edged past my defences and have found their way to my heart and regions south. I've dreamt about being with her. And I'm dreaming of her right now. I dream of coming to her door, her having made herself ready for me. Her ritual of bath, makeup, lotion and perfume. Her donning her battle armor of the most ethereal and filmy nothings, lace and translucency fashioned from the finest of fabrics. And she greets me at the door, her smile broad, her easy grace melting the hard expression on my face from the stress of my day. I hesitate for a moment. I stand at the precipice. Our friendship will take on a new dimension. I step forward into the abyss, and cross the Rubicon. We share a long anticipated embrace. Her body is warm and soft as I pull her close, looking into those eyes I know so well. They glitter with anticipation now, as I close my eyes and we kiss. I'm gentle, I'm tentative. Our mouths open and our tongues touch and probe, the tension building as we feel the slickness and the warmth. Our tongues coupling, mimicking in minature the pleasures our bodies will soon be sharing. We continue for some time, lost in the moment. I finally speak. "Hey." My capacity for easy patter is momentarily gone. Luckily, there's no more need for words. We move together, and walk into the bedroom as one. We stop beside the bed, and I can't believe I'm finally doing this. I take her in my arms again, and taste her lips. Kissing her is glorious. I could see spending the entire time in her arms and in her face, gently savoring the experience. But I finally move on, carefully sliding her short robe off of her soft shoulders, letting it slip to the ground. I kiss that delightful skin, smelling the faint aroma of her soap. I lightly brush my lips against her neck, skimming my teeth lightly over the gently elastic skin, and reach her ear. I ever so gently nip her earlobe with my lips, gingerly blowing hot breath into her ear. She looks up, and her eyes meet mine. She smiles, and the tide turns in an instant. There is an animal look in her eyes as she sizes me up for just a fraction of a second. She lunges, puts her mouth on mine, hungrily chewing my lips. Thrusting her tongue into my mouth, probing. There is no subtlety or pretense any more, only raw animal passion. I slip one of the straps of her camisole off her shoulder and pull it down, wondering if it is going to tear. One perfect creamy breast is exposed, the pink icecap of her nipple the summit of a snowy white mountain. I roughly push her down on the bed, her face registering surprise and then pleasure as I pounce on her breast, firmly cupping it with my hand, kneading, as I nimbly chew her nipple. She closes her eyes and breathes heavily, a low moan barely escaping her lips. We explode into action. Our remaining clothes come off in a blur, flying into the air and landing every which way on the floor, scattering like autumn leaves. The gloves are off now figuratively, along literally with every other stitch of our clothing. We throw our arms around each other, our hands roaming and kneading, our mouths on each other. She deftly and smoothly puts me off balance. I land on the bed, my mouth making an O of surprise as my back strikes the mattress. She strikes, leaping onto me, her hands gripping my wrists firmly. She places her weight on me, straddling my hips. She has me right where she wants me. And with a shark's grin of a smile and a gleam of her eyes, she starts to rub herself on my erection. I see her eyes get that faraway glaze as I struggle against my bound wrists and her exquisite teasing. As they say, when violation is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it. And though I can't easily get up, I can still thrust and rub back, with quick, short, and brisk tilts of my hips. And a few minutes of this and she shivers and freezes, finding her way home with a high-pitched cry. She's been distracted. It's my moment to move. I roll, putting her on her back. It is her turn to be surprised. And my hands come free in the confusion, and I take her wrists in my hands as I enter her. The hunter has become the hunted. She bucks, she moans, she calls out to her inner demons and her personal gods. And I slip the surly bonds of this earth as I wheel and soar and swing high into the sunlit silence. One last thrust, and I touch the face of God. I'm exhausted, and we both pant, clad in our light cloak of sweat from a challenge well met. I lie back with a smile, and I close my eyes. And a moment later.. ...I open my eyes. And see the empty room around me, the computer screen glowing back coldly at me, my skin dry and cool. For this was all in my imagination, a pleasant diversion on a spring afternoon. It was only a fantasy, though one that was so real and so close I could almost feel her touch on me, smell her perfume. A wiser person than I pointed out that you only go around in this life once. That you should take every opportunity to do whatever makes you happiest. Now that I think about it, it was her. And somehow, I have a feeling that she'll back me up on this one. My nervousness is gone now. I pick up my phone.

It is the risk, the reward, the yin and yang that drives us in life. You could sit by passively and just wait for things to drop into your lap.. or you can take that chance, that leap of faith. Your post was thought provoking, Alexis. I'll post a story about a leap of faith I once took, a long time ago, and have never regretted it.

