Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Celia the Boy

Celia is back from spending Thanksgiving with her family.

After she left last week, I wrote her a nice email. Nothing too effusive, but warm. No response, but I wasn’t expecting it, really—she was out of town, and anyway, I had already figured out that she’s a boy.

Girls call you to talk about nothing, just to hear the sound of your voice.

Boys forget to call. Boys need to be reminded to keep dates. Celia is much more in the “boy” category. So am I, but that’s fine. I can be a girl for her.

It may be perverse, but I am attracted to Celia’s inattentiveness. My life is filled with children and others who want my attention, who need me, who need me now. Since I started dating, I’ve met my share of people who want to take over my life as quickly as possible. It’s refreshing to have someone enjoy being with me, but who has a life of her own.

I spoke with Celia just now—on my dime, of course. It was a nice, easy chat. She fills any empty air time by humming, which is endearing. We caught up, talked about things we were working on, talked about last week.

I told her I was going out of town for a few days at the end of the week. She reminded me that she was going to be away from mid-December until mid-January. We both had crazy deadlines between now and the holidays.

I tried to sound nonchalant, not crestfallen. I took heart when she said it would be nice to spend more relaxed time together when she gets back. She will try to join us for the next gathering, coming late again due to her class.

If so, I will try not to follow her home.

Monday, November 29, 2004

Handsome

It’s the Monday morning after Thanksgiving weekend. I was up at 6:30 to dress three of my kids for school. We let my 16-year-old daughter Rachel sleep in.

Rachel is my daughter from a brief fling in college. She’s visiting from out of town, so no school for her.

I cabbed the kids across town to school then walked back home through the park. It’s a crisp, beautiful morning. I’m having coffee now, as Rachel slumbers. The kids are back with my ex tonight, so Rachel and I have another day to hang out in the city before she heads home.

Thanksgiving was spent with my ex, Lucy, at her home, our former home.

Months ago, I foresaw that I would have the kids on Thanksgiving, and Rachel wanted to come up for the holidays. I invited Lucy to join us. She got up in arms immediately, saying that because I have the kids on Thursdays, I will always have them on Thanksgiving. Why can’t she have them this year? Why can’t we alternate holidays?

There was a lot of discussion. We agreed to alternate a number of holidays. I agreed that she can have the kids on Thanksgiving.

A few weeks ago, we are talking, and she says, “Oh, I hate cooking Thanksgiving. You enjoy doing that kind of thing—why don’t you take the kids for Thanksgiving?” Okay, I say. Do you want to join us? No, she says, it will be too many people in your apartment.

By the end of it all, I was to cook the meal at her home, our former home.

I haven’t spent too much time at the house since she dumped me last year. It still feels odd, a bit like going to your parents’ house. You instinctively know where to find a screwdriver or corkscrew if you need it, but you also feel like a guest in a very familiar place. I feel obliged to fix cabinet doors or replace light bulbs, but I wouldn’t dream of changing a CD without asking permission.

Lucy was unusually cordial—friendly, even. As the day went by, as I cooked or we talked, I actually enjoyed spending time with her. It was the first time I have felt at ease with her in over eighteen months.

There were ways that we have a rhythm together, as we moved around the kitchen, or sat reading a newspaper, a way of being established through so many years together.

I’m sure anyone seeing us together would see us as married. It’s in the way we talk, the way we dress, the way our bodies move.

I took some comfort that those rhythms are still there. They could be unnerving, though. We decided to watch the evening news together, as we always did. She comments that we’ve adopted that ritual from her mom, which is true. There are things I do without thinking that are inherited from Lucy and her parents, just as I do things inherited from my birth family.

Watching the news meant joining Lucy in her room, our former room. It meant sitting side by side on her bed, our former bed. It meant petting her cat, our former cat.

I kept one foot firmly on the floor.

At one point in the afternoon, as we lounged around the living room, our five-year-old daughter was teasing me. “Why did mom marry you when you are so old?” I was holding her, and she was studying lines on my face.

“I wasn’t always old, silly. When your Mom and I married, I was very young.”

Lucy said, “You know, I always say this, dear: you are still a very handsome man! I work with a lot of guys our age or younger who look awful. But you look great. I always say that I will never find another man as handsome as you.”

What does one say to that? She had a man as handsome as me, and she dumped him.

“Thanks.”

