Originally written and published several years ago. Republished today just because.

It’s been over a year since Henry and I broke up, and I’ve said very little about the relationship that was, since that happened.

This is not me breaking my silence. Not exactly. But i feel moved to write, which happens less and less frequently these days, as I feel my world slowly crumble before my eyes — so I let the muse speak from within me, and I lay myself bare before you.

The nature of the connection between Henry and myself was incredibly real and intense, and the break-up shook me to my core. Having now — finally — achieved closure, due in no small part to him, I believe I can start moving on emotionally, and mentally.

Physically was never really an issue. Which is odd, and yet unsurprising. The physical aspects of sex, while utterly fabulous while they last, have a habit of being short-lived and fading to the level of distant if fond memory, causing a mysterious smile to play about the lips of the one remembering, and a knowing glint to sparkle in their eye. It’s the mental shit that screws you over. Yes, indeed.

Henry was my muse. My soul mate. He understood what I was thinking before I’d had the chance to articulate it to him. He knew how I worked, how I ticked, how I’d react to any given situation. He cared for me very much, in a manner that I was both unused to and blown away by… he loved me so much! He wanted to protect me from any and all harm, which, of course, he couldn’t do, but it was his wish that I should be happy. More than anything else, he wanted that.

At one point there were nasty horrible people who wanted to harm me. Henry wanted to banish them and all memories of them from my life. He was the Walter Raleigh to my Queen Elizabeth, as he gallantly, if metaphorically, laid his cloak over the shit-strewn puddles of the blogosphere so that I might walk without soiling my dainty feet. (And considering the size and heft of my ass, my feet are comparatively pretty damn dainty.)

He was the John to my Yoko. We were constantly together, always thinking each of the other, living only until we could be together again when separated. He would be with me at work, in the bottom corner of my screen and I frankly wonder how it was that I ever managed to achieve anything at work, since talking to him was infinitely preferable.

I missed him. Over the last year I used my experimentation to block out the searing pain of missing him. I met others, some who may even one day take his place in my heart. But no one replaced him because he’d not gone anywhere. I was angrier with him than I think I’d ever been at anyone before in my life — besides myself, against whom I had an ongoing viciously rude dialogue for many years, until therapy helped me work out that particular kink in my system. He had betrayed me in the worst way precisely because I relied on him more than I’d ever allowed myself to rely on another.

He hurt me more deeply than anyone else ever has — because he loved me more than anyone else ever has. As I loved him. As clichéd a qualification as it is, I loved him. Truly. Madly. Deeply. With all my heart and soul… with every creamy-skinned centimeter of my body and mind.

I loved him but I had to let him go. The reality was too much for him, the fantasy not enough. It took me a good year to get over him, and now, thanks to him and the honesty that always prevails with him (if occasionally somewhat tardily), he stepped up and took responsibility for what he had done, thus quieting my rage and soothing my deep hurt.

I miss him. I always will. I was June to his Henry Miller — yes, that is the source of our names. And in some way, the love I had for him will never be extinguished entirely. I owe him so much; were it not for him and his fabulously perverted mind I would never have been able to melt down the final barriers of my repressed upbringing; nor conduct such a carefully constructed sexual experiment.

I thank him publicly for everything, and acknowledge equally publicly that he will always own a corner of my bruised and battered heart.

Goodbye, my darling. I will only ever wish you well.

It’s an unspoken sense of understanding that so rarely occurs that when it does, it bears remarking upon — not to mention, documenting for posterity.

I mean, it’s not news to any of you that sex can be absolutely fucking awesome. Not always, it’s true. Sometimes, when the mood is wrong or the chemistry isn’t there, or even when the stars simply haven’t aligned for you that particular time, the sex can be utterly disastrous and downright depressing.


There are those who say that with sex, even a bad one is good — as Mel Brooks might say of a nectarine. Not me, but others. You know the sort. Those whom we refer to as “them”.

However, there are times, when the sex exceeds all expectations. When the sense of “holy FUCK that was amazing” is doubled, even tripled. The stars have aligned, the chemistry is A+, and it’s there. That indefinable  unspecifiable spark of something that converts great sex into a divine experience that leaves you googly-eyed and speechless for hours.

It’s when thoughts convey the deed to be done, and no words are required. It’s when the minds meet and concur and the bodies simply follow suit, like the good submissive entities that they are.