;) Thanks nutty! There will be more, stay tuned.

It's late. It's dark. It's so quiet. I hear nothing but the beat of my heart in my ears, the soft rustle of sheets as I turn in my bed. I can't sleep. It's all I can do, to lie here in the dark and think of her. I treasure my memories of her. Her warming my breath with hers, our hearts beating a crazy rhythm in unison. The feel of that soft skin. The way her face transformed. Seeing it change from merely very pretty to heartbreakingly beautiful though the alchemy of a simple smile. Her gentle laugh. It wasn't so long ago, really, since she was last right here beside me. But it feels like a small eternity now. And I suspect that it will be a eternity of waiting, in vain, before she is here again. Our first meeting was supposed to be a lark. A bit of fun, I figured. A romp with a pretty face. But that door swung open, and thunder struck us both. Our first kiss was magical. We both pulled away, a little surprised by the electricity between us, hot sparks waiting to burst into flame. And burn we did, that first time. It was a conflagration that consumed us both, our passion glowing white-hot, the throes of our releases sweeping away the world around us. Our worlds shrunk to my mouth on hers, her hands in mine as we romped. Again and again and again. She had become a habit, before I realized it. She was supposed to be a casual fling that I would enjoy occasionally. But I saw her often. And I realized one day, too late for caution, that she had captured my heart. I knew nothing of this woman, save the small talk she shared, the light jest whenever we met. But I felt, in the deepest marrow of my bones, the resonance of our souls rumbling its basso profundo whenever we were together. And I knew she felt it too. But she's young. Too young to know better. Too young to realize how rare what we have is. Too young to know that this kind of magic doesn't come easy in this hardscrabble, fast paced world. And sadly, too young to care very much back. I set her free. I let her get away, to go on to her next adventure. I know that she's resolute in the belief that the next bit of magic, the next bit of incredible chemistry is just around the corner. I didn't try to explain otherwise. Some things can only be learned, not taught. Letting her go was the right thing to do, the gentlemanly thing to do. And lying here, in this bed, it was the hardest thing in the world to do.

The subconscious truth is that you know that you have these ties. Invisible, indestructible, stretching infinite distance and undetectable by science yet as real and as concrete as the walls around you, the computer that you are reading this on. They are there whether you are thinking about them or not, no matter how far you are from your loved ones. That is the first subconscious truth. The second is that you can develop these ties for someone you've never met, never heard their voice, never seen their face. They may be disembodied words on a cold computer screen. And yet these ties may be as real as some that you have had with the people you have met in person, laughed with, loved.

Why alexiss.. that's very very nice for you to say. Thank you! I see that there are certain similarities in the themes between this story and your 'I am who I am' post. I think that perhaps these similarities echo the way we both think and feel about this business we're in. Interesting. Ah, to be Alberta bound.. meeting in person could be epic. ;)

I have a rather different take on this. I mean, we all put our best foot forward, especially with people we don't know well. And I can safely say that I know very few people on this forum with any more than a passing impression based on their posts, so I'm a perfect angel here. ;) But this business goes beyond just that superficial, first impressions glance. I believe that there are many ladies in this business who portray themselves as very different from what they are, not because of insecurities, but because they believe it to be good business. As much as I would love to believe otherwise, I know that this business is all about fantasy fulfillment. And as individual fantasies are as varied as the people behind them, it is useful to all things to all people- the warm and sensual GFE, the fiery-hot PSE, the domme.. the list goes on and on. I don't see it as always just acting. I like to believe that it might be just showing an amplified aspect of their personalities that they might not show in their usual life, or perhaps it is acting out a fantasy of their own.

