Archive for the ‘Titillating Tuesday’ Category

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Dating = Done

After several friends of mine cajoled me into ‘giving online dating another try’, I succumbed and joined a site called Elite Singles. The name seemed to put out a certain level of class or selectiveness, but who was I kidding?

Of course you sign up for FREE but then you have to pay in order to see anyone’s photo or the details of their profile. Sheesh. What a joke. So, I figured I may as well sign up for three months if I was going to give this the good old college try. Interestingly, very few men posted photos, so that was a waste of money right there (sorry, I do need to see who I am considering dating). The men who did post photos, well…sadly there were slim pickings, or should I say not my idea of ‘elite’.

After several weeks of getting no interest whatsoever, even after I contacted or showed interest in many men, I did begin to communicate with one gentleman several years older than me, who seemed interesting, worldly, smart and was attractive and sporty. Finally we decided to meet for coffee.

I had to work at noon that day so we met near my workplace downtown with plenty of time to chat and enjoy an Americano. It turned out this guy was recently divorced after 32 years of marriage, was dressed smartly enough in jeans and a jean jacket but admitted he was not yet ready to ‘be old’ and was clearly working hard at that. He proceeded to talk about his kids and his ex-wife pretty much the whole time and then threw in a few political opinions that signalled we were coming from quite different places. I politely cut short the meet and greet saying I had some prep work to do before starting my shift. He did walk me to work. That was the end of that.

The other night, a girlfriend of mine and I went to a Scotch whiskey fundraiser for the Writer’s Festival. We had booked our tickets well in advance and were excited to attend something different. It was a splendid affair – lots of tasting tables, delicious food and much to our surprise, a good crowd of mostly men. (of course! men drink whiskey)

After making the rounds, trying a little of just about everything, we bumped into a man who we had seen here and there throughout the evening. He and I seemed to connect and laughed about how we kept seeing each other. We settled at a table and began chatting, which was remarkably easy after drinking Scotch all evening. 

Not wanting to be Negative Nancy here but two things happened that completely put me off. First of all, this man was very amiable, had a great sense of humour and asked questions about both myself and my friend – all plusses so far. I was thinking to myself, hey this could be something. I casually mentioned I was feeling like having another wee dram and he agreed. Soon after he disappeared and returned with not two but one wee dram which he happily sipped himself, completely oblivious to the rest of us at the table. I went and got my own.

By the way, this move has nothing to do with him being a man expected to get a woman a drink, and has everything to do with manners and listening. It was weird.

Soon, my friend said she was ready to go. I didn’t blame her because by that time, the guy was talking more to me and I’m sure she was getting bored. I said I’d join her and we said our goodbyes. As we headed toward the door she asked if I got his number and I said no. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she cried. “Go back and get it.” So I did. I approached him, said I didn’t have any business cards on me but I wanted to leave him my number. He nodded. Then there was silence. I said I didn’t have a pen. More silence. He apparently didn’t either, nor was there a move to get one. I suddenly felt awkward and uncomfortable and left. That was that.

Isn’t there a book and a film called He’s Just Not That Into You

In any case, my trying to date days are really over this time (she says again). If it ‘happens’ then I’m open, but no more profiles or photo sharing or blind coffee dates, although I might be convinced to have a wee dram once in a while.


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I had an interesting experience at work the other day. I know, another work story, but you might find this one interesting.

I was helping a woman with a bra fitting – making sure it fit, to put it plainly. She was an older woman, older than me, clearly monied because she was wearing expensive eyewear, jewelry and had a Gucci handbag. She carried that air of old money.

I was standing in the change-room doorway chatting and accessing the bra she had on, one that I felt was a little ‘large in the cup’ but she loved it, and it did fit. I said ‘that particular make of bra doesn’t work on me but it looks great on you’ and she laughed and said ‘different surgeons’.  

