Thursday, March 31, 2005


Mitzi got her sleepover.

She was already booked for the first night I had available, as friends had invite her to dinner. But she wondered: could I come over after dinner, say around ten-ish?

That worked for me. We calendared the date.

If I was free until ten, I could fulfill another obligation. I could reschedule Bridget’s sex and dinner date for earlier that evening.

I hated bumping her due to my son’s illness. She’s a good friend, and I’m her main outlet for sex. And Bridget really likes her sex.

I asked Bridget over for a nice cocktail hour fucking; she offered to take me to dinner afterwards. This would pass the time until Mitzi was available, and I could head to her place, toothbrush in tow.

Not a bad plan, but things went slightly awry.

Bridget was held up at work, and late to get to my place. Alas, that meant that dinner would have to be scratched as we tended to her other itchings.

As we parted company, I realized that I was starving and pretty tuckered out. It had been a long day following a short sleep; I was up late and awake early to get the kids to school.

Mitzi greeted me at the door. I persuaded her to walk out with me to get some tacos.

We chatted as I munched at her place, and shared some bourbons. When bedtime rolled around, I sorta kinda . . . fell asleep.

The next morning, Mitzi kissed me awake. “Do you remember last night?” she asked.

“Hmmmm, what about last night?”

“I fucked you. You were sound asleep. It was a great fuck, too.”

“What? How did you fuck me when I was asleep?”

“Well, I woke up horny around three and discovered your hard cock in my bed. So I rubbed and sucked your cock, hoping you might wake for sex.

“After about forty minutes of worshipping your cock . . .”

“Forty minutes?!”

“Yes, after forty minutes, I got to the point where my clit was going to explode. I crawled up to your face and whispered, ‘Jefferson? Jefferson? Jefferson?

“‘Mmmmm?’ you said.

“‘Do you know what I've been doing to you?’” I asked.

“‘Nuh uh’” you replied.

“‘I’ve been sucking and playing with your cock.’” I informed you.

“‘You have?’” you asked.

“‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘That’s why you are so hard . . . Jefferson? Jefferson?’”

“Dear Lord, I was out again?”

“Snoring away, dead to the world. So I roused you and said I needed to fuck you. You invited me to climb on.”

“And so you did as I suggested?”

“Yes I did. I put a condom on, you—no need for lube considering my pussy was wet as hell after manipulating your cock for so long.

“I straddled you. I was wearing a black nightie. You went to grab my breasts, but sleep took over and you just hung onto the neckline of a nightie as I rode you.

“You stayed passed out, but hard. I rode you, bringing my knees up toward your chest, sitting down deeper onto your cock, that cock that my body was so ready for . . .”

I was hard as Mitzi related this story.

“I decided I wanted to feel you as deep as I could, and my g spot was very receptive. I had to take your hands away from my neckline. I placed them on my hips; in sleep, you relocated them to my tummy.

“I rubbed my body into yours as I grabbed hold of my breasts. It was at this point you started to pleasantly surprise me by thrusting your pelvis to meet my grinds . . .

“Soon I lowered my torso to meet yours, allowing my clit to grind against your pelvis. Even in slumber you know what I like and pressed into me.

“I came. It was a nice, sweet orgasm. But I was so worked up, there was more left.”

“More?” I asked, as she rubbed my cock.

“Uh huh,” she whispered. “I took a moment, laying on you. My pussy barely stopped moving for a minute before I went back to work.

“I hooked the tops of my feet around your shins, pressing my body deep to yours rubbing back and forth on you, All the while you were asleep, but so hard for me.

“I soon came again . . . this time, big. A big fat juicy blissful orgasm. It knocked the wind out of me and stole the hearing from my right ear.”

“The orgasm deafened you?” I asked, licking a breast.

“Temporarily, yes. And as I enjoyed a post-coital rest, my remaining ear was filled with your snores.