Sometimes people have asked me who the ladies in my tales were. They want to meet these wonderful ladies that have made my heart sing and my loins rumble. They want to live my life, the one where I've travelled from blissed bed to dais of delight and back again. I don't usually say. I just smile and say that they are fictional. But to a very few close friends, I might just leak a hint or two as to who they really are. And more often than not, I've gotten the response... "Her?" They marvel, for they may have even paid her a call and didn't see what I saw. Or they think that she's nice enough, but not my type, thank you. The less guarded of them, perhaps their tongues loosened after a couple of drinks, may have even said, "In your fantasies, Birdie!" Now, I don't think that I'm luckier than the next guy who comes along, or that I have better skills at choosing my play partners. But I have noticed that my favorite ladies have tended to have a few things in common. They are never the knockout babe, the twentysomething tall model with the perfect body, high cheekbones and immaculate hair. They are only very rarely the forum favorite, dozens of men watching and fawning over their every movement and their every post. No. They are usually the ladies who are lesser known, perhaps half in the shadows. They are not a runway-worthy knockouts, but more likely to be the cute soccer-mom next door. I'll bet you might even have passed by her unnoticed, standing in line at the grocery store, never even guessing what she did in her spare moments. In this business, choosing the knockout is just too obvious. I mean, great looks are nice, but have no correlation with a great time for me. My favorite ladies have been the ones that I felt some small kinship with and have sensed that kinship in return. Perhaps we might not really have a lot in common, outside this world. But we share the fondness for that tender touch, that gentle brush of my lips on her earlobes, that slow buildup to that mad sweaty raucous ruckus. They've had what they call the spark, the chemistry, that fit of tongue in groove, pun intended. These ladies have often given a little of themselves to me. It hasn't been just their bodies, because that just comes with the territory. Perhaps it's that they've shared a little secret with me. Perhaps they had been a little extra kind to me after a hard day at my office. It's been something, just a little tidbit that has made my heart sing and the words flow. And in return, I've placed them into my stories, told them in prose what I really felt but couldn't say. Made them legendary, for that is the way I really see them. And I'm sorry that everyone can't see them the way that I do. But I can put you in my shoes for a time. I can tell you, dear reader, the way that they have made me feel. And I can bring you into my world for just a few paragraphs, in the only way I know how. And these ladies will become legendary to you too.

I pursed my lips at my reflection in the mirror. The suit I was wearing had seen better days. It was rumpled and there was a faint smudge of makeup just visible on the shoulder. But those things can be easily fixed. The jacket, which pulled tightly over my newly discovered muscles after a summer of working out, and my pants, which were uncomfortably tight after some good livin'.. those were a little harder to make right. I've never really been a suit kind of guy. I've always had one at the back of my closet for weddings, funerals, and the very occasional meeting with very important clients. But we live in more casual times, and I move in more casual circles now. So when I knew that I was going to be attending a Very Significant Event, I also knew that it would be time to wear one again. It had been a good long time since I pulled this old suit from out of it's lair at the back of my closet. It never was a fancy suit. It had come from a department store, on sale, the crime of its purchase aided and abetted by the blandishments of an obsequious salesman. It had never really fit me, even when new and it was already a little out of date by the time it had reached the discount rack I took it off of. It had the fine feel of only the very best polyester blends. Yes, it was a dog of a suit. I've always liked nice clothes, as much as the next guy. But a good suit had always seemed like a needless luxury. Something that just took up space, destined to spend its days uselessly hidden away at the back of the closet. But now, looking at myself in the mirror, something clicked. Suddenly I wanted something more. I wanted something nicer. I wanted something to make me feel strong, confident and in control. I wanted to kick ass and take names. I wanted armor for the modern world. I wanted a good suit. As is my nature, I did my homework. I read about suits. I learned of Canali, of Kiton, of Brioni and others. I read about worsted wool. I read endless debates about two button versus three, of peaked lapels and notched lapels. Rear vent, side vents, no vent. I shook my head to clear it, and I could almost hear my sanity rattling free in my head. No, I'd read enough. It's time to put theory into practice. It was time to go shopping. I noticed his insouciant grin before anything else. Another casual worker at his McJob, putting in time before moving on from the tony men's clothes store I was standing in. I took a second glance at him. My god, he might be queerer than a three dollar bill, but damned if he didn't look great. Well, here goes. "I'm looking for a suit." He snapped to attention, assessing me closely up and down with a flinty eye. "42 regular. 34 inch sleeve. 16 inch neck. I'd say.. 34 inch inseam." Hmm, maybe I'd been to quick to snap to conclusions. He had been dead on. A brief discussion followed, where I told him what I was looking for and what I wanted to spend. He pursed his lips and walked over the a rack in back as I followed. He reached in and held up a suit. I touched the jacket lapel. It felt as if it had been woven from the finest inner thigh fuzz from the purest of Italian virgins. It was the richest deep gray of the doves of Trafalgar Square. He took the jacket off of the hanger and held it up for me to slip on. I put the jacket on and looked in the mirror. It fit perfectly. I barely recognized myself. "It looks about right. The sleeves are a touch long. Why don't you try the pants on?" I went into the change room and came out again. I looked in the mirror again and I couldn't believe my eyes. The salesman took a piece of chalk and some pins from his pocket and started to fuss with the sleeves and pants. But I already felt like Don Draper on a good day, minus the greasy kid stuff. I wanted to light a cigarette and pour myself a dry martini. Galahad knew no greater joy discovering his grail, than I did with my new-found suit. It will be ready Friday.