A Gathering

Dacia showed up early, so we would have some down time together before things got going. We talk as we put out candles, load the stereo, organize a cheese platter. She fixes herself a tall bourbon on the rocks.

She is upbeat and in fine form, excited about the evening. She laughs a lot, and when she laughs, she squints and shows a mouthful of pearly whites. Of course, she plies me for more on my Celia. I warn her not to steal her way from me just yet.

Jake shows up, with Marla. This is the first time Marla has been to a group sex party, and Jake had told me she would be nervous. They’ve had dinner and drinks. She seems apprehensive, but friendly.

If anyone strikes me as nervous, it’s Jake. This is the first time he has seen Dacia in a year, and things had once been pretty hot and heavy between them. He still thinks a lot of her. I take coats, and Dacia chats with them, before excusing herself to take a shower.

Elizabeth arrives, apologizing she was too late for dinner. She hasn’t eaten, so I start up some rice and beans for burritos. (Would I normally serve beans at a sex party? No, but a girl’s gotta eat, and that's what I had to offer.)

Everyone is arriving. Thomas comes stag, Todd brings Honey, and the two new couples prove good to their word. Elizabeth’s boy Abraham shows up—he’s a good looking and tall, with a nice smile. Dacia gives him the once over and says, “Well, all right.” Dirck shows up, and Dacia kisses him at the door.

Marla darts in and out of the kitchen, mixing vodka cocktails. I find she is very quick on the banter.

Honey clings nearby, wanting to help me in the kitchen and, I think, get some time away from Todd.

As the guests arrive, I make introductions, take coats, pour wine, and tend to the stove. I’ve got a living room full of people talking, getting acquainted. But for Marla, Abraham and the two new couples, all know me, and some know one another.

Through experience, prior screenings and conversations, I know about each of their expectations and limitations (if any) for the evening. I know that some have things they are particularly interested in seeing or trying, and over the course of the evening, I will try to encourage those things to happen.

It is best if everyone communicates this up front, but it can be awkward to address a group of people to say, “I’m here because I really want to see some boys getting it on!” or “Oral sex is great, but I’m not getting fucked.” Part of my job is to help ensure that everyone feels comfortable as things progress.

The gatherings all begin like this. How they transition to sex varies. Generally, there are a majority of people who know one another well. One or the other of us will note that we are still wearing clothes, and we all take measures to correct that.

When there are a number of people new to the gatherings, as on this night, we often lead by example. Two or three of us will head to a bedroom and undress, and begin to play around. I’m often a leader in this, as I am easy to get naked, but that depends on how involved I need to be with arrivals. It’s bad form to jump out of a tangle of bodies to open the door, and not much better to open the door buck naked and aroused.

We do have a house rule: When Walt and Kim show up, we gotta get naked. They can be depended on to ignite the sexual activities; alas, they are absent tonight.

I finish up my cooking, and serve Elizabeth’s dinner as an appetizer anyone can share, though I place it nearest to her. I settle next to Dacia with a glass of wine, and survey the conversations. A pile of books is on a coffee table: photography books have sparked a debate on the distinctions between pornography and erotica; another has lead to some talk about World War II. One of the new folks is a very vivacious and funny Ukrainian woman, Mina, who is, as it happens, really gorgeous. She keeps the talk bubbly.

There is a palpable frisson. This is a damned good looking bunch of people. They know why they are here. They are getting along swell. I need to facilitate the transition soon, before excitement gives way to anxiety.

I lean to Dacia and stage whisper, “This is the part where everyone wonders: how do we get naked? Are we really going to do this?” This gets a laugh from those within earshot.

I tell a story about my terrace, which faces a busy street. As the weather warmed last spring, I had anticipated that I should put a sign on the door, reminding people to get dressed before stepping outside. I neglected to do this, and sure enough, at one party I found everyone naked outside—presumably in full view of passers by. I later established that, with proper lighting, no one could see you nude on the terrace.

(Thus establishing for these voyeurs and exhibitionists that outdoor nudity was acceptable.)

I need to undress someone—but whom? I don’t think any of the women are ready to be the guinea pig. I had started a previous party by making out with Jake, but I wasn’t sure that a gay scene would be the right launch tonight. I decide on Todd, assuming Honey may soon follow. I tell him to come with me: we’re getting you naked.