“I giggled as I hoisted myself off you. I removed the condom from your slowly softening cock, kissed your cheek, and went into the bathroom to take a piss.

“I stayed in the bathroom giggling for a few minutes, then got into bed, a big smile plastered on my face.”

“Mitzi, that is so hot,” I said, reaching for a condom. “Wish I had been there to appreciate it.”

“Me too,” she smiled as I entered her. “It was really great sex.”

Wednesday, March 30, 2005


It was supposed to be a good day for submissives.

It started well. A girl friend sent over a friend of hers for some morning sex.

A few days before, we had teamed up on her friend, tying her down, whipping her, stuffing her full of dildos and cock. This went on for a very long time.

That morning was a follow up. Just me and her friend for some tender morning sex, so that we could connect one-on-one .

Okay, so maybe that tender sex was mixed with some choking. But I didn’t spank her—much.

She went away happy, and I settled into work; I had a few hours before J was stopping over with his new find.

J and I have an interesting relationship. He has a remarkable capacity for meeting women who want to become cock sluts. He trains them for a while, and when he thinks they are sufficiently slutty, he brings them to me.

We team up to give them a workout with two cocks.

I just assume that any woman he brings over can deep throat a messy blowjob, or he would not waste my time.

J is straight, and so there has not been any interaction between us. But prior to this meeting, he suggested that he might now be open to moving in that direction. He was sure it would turn on his new friend,

Moments before they were to arrive, I got a call from Jason’s school. He wasn’t feeling well—could I come pick him up after his next class?

That changed matters.

J arrived with Gloria. Cute, I thought—she was brunette with big brown eyes, and mature, in her mid-forties. J had told me that she has only recently discovered her inner slut.

I took their coats, apologizing that I would need to run off before long. We were on a tight schedule anyway, as we were meeting on their lunch breaks.

We sat on the couch, with Gloria in the middle. She professed to shyness about this new situation.

J kissed her. Her hands traveled to the cocks on either side of her. I suppose this helped her to overcome her shyness, as she unzipped J to feel his hard on.

He removed her shirt. We each sucked a breast. She moaned, her nipples growing hard in our mouths.

I suggested we retire to my bedroom.

J and I undressed and lay side-by-side on the bed, stroking our hard cocks. She stood by the bed, admiring the view.

“Hmmm, which cock do I suck first?” she pondered.

“Well, not to be rude,” I apologized, “but I am pressed for time . . . ”

“Please,” J offered, extending his hand graciously.

Gloria settled on the bed between my legs. She locked her eyes on mine and took my cock whole into her mouth.

“Very nice,” I commended her. Good eye contact, deep throating from the start . . . this was going to be a very nice blowjob.

“She’s good, right?” J asked.

“Very. You have done it again, sir.”

She sucked me in long, regular gulps. Her drool accumulated in my pubic hair, trailing around my balls.

I thrust into her face. She took it well.

I lifted my legs, resting them on her back. This forced her head lower onto my cock, keeping me deep in her face.

I held her head, plunging back and forth.

“Fuck yeah,” J said, stroking. He pinched my nipples.

When I was about to blow, I grabbed her hair and pulled it back. A few strokes later, I shot high and long.

“God damn,” I said, panting. “You give a mean blowjob!”

“Thanks,” she smiled.

“ . . . and with that, I must make an uncharacteristically abrupt departure,” I said, standing. “You are welcome to stay here for a while. Just close up when you leave.”

“Great man,” J said. “Sorry you’ve got to roll, but we understand.”

I washed up and came back to dress. She was swallowing his cock when I said goodbye. J smiled and offered a thumb’s up.

Jason finished his class as I waited in the nurse’s office.

He was running a fever and feeling lethargic. Apparently he had come down with the illness that had felled his sibling during the previous week.

I knew what this meant: he would be home with me for a few days.

When we got home, I gave him some medicine and he passed out in a nap.