I've had this tale rolling at the back of my mind for a while, but I was finally jogged into writing it when I read something recently about Dove's 'Real Beauty' ad campaign. It sums up so much that's been on my mind lately. I hope you enjoy. bb ..................................................................................... You might not turn to look when she passes by in the streets. You might see her ad and go cruising on by without a second thought. She's not tall and willowy. Cars don't crash into light poles when she walks by. No one will discover her in a soda fountain and offer her a part in a movie or a modelling contract. But she really is pretty. She has these wonderfully expressive eyes that light up when she sees me. Her lips curl quickly into a pretty smile, she has an easy laugh. She has an inner glow that can be seen but can't be photographed. I marvel everytime when I see her, though I don't tell her often enough. In this business, pretty is a commodity taken for granted. Still, that outer beauty isn't everything. I've been fooled by ladies with little more to offer than their looks. A pretty face and heavenly body had hidden a lack of enthusiasm, skill, sparkling wit. And I had my brief moment with those ladies before they had become a minor footnote in the book of my hobby life. My lady greets me with a sincere smile. I know that she's genuinely excited to see me. She takes my coat, and then engages my imagination, intelligence and wit as we chat over a glass of wine. And when she takes me upstairs... oh my lord. She devours hungrily me like the hungry cougar she is, finally the little bird is trapped in her lair. These are the things that make her heart-breakingly beautiful to me. But I know not everyone sees it that way. Her subtle beauty is often missed as clients speed on by, intent on their way toward their happy endings. And more bothersome to me, I've seen at times her heart was sick from this hard world we live in. This is a shallow world, this hobby. Of insincere compliments lavished too easily, too cheaply. Of blistering crude and critical comments for every tiny imperfection. That is the nature of this shallow hobby, the cruel calculus of looks-attitude-service. I try to comfort her as she tells me about her latest brush with the freerange rude. My words are sincere, but I have to hold back. I toe the line, the line that divide us in this hobby. I want to say more, but I can't. So I'll write these words. She'll smile as she reads them, and know that it's her I'm thinking of. These cold words on a computer screen will say what my warm lips cannot. I know that next time she'll ask me if I was writing about her. And I'll just smile, and think about how beautiful she is.

Nothing too deep for today's tale- just a bit of sexy fun. Enjoy. bb ............................................................ I've been a patron of the arts almost as far back as I can remember. Be it performing or visual arts, there are few art forms I don't appreciate. But I realized that my entry into this hobby a few years ago brought artistic appreciation and art patronage to a new and different level. ...............||............... I'm greeted by my thespian for this evening. She is truly a creature of the stage, with bold makeup, a mastery of the grand, sweeping gesture, and a flair for the dramatic. She leads me to the stage. It's a little smaller than the other stages that I usually frequent. It's only king-sized, in fact. And instead of my customary sixth-row center seat at other venues, my seat is even more up close and personal in this intimate theatre. This evening's program features performance art, with audience participation more than strongly encouraged. Nay, absolutely necessary. I leave the tribute on the night table, and get undressed for the theatre. Off with the tails, black tie, and spats, and I take my place in the wings. The curtains open on the canopied four-poster. The house lights go down, and the stage candles are lit. The music swells, and the performance begins. Act I She is already kneeling on the bed. Enter our intrepid theatre patron. Ours is a forbidden tryst. We are from separate and warring tribes. The disagreement is nothing so trivial as the one between between the Capulets and Montagues. Nay, she is from the vast and spawling PERF tribe. And I hail from the tiny but friendly TURB clan. It was our mutual attraction and interest that brought us together this evening, in spite of our differences. She is before me, her womanly charms threatening to overflow her tight black corset. I see her treasures straining for release, and I reach hither forth to free them from their imprisonment. "What light over yonder window breaks. 'Tis the east, and your girls are the rising suns.", I say with a grin. We both burst into laughter. I fondle her treasures for a moment, kissing and licking them tenderly. She leaned forward with a smile. "Birdie, my Birdie. Wherefore art thou, my Birdie?" She reached into my boxers, and withdrew little Birdie from his confinement. I reach forward to kiss her, and she gently maneuvered me down to the bed. I lay back, and she straddled my face, bending down to take me in her mouth. I open my eyes, seeing her stretch off far into the distance before of me. I close my eyes and swirl my tongue, inhaling her subtle but rich scent. I soon bring her to her climax, her body stiffening and shuddering, singing an aria of freedom and release. She redoubled her efforts. Finally, I could not hold on any longer to her onslaught. I sing my own baritone cry of delight. I barely survive la petite mort, and this act is officially a tragedy. Intermission She offers me a bottle of water, and we have a light and witty repartee, providing much needed comic relief. After a few minutes, her eyes twinkle at me, and I smile back. We begin the second act. Act II The curtain rises. "I have a surprise for you this time, Birdie. Something new." She reached under the bed, and I heard a tinkling of chains as she revealed a set of restraints attached to the bedposts. She slipped the cuffs over my wrists, first one, then the other, as I lay back on the bed. I am Prometheus bound. I have stolen her fire, moments ago. And she, the bird of prey, was hovering overhead, admiring her handiwork. Waiting for the right moment to descend and consume my essence. She swoops to conquer. Descending in front of my lap, taking me in her mouth with one quick and deep stroke, gripping me with the back of her throat. I greet the rush of sensation with a gasp. Just so she gets the point across, she lifts and does it again. And again. She sets up a fast rhythm that is hard to withstand, her nose and chin tapping me forcefully. The sensation is powerful, intense. I hold off as long as I can, tears welling up in my eyes. She pulled herself up, and straddled my hips. She braced herself against one of the bedposts, as we start to thrust in unison. The canopy over us shakes, and I fear that we will bring the house down. But with a devilish grin, she grips me tighter. My body, already tensed, pulls against the restraints. With a very few extra strokes, she brings me to an ohhhh.. ohhh... yes. A ohh.. so.. very.. satisfying denouement, and.. The curtain falls. She takes a final bow, kissing me as I lay back in raptured bliss. I consider a curtain call, but I am drained, in all senses of the word. Exeunt. My appointed time is over. It's time for me to exit the stage, and go off into the good night. It's off to the showers for me.