Following a protracted period of spent bliss, where his hands have stroked her skin until she can no longer breathe for joy, he moves himself oh so slightly, but enough that she immediately understands, and moves in harmony to meet him. Not a word, nor a look has passed between them, but they both know what this means.


He slides in from behind, and she shudders with repressed ecstasy. She doesn’t even need to tell him “Harder!” — he knows. She doesn’t need to push her nipple at him — he’s already there, pinching it to extract the sound from her that spurs him on yet further.

Man and woman, body and body — harmony personified.

When such an occurrence happens, which it tends to do with Dodo-like rarity, it’s one to be kept with the memories to be stored up for the old age home. I personally look forward to shocking the staff at the facility, as they wipe the leaks from whichever end of me to they are currently paying attention, with stories of fisting,
anal sex and the panache with which I used to execute my world-famed blow job — not forgetting the jaw-ache
that followed, and the rueful grin with which I then turned to the ever-grateful recipient.

But most important of all, I record said incident for posterity here.

Don’t tell me I never do anything for you. 8-)

Dear Shit-for-Brains,

I’m not interested. Please stop contacting me.

Read that sentence again.

Now read it again.

Got it? Good.

This is the last email of yours I will bother reading — the rest will be deleted immediately. Since this is our last communique, please read and internalize the following:

1. My name is not a come-on, it’s the name of a character in “Blazing Saddles”.

2. You only get one chance to make a first impression. If you blow that, you’re pretty much screwed — but not in the good way. Asking me my rate? Are ya shitting me?

3. Repeated attempts to contact a person after they have politely but firmly requested that you cease and desist from said activity, only serves to make you at best a pest, and at worst, committing harassment  None of these attempts are seen as endearing, appealing or in any way likely to get your further then the email stage of things.

4. Behaving in this manner, and then calling yourself “quality” is highly ironic.

5. Finally, saying “it takes two to tango” about repeated attempts to get you to stop emailing me? Seriously? You look old enough to know much better.

Thanks for understanding… finally.


It isn’t an everyday feeling. It’s not even one that you can guarantee a person will ever have in their life. So how do I justify having felt it more than once? Am I super-special or just damn fucking lucky?

And how does a person quantify the feeling of complete and under comfort in the presence of another. The one where you feel as though you’ve known them for a thousand years. Where you gaze at them with warmth and affection, until they put their hand on your thigh and then your gaze turns to one of smoldering longing.

This is comfort born not of familiarity but of chemistry and mutual like-age. Incorporating NRE with unbridled lust, and a propensity to constantly feel the skin of the other beneath your fingertips. Where a finger run softly across your back turns your knees to mush, and you thank the deity of your choice that you are sitting down, as you know that were you not, you’d be in a crumpled heap on the floor.

And then later, as you tingle all over from their touch, and  try desperately to catch your breath after a protracted and deeply satisfying gush of an orgasm, you realise that you have to bid them farewell soon — but you know you’ll see them again. And again. Soon.

Ain’t nothing better.


I appreciate that the arguments over taste, flavour and preference are almost entirely academic. What I may like, you may hate, and so on. In addition to making a mockery of the reality competitions involving advanced cheffery and food porn, this also applies to the world of attraction between two human beings. (I do not presume to exclude the sort of polyamorous relationship involving 3 or more, but for the purposes of this specific discussion  this is an irrelevant issue.)

However, since I’ve been around the block once or twice, and have the gravitas of my super-advanced age to back me up (no one has been able to convince me that I’m not heading the way of Methuselah ever since I passed the big four-oh), I’ve decided to give you the benefit of my experience and opinion. Image

Attraction is a funny thing. There are those who attribute all the highs and lows of emotion, feeling, sensation and sensuality to various chemical surpluses or imbalances. There are those who declaim proudly that true love is true love, and it manifests itself through attraction. (This, as a theory, is bollocks, but what can you do. People. Kfff.) Then there are those who realize that attraction is a subtle blend of the physical, the mental and that x-factor that causes one person to be as handsome as Paul Newman in his heyday, whereas another somewhat resembles the Notre Dame’s most infamous resident.

All of this taken into account, the truth is that the real attraction between two people, happens when they have something in common. It can be tangible — a love for basketball, perhaps. It can be ethereal — a love for fantastic boobs, or blonde hair. It can be the x-factor — an indescribable and untouchable reason that sends two people careening back into each others arms, even after political disagreements, or within the uncomfortable familiarity of an abusive relationship.