It took me a moment to get it. Oh, right. Implants. She assumed. She figured all women had had surgery to ‘improve’ their breasts. It was then I started to examine her face, neck, even her stomach. Sure. She’d had it all, I realized. But in her case, it looked pretty good. She still looked her age, and she was still attractive. Her skin was wrinkled but tighter, no hanging rooster neck or unnecessary belly fat.

I do not support nor condone men or women who choose to have work done. It is not my place to judge. I do, however, worry.

I have heard young, flawless beauties in their twenties, rub their foreheads and talk about getting botox because of a barely visible beginning of a (line?). We have all seen those who have lost sight of the significant amount of work they have done to their faces and bodies, who are outright scary looking.

I remember going through a phase, probably during the time when my body was shifting from young into not so young, when I resented the women who could afford to get work done. Not because I was jealous. I didn’t want any part of it. But it upped the ante for the rest of us. Suddenly there were all these women with larger, firmer breasts, taut necks, flatter stomachs. How could we ‘regulars’ compete? And being single made things worse because men generally go for younger, and either don’t know the difference when a woman has had work done, or don’t care.

But I got over it.

There are many ways in which my body has changed since I was twenty and thirty, and it has taken some time to come to terms with these changes. Perhaps I’m fortunate enough to have naturally good skin. I stay active, keep my muscles toned and keep myself relatively fit.

Or perhaps I’m fortunate enough to finally be happy with my body and myself just the way I am.


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Today at work we were asked to try on some new and different lingerie, so that we’d be able to tell customers more about each product they might be interested in, or had questions about. It was a good exercise in product knowledge. Great, I thought.

I grabbed about eight items of varying degrees of sexiness. For fun. Why not? My colleague did the same.

I have to say, most of the pieces of absolutely gorgeous lingerie was meant for a much younger version of me. A much taller, lankier, bustier version of me. But I complied and ventured forth into the…unknown.

First there was a brick red one piece item of thick lace weave, as well as an accompanying bra-let of the same version. They were not quite for me. Scratchy and awkward, meant for a meatier bust than mine. Oh well.

Next was a delicate onesie, soft pink ruffles with a chiffon rose at the hip. It was cute. It fit nicely. It was completely see-through. I guess if I had a significant other, ‘see through’ wouldn’t matter so much, but I just couldn’t visualize myself romping around my apartment in such a ‘sweet’ piece.

I tried on some very (very) expensive bras that didn’t fit well and that I wouldn’t pay even a quarter of the asking price for. I tried on boy shorts (I like), and silk (can do), and bras that can be worn everyday but have a bit of sass (yesss). All in all, it was a worthwhile assignment in retail comparisons. You don’t always get what you pay for, but a lot of the time you do. 

The ridiculously expensive brand was simply uncomfortable but perhaps it was meant to be worn only for, you know, show? Dunno. The regular expensive brand was all quality and comfort. And sometimes the super cheap was really, good enough. At least for me. I mean, my dog is very forgiving, and I feel comfortable romping around my apartment in cotton briefs and a baggy tee. Or nothing at all. Depending on what music is playing.

To be continued…

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The Compass

Posted on: January 31st, 2017 by Madison Lake No Comments

I was out with a friend last night, and after talking relationships (or non), and other such matters, the issue of morals came up.

mor·al  ˈmôrəl/

noun  plural noun: morals


a lesson, especially one concerning what is right or prudent, that can be derived from a story, a piece of information, or an experience.

“the moral of this story was that one must see the beauty in what one has”

synonyms: lesson, message, meaning, significance, signification, import, point, teaching

“the moral of the story”


a person’s standards of behavior or beliefs concerning what is and is not acceptable for them to do.

“the corruption of public morals”

synonyms: moral code, code of ethics, (moral) values, principles, standards, (sense of) morality, scruples

“he has no morals”

Of course that raised the question of upbringing, religious and/or ethnic background, education, even age and generation. My friend suggested I write a blog about moral values but I reminded her it is such a ‘yuge’ topic that one cannot simply blog about it. However, we had been talking about relationships, so that narrowed it down slightly.