My Pooner Diary tales are all about the hobby, but they aren't all about sex. This reflects the multifaceted nature of the business. Getting off is important, but not the only thing.. fulfilling fantasies, feeling human contact, feeling desired all play into it as well. This is one of my most subtle tales. Here is what a good friend had to say about it, and she hit the nail right on the head. It's a nice little piece, bb. Very evocative in the culinary details. At bottom, I think the narrator is making the perfect breakfast because he can't make the perfect relationship with this woman. This is the one thing he can make impeccable between them. Secretly he hopes that she'll understand the depth of the gesture, but he ultimately knows that it will be lost on her, except as a pleasant surprise...I like it. Longing, desire, good food, the suggestion of great sex though not the detailed description of it. All bound up into one tale. What more could you ask for? ;)

I've been up for a little while now. It'll be sunrise soon, in this late winter morning. And I'm whipping up a nice breakfast, doing everything as quietly as I can. She's a light sleeper and it would be a shame to wake her up. I've already gone out to that French bakery around the corner, smiled at the crusty and cranky shopkeeper who I saw was already slicing yet another new shopgirl to ribbons with her sharp tongue, and bought some fresh croissants. I snuck back into my place, closing the door as quietly as I could. I've squeezed us some fresh orange juice and made some coffee already. And I've cut up some basil, green onions, and tomatoes. I grate some aged asiago, the rich tang wafting around me, making me smile with its rich scent. I smiled to think of her in my bed, dozing lightly. I saw her often, but only very rarely like this. We were up late last night. After the fireworks, we lay in bed and talked a good long time, just holding each other. We punctuated our words with light kisses and gentle strokes, as I gazed into her clear blue eyes. We finally spooned and drifted off to sleep, my arms still around her, keeping her warm, keeping her safe. I cracked some eggs into a bowl and beat them briskly, the golden orange viscous liquid making blooping noises. I ground some pepper into the bowl, added a dash of sea salt and just a smidgen of cream. I heated the skillet with a pat of butter, the gentle creamy gold running and flowing to heavy liquid, adding its own richness to the aroma in the room. She said that she much preferred to sleep alone. But with me, she dozed happily, peacefully. I saw the half-smile at the corners of her mouth as she slept, the crisp white sheets not quite covering her breasts as they rose and fell. She's so beautiful, I'm such a lucky man. I was tempted to stroke those tiny pink buds just tantalizingly within reach, but I would wake her. I settled for just the thought.. for now. I ever so gently slipped out of the bed and went downstairs, pulling on a robe. I poured the egg mixture into the hot skillet. The heavy, viscous liquid whitened immediately as it touched the pan and as I swirled the pan to spread it evenly. Bubbles form under the embryonic omelette, making it gently undulate. In a few short hours, she'll be gone. And I don't know when I'll see her again like this. But I know that wherever she'll be, she'll carry a little piece of me along with her, as she's left a little piece of herself with me in my memories. The eggs are cooked just so. I spoon a little goat cheese over the mixture. I put the salmon, basil, onions in the skillet and sprinkle the asiago over everything. The onions add their own tang to the scent. I fold over the eggs and place them on a plate that I had warmed in the oven. I pause for a moment, thinking, then get a precious truffle from the pantry, and grate it over the omelette. I arrange a sprig of parsley and some orange zest on the plate, just so. Some might say that I'm crazy, pouring so much effort and passion into a fantasy. But I don't see it that way. I love to cook, and I love to entertain. And a life spent without putting all the passion you can into everything you do is only a life half lived. Sure, I wish the woman upstairs loved me. But she likes me a lot, and that's good enough for me right now. Almost done. I set the plate on a tray, fresh cut flowers in a bud vase. A small plate for the croissants, and pour a glass of the juice. Coffee and a bowl of strawberries and cream last on the tray, and it's time to go and wake her. She'll be surprised.