We go to a bedroom, joined by Dacia and Dirck. Todd is tall, conventionally handsome, with short dark hair and a smooth body. We undress him. Dacia and Dirck undress; she head to the living room, encouraging others to follow suite. She returns to make out with Dirck, who sprawls her onto the bed, face down. He begins to spank her. Hard.

With each slap, he says, “Ow, my ears. That’s so loud.” Wham!

In the bedroom, I’ve got three naked hot bodies going. Now to get the others involved. Why aren’t they lured by the yelps and hollers of a sound spanking?

I return to the living room. Mina is in the midst of a strip tease. Turns out she is a professional stripper. Her arms guide her as she whips her long brunette hair. She loses her bra, and reduced to a thong, she dances to her husband, Don. She steps her long legs into his lap, arching her back before kissing him.

I notice almost everyone has stripped to underwear. There’s a knock at the door.

It’s Bugs, a woman new to my gathering, but recommended by three regulars. Our mutual friends aren’t here, but she wanted to make an appearance, at least.

I introduce her to Dacia and Dirck. Within moments, Dacia is bent over book case, feet wide apart, as Bugs administers a thoroughly professional spanking. Make yourself at home, I think.

Stripper on her husband, spanking underway, Jake and Marla are kissing . . . I’m getting a drink. Bourbon on the rocks.

Todd, Don and Mina go to a bedroom. A few moments later, as I am making the rounds, I check in on them. She is on her back, legs spread, as she blows them both. Todd is fingering her clit.

Don looks to me. “You need to bring a girl if you want to watch,” he says.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Don. I make the rules here.” Schmuck. He will learn. At any rate, Jake and Marla were with us now.

Marla got on her knees to suck Jake. I massaged her breasts, then stood behind him to massage his stomach. Standing beside him, I ran my hand along his cock, and then put my thumb into Marla’s mouth. I disengaged Jake’s cock, and with my thumb, pulled her mouth to my dick. She latched on fast. Jake took his cock to Mina’s mouth.

After a while, I put my thumb back in her mouth. I stood her up, and faced her to Mina’s pussy. She dove in, licking her hard. I was reaching for a condom to fuck Marla when Bugs came up.

“You want time with Marla?” I offer. She declines, saying she really isn’t playing tonight, just checking things out. She is stripped to her underwear. Somehow we wind up talking, and I leave Marla to her own affairs.

I am going down on Bugs, as Dirck fucks Dacia next to us. Dirck has a lean body, and as he thrust her, fast, his muscles moved visibly under his skin. Dacia moaned and called for more from him. Bugs were very turned on by watching them, very aroused in my mouth.

I make the rounds and find Elizabeth naked on the couch, alone. I ask how it’s going. She nods toward the terrace, where I see Honey blowing Abraham. Are you okay with this, I ask Elizabeth? Not really, she says.

Elizabeth is not having good luck with men. She is exceptionally pretty, and pretty na├»ve. I had discouraged her from bringing Abraham to this gathering, suggesting they really needed to work things out before coming to such a party. They have seen each other for exactly one date prior to this, and she doesn’t really care that much for him. But still, this is a pretty intense crucible for young love.

Elizabeth had come stag to previous gatherings, and enjoyed them. We’ve hit it off as friends, in a fraternal way. Like Thomas, she really gets a kick out of the gatherings, but also pines to find the right person to be in a relationship with—knowing that relationship may or may not include group sex. It was sad to see her feeling hurt. She and Abraham were talking later, and kissing. I wonder about him.

My eyes were on the clock, anticipating my Celia. I am uncharacteristically goofy in my crush. I have gushed to Dacia, Jake and Thomas, who all agree: the boy is acting different. I bought bacon and eggs that afternoon, in case she slept over and wanted breakfast. That’s how bad it is.

Celia is at the door. I take her coat. I introduce her to those in the room, as “my Celia.” I offer her a drink. She thanks me. Thomas walks over to say hello. She says hi, and tells him he is cute. She kisses him, her mouth open and firm on his.

They are making out, and I have yet to hang her coat. I’m impressed.

There is another round of sex, and people make their departures. As the evening ends, I’m alone with Jake and Celia. I am making out with Celia, drunk on her and bourbon. Jake rubs us; we respond.

As Jake fucks her, I retrieve my cuffs. I latch her wrists together, then put myself behind her to hold back her arms. Jake goes at her hard. She is blissed. I pick up a candle, holding it between their bodies. I drip wax in rivulets along the taunt muscles of her abdomen.