How does one define moral values when it comes to relationships? Does it mean both parties should be of the same mind when it comes to commitment, loyalty, monogamy? Can one person, let’s say, slip up – have a ‘one off’ sexual encounter? Does that mean his or her moral values are wrong? Is there a difference between a ‘little lie’ and a ‘big lie’? How important is communication when considering moral values in a relationship?

The question remains deeply personal. It is ingrained in each of us. Our code of ethics may change over time, for the better or the worse. Your partner or potential partner, even your friend, could be well mannered, open doors, pull out chairs, say please and thank you, smile, but engage in illicit behaviour behind the scenes.

What is your moral standard? Consider how you live by it. Do you strive to be true to your belief system even when you feel hurt or angry or betrayed?

What is your moral barometer and how often do you check it?

Heavy stuff…but important.imgres-1

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Titillating Tuesday

Posted on: January 10th, 2017 by Madison Lake No Comments

Excerpt from the short story The Big Move from the book Boudoir Stories


* * *

IRENE LAY SPRAWLED ON THE LAWN. A yellow and plum floral chemise hung loosely over her tanned skin as a cool northwesterly blew in across the lake. If she closed her eyes she could still feel his hands upon her body, smell the perfume of his manliness. Her pink nipples, rigid from the sudden breeze that had picked up, tingled under her flimsy garment, a remainder of the day’s sunlight softening. Or was it arousal from the thought of him? She rolled over so her stomach, breasts and pubic bone felt the crunch of grass beneath her. As her arms stretched out, her fingers dug into the moist earth and she took in the scent of raw, damp soil. Raw. Her back arched as if pressing into him, as if he was still with her as only moments ago he had been there, inside her. But he was gone.

* * *

“Where in the world have you been, Irene? Your sister has been looking everywhere for you.”

Irene’s mother barely looked up as her daughter slipped in through the kitchen’s side entry, but Irene knew her mother was aware of everything that went on in the grand estate at 51 Rue d’Calle. Ever since her mother, Vivian Carlton, had married the wealthy French diplomat, Pierre Duparte, Irene’s life had profoundly changed. She couldn’t exactly claim the changes had a negative effect. After all, she had met Gerard. Nonetheless, her mother, a homemaker from South Carolina, USA, had never been an easy person. Although educated, she was not worldly, nor did she have the natural elegance of someone who was. Vivian had moved them to New York City after inheriting a good deal of money in the divorce settlement from Irene’s father, and it was there her mother began to rub shoulders with the city’s social elite, where she quickly became a patron of the arts and a self professed New York socialite. Vivian had met Pierre at a cocktail party. For two years he traveled between his duties and commitments in France and his romantic courtship in New York City, until it was decided he and the stunning Vivian would marry and move to his country home in the south of France. Since that time, Vivian had become an overbearing French snob. Irene felt stifled in the gold-gilt palace cum farmhouse that was now her home. Her new half sister, Gwen, Pierre’s daughter from a previous marriage, did not mind the country estate. She was used to it, having grown up with all the comforts of aristocratic life. But rather than behave like an entitled Parisienne, which is where she had been raised and where she recently returned from, Gwen seemed surprisingly normal. Although she was older, twenty-three, and more mature than Irene, she had a playful side to her that Irene adored. It had only been six months that Irene lived at the large estate in the French countryside as part of her new family life, and only one month since Gwen had returned home from Paris, but Irene found her to be a sensible young woman with a great sense of humour. She was a breath of fresh air that grounded the household which, with Vivian’s neurotic tendencies, could spin out of control. Irene liked her.

Irene kissed her mother’s cheek, grabbed a slice of Gruyere off the wooden cheese platter that the cook had laid out for the evening’s soiree, kissed the cook’s cheek, which left her blushing, and dashed off to her bedroom. She had exactly one hour to prepare.

* * *

To read more, purchase Boudoir Stories on Amazon now. You’ll get a full collection of titillating short stories. Makes excellent bedtime reading and can be enjoyed again and again.


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