Thanks, everyone, for the kind words. You can expect more tales here in the future. Angela, thanks for your appreciation. There are many more of these tales, though they are not publicly together in any one place. I've posted at several different Western Canada boards in the last few years, but this board is the first time I've shown them to eastern folk. A blog has been suggested to me a few times. Perhaps someday.

I'll just say what everyone knows, but most don't talk about. This life can be a lonely one. Before I started out in this hobby, I could have asked myself, "Whaddya mean, great no-strings sex with attractive women isn't enough? Yeah right, buddy. Youse doth protest too much, methinks." And truth be told, it's still pretty good. It's the bread and butter of this business. That is the way things were, are, and should be. But sometimes we don't want those strings to be quite completely free. Oh, don't get me wrong. No one wants drama, stalking, irrational behaviour. No one wants messy. Still, I've heard ladies say on occasion how lonely the life is for them. Seeing a few great guys walk in their door, share a little slice of heaven on earth, and walk out again. Not knowing whether they will ever call back, whether they will ever see them again. Knowing that the code demands that no matter how much they clicked, no matter how great the time was, no matter how quiet those moments alone are in the small hours of the morning, they mustn't contact the man. It is no different for me. I know that soon after I leave her home, another will take my place in her arms, in her bed. I know that very soon I will be a distant memory, a barely remembered face in the crowd. And I know I mustn't care too much when it isn't welcome. I don't want to become something to be tolerated, to be endured, to be held figuratively though not literally at arm's length. This is part and parcel of the world I live in. This is the choice I have made, in this life, in this hobby. But I search. I search because I want more, now. I want more than just those fingers, those lips, on me, on her. I want more than those frenzied last few moments. I want something that will build up over time as I see her. First once, then twice, then thrice, then on to times beyond counting. I want that click. That pop. That wow. I search for that pretty face that lights up in an honest and spontaneous smile when I walk through her door. The one who can't get enough of my lips on hers, my arms around her. Someone with whom our joy will be unalloyed, someone with whom I'll explore new ways to play and new levels of comfort over time. I want a little sliver of real and pure, in the middle of my fat slice of fantasy. And most of all, I yearn for that lady for whom I am her fantasy, as she is mine. There was this certain special lady. We became friends, though she's gone now from the world of clear plastic heels and white envelopes. We keep in touch, but now it's in a completely different way. We never talk about our old life with each other. There is a little part of me that would give almost anything to have those days back again, but I know she's moved on for good. She has a better life now, and I'm happy for her. I have many happy memories of our times together and I'm so glad I've had them. But in some ways it's crueler having known her. Because now I know altogether too keenly what I'm missing. I want to feel what we had once more. So I keep on seeking. And I'll call that new number, walk through that strange door. I know someday, maybe soon, I'll find my little sliver of real and pure. And I'll know that my lady will have found hers as well.

This is pretty good.