Afterwards, I ask if she wants to stay over. She can’t, as she has an early class, and then travels home for Thanksgiving. She asks if I want to stay over at her place.

It’s 2am or so. I am drunk, sexed and tired. Do I want to leave my warm apartment to head to Williamsburg for a few hours sleep in her bed?

I do. I put on clothes, put out candles, pack my bacon, and we were off to Brooklyn.

She woke me very gently. I held her hand as we walked to the subway. At her stop, I told her I would miss her.

She looked at me, very querulous.

Sunday, November 28, 2004

Preparations

On the Tuesday after my Celia slept over, she would be returning for my sex party. She would be coming late, after a class.

This would be our third “date.” I sent her a nice email after the weekend, and we chatted on the phone. But I resolved to leave her be until Tuesday: I knew she was busy, and I didn’t want to overwhelm our burgeoning whatever-this-is with too much attention.

After Celia left on Sunday, Todd, Thomas and I treated a Texan named Honey to a right friendly gangbang. She was very cute and cool, 26, with spiky pink hair, tattoos and a killer accent made raspy from cigarettes.

Her only disappointment was that there was so little boy-on-boy action. We did a pretty good show for her—we’re all bi, and Thomas and I fool around—but alas, we are all tops. So no bottoming for her to watch. (Bad planning on my part as host, but I had other priorities that weekend.)

All would be returning on Tuesday, when she could count on eyeballing some bi boy sex. I started these gatherings over a year ago, as a place for bi and bi curious boys to play around. Women also came, and so it evolved into a mixed bi party. We meet every two weeks, and the regulars—men and women—all get it on with one another.

On Monday night, I had a date with an on again/off again girlfriend. Drinks turned to dinner turned to her request that I sleep over. I guess we are on again.

I had a good deal to do before the gathering on Tuesday night. I shopped and cleaned the apartment, making the beds with the “sex party” sheets (avoid whites, as they stain, and expensive thread counts, as these sheets will have a short shelf life). I prepared food, put out water bottles, checked my cell and email.

A few last minute fires to put out. A new couple had decided to come, and needed a final screening. Walt and Kim thought they might not be able to come, which was a set back. They are regulars who can be counted on to get the party rolling.

A new member of our group, Elizabeth, a lovely 18-year-old woman, was debating whether or not she wanted to invite a fellow who had been neglecting her all week. She was also unsure how she would feel if he had sex with another woman—a very distinct possibility. I suggested she come early and we could discuss it over dinner. I volunteered to cook Mexican.

Another thing added to my to-do list, and it was already past six. Guests were expected to begin showing at eight.

This gathering was shaping into a large one for us: over a dozen people, with an equal gender distribution. There would be a few new couples, which can be good, but does add some unpredictable elements. What if they don’t show? What if the one straight guy I allowed to join his bi wife turns out to be a dud? What if Elizabeth’s boy sparks a fight between the two?

I wanted this to be a particularly good party. My friend Dacia was coming with her boyfriend Dirck. They’ve known about these gatherings from the outset, as Dacia is a like-minded perv, and we talk ceaselessly about sex—its culture and history, but also our doing of it. Just not our doing of it together. We used to work together, we are good friends, and it would just be too weird to add sex to our friendship.

However, recent events had converged to suggest that she might be comfortable at one of my gatherings. By chance, we had recently wound up naked in the same room, for sex with someone else—a story for another time—and the sky had not collapsed. Also, she and Dirck were ready to see if they could play with strangers, having tried pretty much every conceivable combination within their circle of friends.

Dacia was being doubly brave, as one of our new bucks, Jake, is an ex of hers. He arrived at my gatherings through serendipity—he answered an ad—but I recognized him right away. We had met before at Audacia’s apartment. I knew all about his sexual prowess from her reports, so I was glad to have him among our crowd.

When I mentioned that Dacia might be joining us, he was as nervous as she was about meeting again, in this context. A few rounds of emails and instant messages, and the three of us had that all smoothed out. We hoped.

Dacia’s standing rule was: neither Jake nor I were to play with Dirck. So the cutest guy was off limits, but fair enough.

I also wanted the gathering to be fun for my Celia. This had brought us together, after all; we met at a gathering, and she had contacted me about rejoining the party.