But what is so fundamentally important, is that if there is something there — something real, where two minds meet and connect — don’t throw it all away upon viewing a bad photo. Not all of us are as photogenic as <insert supermodel of your choice here>. All of us, however, when met in real life, have the potential to ensnare and bewitch another with the glinting sparkle in our eye.

It’s one thing to initially look at a picture and have no desire to communicate any further. But to establish a line of contact  and talk — non-stop — for two hours, only to abruptly rule out any further communication? That’s just fucking stupid.

Of course, the world is your oyster, and you are free to make the choices as your heart dictates. But you should know something. From the moment you disqualified me with your heartless “you’re not my type”, any attraction I had for you dissipated into thin air, like so much angel dust. Not because you weren’t attracted to me, because believe me, my ego is not so fragile as to be unable to withstand such a blow (!). Rather, because I could in no way be attracted to one who acts in a manner so shallow and pathetic. You implied that you were a mature, intellectually stimulating and intelligent human being — but you betrayed your true colors in one sentence. Not only was I no longer interested from that second on, but I feel as though I had the luckiest escape. As Beyonce so wisely (and beautifully) sings, “you turned out to be the best thing I never had.”

It’s how we always do things. The practical takes precedence over the emotional. It was cold, so the socks stayed on.

Naturally, no other garment can remain and effect true practicality — at least, not when the most significant achievement being aimed for is an abundance of orgasms all round. But socks keep your feet warm, and there’s a lot to be said for warm feet when you’re engaged in prolonged fellatio.

Not that practicality as a concept should be knocked, but it’s also safe to say that it hadn’t been the main feature in this particular turn of events. Getting into the right position required much heaving, grunting and the occasional giggle — but again, it was a means to an end. The required positions were achieved, and the resultant touching, licking, stroking, pinching, caressing always pleased.


I always enjoy a good solid straight forward orgasm, unenhanced by the wonders of nature, but goddammit  I just love it when said enhancement is there. The climax takes on a different hue — in fact, several. The jagged breathing as I near my peak melts into layered waves of bliss, each color more vivid and intense than the last, my lungs expanding to fill my chest cavity, until I finally burst and come, showering rainbows all over the room.

There was a moment one time, where I floated above my supine body, and watched such a set of proceedings unfold from above. My head on his leg, my tongue millimeters from his cock, where until recently — up until my attention was too severely distracted to continue — it had been engaged in providing some pleasure of its own. His head resting on one arm, regarding me with a knowing smile as his other hand engaged itself in painting me into a bed mural; my legs akimbo, a spreading dark patch beneath me, evidence of what had just ensued.


Of course, I’m not without my own contributions to the hoopla. How he responds to my tongue is a source of pure pleasure for all concerned. Me, because I delight in his enjoyment, and him because…. well, because show me the man who doesn’t become an inanely grinning Mr Happy when their cock is firmly ensconced in the mouth of another, and I’ll show you a wax model. It takes a moment for the cock to realize where it is, and then it all of a sudden grows into its full glory, and hits the back of my throat — requiring my best gag reflex control skills.

It’s enormous fun. Watch this space.

The thought of you is distracting me from everything I should be doing. As a result, everything I do is involving you in some way or another. My cooking especially. My chicken soup was made with desire for you. The garlic roasted potatoes are full of lust for you. Even the roast chicken is sighing over you in the oven.

I tell you, it’s food porn central, chez Juno this evening.

The anticipation is utterly exquisite. Like an amuse bouche before a meal, I want more and more. Having been awarded the delicate morsel you afforded me yesterday, I’m now slavering for more, the juices inside me flowing fast and furious, the swirl of excitement threatening to distract me from every purpose to which I set my mind, until we meet again.

You mentioned an element of fear at how all-consuming your ravenous hunger is, and the temptation it brings. I know that fear — I’ve felt it too. But the more I think about it, the more it seems like an exquisite excitement at what lies ahead, a deliciously tempting dish still covered over, awaiting the moment when the lid is lifted and all is revealed.

My imagination is running riot with all the how and what and when… how will your lips feel against mine… what will i do first — stroke the side of your cheek, or brush my hand through your hair… when will your hand touch my bare, quivering skin first — and how will I stop my legs from buckling and collapsing under me from sheer adrenaline?

To want someone badly is not new to me. But this is taking things to another level. And so to pass the time, I’ll continue cooking with unbridled passion — food porn is as good a substitute as any…



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