This is a story that I had previously posted a long time ago. It's always been one of my personal favorites. Please enjoy. bb ............................................................ I turned over the item in my hand. At first glance, it looked like a dull stone- it was small, rounded, smooth to the touch, and was a dull yellow color. It was an old cigarette lighter that was from a famous jewellery store in New York, and bore faint engraved printing inside it of an exotic-sounding designer. It had obviously been well used and well loved. There were a few tiny dings and dents in it. The inside of the lid was charred and left sooty marks when touched. The once glorious brass had tarnished and had long since stopped being shiny. The coup de grace was the lid, which no longer stayed closed. It now not only appeared to be a piece of old junk, it was a hazard to anyone who used it or carried it in their pocket or purse. It was in serious need of attention, and a little redemption. ................||.................. I started corresponding with her after seeing her ad. It was well written, and I have a certain fondness for smart women. She was an older lady- not old by any means, but older than many other escorts, which would make her just perfect for me. She sounded fascinating- but I held off on seeing her. Not because I wasn't interested, but I sensed a real hesitation on her part. I wasn't sure that she had seen anyone as an escort at all. I later found that she was considering trying her hand at escorting when she wanted to make a career change, and needed a little extra money to help make that happen. I finally met her one cool, clear Saturday morning. She let me into her home and I finally saw her face. She was still beautiful. Perhaps beautiful wasn't sufficient to describe her- she was very attractive in a conventional sense but you could clearly see that there was a noble bearing to her. There was no mistaking the fact that she wasn't a twentysomething. The fine lines on her face attested to a life well lived. I also sensed something more- an apprehension about whether she wanted to embark on this new phase of her life. Perhaps it was this ambivalence that made her choose to appear the way she did. She was dressed plainly, with slightly disarrayed but clean hair. She wore no cosmetic assistance to her handsome features. I felt her shake slightly as I gave her a brief hug hello. ................||.................. I started taking the lighter apart. Even though everything was worn looking and discolored, you could tell that it had been finely made with love, care, and craftsmanship. In a matter of minutes, it was a small motley pile of dull brass parts on my table. ................||................ Her robe was made from a luxurious midnight-blue silk. It had an elaborate pattern of ivy leaves woven into it. It had obviously been very expensive once, but had seen better days. I saw that it was a little frayed at the sleeves and hem. I reached out to stroke her fine blonde hair. With the other hand, I eased the robe off her shoulders. It slipped to the ground with a faint whoosh. ................||.................. I pulled out a hammer and punch. The pin hinging the lid off came out easily. Ah, there was the problem- the pin was worn out. Well, I could fix that. I put the lighter parts in a bowl and got out some cleaner. A few minutes with a toothbrush and I had a bowl of inky liquid and some small brass parts glowing dully back at me. I found a small piece of stainless steel rod the same size as the pin. I used the hammer to gently tap the rod into the hole. Reaching for a fine-toothed saw, I trimmed the ends of the pin and gently filed the ends of the pin down. A little more.. a little more.. My fingers now passed smoothly over the rounded curves of the lighter. I flicked the lighter lid open, then closed it with an authoritative snap. Perfect. ................||.................. I leaned forward to kiss her. I breathed deeply. Meadow flowers.. no, clover flowers. Lovely. I cupped a breast in one hand and reached back to undo her bra with the other. Her eyes fluttered in surprise when she realized that I had undone her bra one-handed. My first time with her was lovely. ................||.................. A little bit of fine sandpaper removed my file marks and a few tiny dings in the lighter's brass case. Let's see- 400 grit, 600 grit, 1000 grit.. the lighter began to gleam. I found some metal polish and a rag and started to polish the case. My fingers and the rag turned black, only serving to highlight the bright glow of the mirror-like sheen on the brass. I saw my distorted reflection in the side of the case. ................||.................. As I was buttoning my shirt, I saw a smooth, stone-like object on her night table. "What's this?" I picked it up. It was cool to the touch and felt good in the hand. Like a worry stone. "Oh, that. It's a cigarette lighter. It was a souvenir of when I was working in New York. I was with some friends and we went into this jewellery store on Fifth Avenue. I carried it for years and I loved to feel its smoothness in my pocket. But it's broken now, and I haven't used it in years. I tried to bring it back to the jeweller to get fixed, but they said that they couldn't." I turned it over in my hand. "I bet I could do something with this." "Well, you can if you want. It's just a useless little bauble now. Bring it back if you see me again." I looked up, startled. "You can also just slip it in my mailbox if you like." "Ok, I will take it. I'm pretty sure that I can fix this, but I'll just give it back if I can't." I lowered my voice. "And I *will* be back." "Well, I'd like that." I wasn't sure if she was referring more to the lighter or me. ..................||.................. I saw her several times after that first time. She changed subtly with each successive visit. She became more relaxed with me. She became more confident and bolder every time. Brighter, more animated. She was already attractive, but I could see that she was taking more effort in her appearance. Her clothes became prettier. Sexier. She seemed a little younger every time. Part of it was the makeup, but there was more. There was a building inner glow to her spirit. She gleamed. I realized that she was not only someone who could excite me by just thinking about her, but had also become a good friend. ..................||.................. One day, I remembered that I still had that lighter of hers. ...................||.................. I put the now-gleaming pieces of the lighter together with a fresh flint. A squirt of lighter fluid, and I reclosed the lighter. I turned the lighter upside down for a moment to soak the wick. I opened the lighter and there was a bright yellow flame at the first flick. A flip of my fingers, and the lid closed with a click. I smiled. She'll be so happy when I see her next.