Come right down to it, I was feeling pretty well sexed going into the evening. An extraordinary weekend with my Celia, the gang bang with Honey and the boys, the sleep over with my on again/off again, all within the past three days, conspired to make me feel pretty laid back about my own sexual activity in the night ahead.

It also made me feel less concerned about seizing this as an opportunity to be with Celia. On another night, I might have paced myself so that when she arrived, I was all about her. But this night, I thought: let her have what she wants when she wants it. I was confident I would have more time alone with her.

I was just putting out condoms and lube when there was a knock. Quarter to eight: must be Elizabeth, hungry for burritos and advice.

It was Dacia.

My Celia

It’s been over a year since the break up.

For most of that year, I have hosted sex parties in Manhattan. I suppose I will need to catch you up on how that transpired. I’ve made great friends and lovers at these parties, and yet I haven’t often had the feeling of falling head over heels for someone.

Until my Celia.

I met Celia at a party at my place last spring. She arrived late with a guy who comes sometimes. The regulars were already naked, well fucked and relaxed.

Celia sat on a bed and chatted with us. She was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, worn backwards so that the logo was illegible. As we talked, Jane removed Celia’s clothes, and had soon stripped her naked. Jane kissed her torso as Celia leaned back, opening her thighs; we heard her gasp as Jane’s mouth reached her clit.

Being gracious like she is, Jane soon turned and offered me Celia’s body. I set to licking Jane's drool from Celia's labia.

As we fucked, as we did almost immediately, I decided not to stop fucking her. This is not the best form at a sex party, particularly for the host; one really should offer new guests an opportunity to work the room.

I doubt that Celia cared much for etiquette. She had gorgeous hazel-green eyes, focused intently on mine. I kept her gaze, noticing details at the periphery. Celia had a lovely face: aquiline nose, pre-Raphaelite features, framed in long black hair.

I was soon very curious to know more about the woman I was fucking, and so thought maybe we could take a break to chat.

"I would really like to talk with you," I said, meaning "Maybe we can stop and talk."

"Sure . . . what do you want to talk about?" she replied, as if I meant we should have a conversation while fucking. I was willing.

"So, where did you grow up?," I asked. I learned that she grew up in New England, she is an art student, and she would be working on a farm all summer. Within those first few moments, I gleaned that we had art in common, the sex was great, and I wouldn't be able to see her again for months.

I finally let her have sex with some of the others. Later we kissed, as intently as we had gazed. As she left, she stood in the door, giving me long, hungry kisses, as her date waited for her.

As it happened, she had an art show up, and as it happened, I was in the neighborhood the very next day. I was glad to see her art was good.

The summer passed.

Two weeks ago, I got an email from her, saying she was back in town and wanted to return to the sex parties. Cool!

I suggested we get together, and proposed we go check out the new Museum of Modern Art on opening day, as I had special tickets. It turned out she did too.

Later, we learned that the opening day was free to the public. So much for special access.

We decided to meet at an exhibition by Barbara Nitke at Art@Large gallery, get lunch, and see the museum--which we knew would be hellishly crowded. Nitke’s photos have to do with sadomasochism (SM). While not into SM herself, Nitke has an empathic insight into the lives of those who are. There is a strong sense of intimacy and care in her photographs.

Celia was late for our date, which was fine with me. We saw Nitke's work together. Celia says she knew many of the images, having seen Nitke lecture at the Eulenspeigel Society, a New York based organization for those into SM.

(I catalogued those details—Celia already knew Nitke and the Eulenspeigel Society?)

We lunched, and talked about out first encounter. It was her first sex party, she said, and her moment with Jane was her first encounter with a woman. She liked it, but she was taking downers at the time, which she regretted.

I referred to this as a pretty unusual second date. She agreed: first sex, then a lunch date. We were doing it backwards. She says she is surprised that she feels so shy.

She talked about her gaggle of girlfriends, and how she makes nude films of them, but can't imagine sex with them--though she really wants to be bisexual, as it's hip (it is?) and of course, there are more options for sex if you are bi.

She opines that the MoMA is going to be crazy crowded, and maybe we shouldn't go. This leaves her with two hours to kill before her yoga class . . . what can we do? Well, I suggest, we can go to my place and kiss. She looks at me like she can't believe I suggested this. I can't believe it myself--I am really getting bold.

"Okay," she says, "but I really am feeling shy about this. Is it too early to drink? Do you have any bourbon?"