Boy. To think I hesitated before posting here, since I didn't know how well my stories would be received. Thanks, everyone, for all the compliments. :oops: I'll post more of them in the future.

Most of the time, people don't notice me. I'm anonymous at the mall, blending into the crowd in my t-shirt, shorts and sandals. You might see me in my hard hat and jeans, dirty and sweaty at a job site. I might be outside a downtown office building, a wage slave, faceless in my baggy khakis and wrinkled polo shirt. You would hardly give me a second glance. But every once in a while, I change that. I become more than what I am. I become something just a little more special. I know, I know. I've heard it countless times. I don't need to do this. All the ladies want is for me to be clean, polite, respectful. I'm sure having that all-important envelope with me doesn't hurt either. Besides, I'm just going to take my clothes off right away anyway. But no. I don't do things in half measures. I already have those basics down. But I'll go just a little further. Just that little bit more. I dress up as if I'm going on a real date. I wear what I think will please her. Sometimes she doesn't even seem to notice. Sometimes I just get a quick 'nice clothes', after all my efforts. But that's OK. I'm really doing this for me anyway. For you see, the clothes are part of the ritual for me. They put me in the right frame of mind for the evening. I slip on my Birdboy persona along with the clothes that will best complement my lady. I want to live that fantasy to my fullest. I'm going to be just who I want to be. I want to show only the best of me, even if it's only for a few hours. My evening starts well before that door opens and I step through. I begin with a shave, thorough hot shower, deodorant, hair gel, cologne. After that? Well, that depends on the lady. Take this evening, for instance. My lady is slim, charming, classy. Mature, a delight in both the drawing room and those wonderful more private spaces just a few steps up. I know we'll get comfortable on the sofa, sip white wine and chat. She loves loves loves clothes. I know just how much trouble she goes to, to dress for me. It's only fair that I do too. I don't hold back when I dress for her. I know she'll notice. I slip on a new pair of silk boxers. I know that she'll see and feel the cool slipperiness under her warm fingers, and my firm buttocks under them. I pull on my pants, finely woven tan linen for this sweltering summer evening. They are tailored to perfection. I put on a pair of fine silk socks, woven with a tiny intricate pattern. First one, then the other. I think for a moment, then pull out a shirt from my closet. I love this shirt. It's Egyptian cotton, thin, crisp, the colors bright. Its blue, tan, and white stripes reminds me of a lady I fondly remember, and magical moments on her striped blue sheets. I button my shirt, and tease a pair of cufflinks into the cuffs. They make me smile. They have an enameled blue bird on them. My calling card. My namesake. I put on my watch, a family heirloom. Perfectly polished and poised on its leather strap whispering sophistication, rather than shouting for attention. My shoes. Oh, those shoes. My stylish Italian dress shoes. They've borne me over her threshold many a time, to joys untold. I know they will many more times yet. They match my belt to perfection. I had burnished them to a dull glow only moments before. I pick them up from their repose beside my bed. I shoehorn them on and tie their laces. I reach into my closet and pull out my tailored sport coat. It's warm outside, but my unlined navy blue linen jacket is cool. That extra layer will be welcome when I leave her home later. Much, much later. I'm almost ready to go. I pick up my keys and sunglasses. I slip a small white envelope into my jacket inside pocket. I take a last look in the mirror, and then I step out the door. My ritual is over. My evening has just begun.

I've tried Kimonos and I like them. One condom that I really liked, though, were Beyond Seven. I once knew a lady that used them exclusively and she bought them unlubricated. She would put some lube on me, then the Beyond Seven, then more lube later on after the oral. I never would have thought that the mere act of putting a condom on could be so sensual and so much fun, but she managed to make it a pleasure. Oh yeah, they felt pretty good in action too.

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I posted a review on Katie in on a few of the review boards yesterday. I would have put it here, but it wouldn't let me. I agree with everyone else, Katie is all that!