"A girl after my own heart." I actually said that out loud.

Soon, we are at my place, on my couch, sipping bourbon. Soon, we are kissing. Fully clothed. For a long, sweet time.

Soon we are nude, in my bed, kissing. Touching. For a long, sweet time. She is so into gazing, touching, kissing, and I am melting, melting, melting. As the time passes, and her yoga class approaches, I think it will be wise not to start fucking. But I do go down on her. And she cums. And she cums again as I kiss her and hold her very close.

I should mention that she does intense yoga five times a week. And she is a semi-pro athlete. She has a strong, lean body. When she held me firmly, she knocked the breath out of me. Mind you, I was pretty breathless.

I tell her to go, it's time. She declines to leave. We fuck. Like all the foreplay, it's slow, and intense. At one point, I'm on top of her, holding myself up with my arms at full length. She is about to cum. She sits up, putting her arms around my shoulders. She lifts her ass from the bed. She is clinging to me, hanging from my body in air, pushing herself down on me. She cums. I can scarcely believe she made my body work that way.

We are back to kissing, touching . . . she discovered my sensitive nipples, and slowly tortured them. Exquisitely.

I am laying on top of her, tracing a finger along her nose, her lips, her cheeks. I take a breath. "You are really beautiful," I say. "You don't have to be. I would be nice to you anyway. But it helps that you are."

She looks down at me. "Are you bi?" she asks. I say I am. "I do well with the bi guys," she says. Why is that, you think? "Must be my physique," she says, flexing a bicep that would give pause to Charles Atlas.

She said she was hungry. I went to the kitchen and produced Spanish rice, steamed shrimp, and fresh calamari sauteed in garlic. We eat nude.

As we eat, we talk about the Nitke photos. She mentions liking one in which a man is fully bound to a flotation board, adrift in a pool. I say that there was such a sense of risk in that position. She says she likes the feeling of being bound.

I recall how she came when I was holding her, on top of her, as she pulled me closer to crush her.

"I can bind you," I offer. She produces rope and ankle bracelets from her bag, saying they were intended for a possible film shoot later that night. I dig up handcuffs and other stuff. She is soon strapped to my bed on all fours.

I torture her nipples. I tell her I am going to verbally abuse her. "Yes," she murmurs. I ask her why, with all that we've been doing, she has not sucked my cock? "Are you bad at it or something?" I ask. She opens her mouth, wide. I feed her my cock, and fuck her face hard. She can take it very well, so I commend her. Then I slap her for making me wait for that.

We had already established that she is an ass virgin, and so I take her to task for this. How can I let her fuck my friends if she can't even do anal? So I move around and give her a hard spanking. I lick her hole, and blow air in her. She moans. She can't help but fart. I spank her for this, and do it again. "This will burn, but only for a second," I warn. I take a sip of bourbon, and blow it up her ass. I plug it with my thumb, and then a butt plug.

I fuck her pussy.

"Can you take candle wax?," I ask. Never tried it, she mumbles. I drip wax on her back and ass for a very long time. She squirms until I tell her to be still. (Later she asked: was I making too much noise? I can try to be less responsive. Oh no, I say. You did very well.)

In time, I release her and take her to the shower. I wash her body, and flake off the wax. We go back to bed and it's tender again. She falls asleep. I read.

We woke up entangled, touching . . . her fingers are never still when they can be caressing. We spend the morning in bed. There was a joy in this, so palpable, for me at least, that I had to take care lest blurting out, "I am so in love with you."

I had to remind myself, I really don’t know Celia so well. Not yet.

I make her breakfast—bacon, eggs, and her first helping of grits. We were both very sated. We talk about how she just broke up with her boyfriend, and she had broken with her other two lovers in the last month. I say I am hers, when she wants me. Her eyes fix on mine. “That’s right,” she smiles.

My friend Todd calls. He reminds me that we are going to fuck this woman from Texas that night. I had offered to host, and said I would line up some others to join us. I had invited Thomas, that was easy, but I was so busy with Celia all weekend, I didn’t do much more.

I asked Celia if she wanted to do a group thing that night. She pondered it but declined. She was already well sexed. So was I, really.

Around two or three, I kissed goodbye to my Celia. I had a gang bang in a few hours. I would spend that time in the thrall of my Celia, picking up flecks of candle wax, and writing to my friend Dacia about her.