J and Gloria had thoughtfully straightened my bed.

I had a date that night with Bridget. I called to cancel, offering to reschedule for a few days later.

She agreed but said she needed to drop off a few things that night.

When she arrived, I meet her in my building’s lobby. She had prepared Easter baskets for my children, and procured bourbon for dad.

I kissed her.

Jason’s siblings stayed with their mom. He and I played video games and talked until he was ready for bed.

Around ten, I signed on and found Madeline.

Isn’t tonight a sex night? Why are you online?

Jason is home sick. No sex night for daddy.

Aw, poor kid! Is it bad?

Are you referring to Jason’s illness, or to my sexless night?

Jason, silly.

Her webcam flashed on. I responded with mine.

I think he has what his siblings had last week.

Okay, now you get my sympathies. But this is a welcome change in my evening’s plans. Care to join me for a drink?

We each poured a glass. We toasted our webcams.

Tuesday, March 29, 2005


Marla is once more on the outs with her on again/off again boyfriend, and so she has more time to spend with me.

We got together at my place to catch up over dinner. I wanted the low down on her romantic life, but first of all, we had to talk about her hair.

She has lovely, naturally curly hair, which she grows long. I never tire of burying my face in it.

But these days, she likes to keep it straight. She has added blonde highlights, and a flash of pink at the ends in the back.

Having dumped her boy—for good this time, she says—she is on to bigger and better things, starting with her appearance. She is always a head turner, but now, gee! I don’t see how she crosses the street without fending off marriage proposals from cabbies.

We are talking, and kissing now and then. We are most assuredly having sex at some point. But for now, we have a lot to catch up on.

One thing I want to know: how was your date with Donny?

“Didn’t happen,” she tells me. “I don’t know if I’m really all that into him.”

“How can you not be into him? He’s a sweet kid, never mind that he’s gorgeous.”

“Oh he is hot, by society’s standards. But I think he’s also pretty selfish, sexually,” she said, adding, “Not like you!”

Donny is the straight boy who calls on me when he needs to get his ass fucked. He had spontaneously joined Marla and me on a recent date for a really nice threesome.

Really nice, but for the fact that he wouldn’t fuck her. I had warned her—he likes to have women watch him get fucked, but he won’t put out for them.

His reasons make sense to me, riddled though they seem with possible contradictions.

First of all, for moral reasons, he wants to keep to a minimum the number of women with whom he has intercourse prior to marriage. A blowjob here or there doesn’t seem to affect his moral abacus, which only contributes to his potential as a heartbreaker.

Secondly, he is wary of sexually transmitted diseases. True, the man he has chosen to fuck him is very active, but he knows that I am also very careful. With me, he reasons, he has access to various scenarios—such as our threesome—while maintaining his self-imposed restrictions.

Given this, I was surprised when he recently asked if Marla would be interested in seeing him.

He had contacted me to see if I was available to fuck him. Can’t today, I said—I have the kids.

Do you think Marla would see me then? he asked. Can’t hurt to ask, I replied, and so I put them in touch.

She was happy to call him. She was all set to get together with him that evening when she thought to ask him: if I come over to your place, you are fucking me, right?

Oh no, he replied. I thought maybe you could blow me and play with my ass?

Am I at least getting my pussy licked? she asked.

Eh, he hedged. Dunno that I would be up for that.

“And that,” Marla explained to me, “was all I needed to know. I didn’t go over.”

As we talked, I cleaned my kitchen and prepared to make dinner. Her phone rang.

“Hello . . . Oh hey, honey . . . yeah, I’m over at Jefferson’s, chilling . . . oh yeah? Can you hold on for a moment?

“You won’t believe who this is,” Marla laughed.

“No kidding, Donny? He called you?”

“Yeah, your phone is off. And you won’t believe this, but . . .”

“He wants to come over.”

“You got it! You up for that?”

“I’m game if you are,” I replied.

She thought for a moment and went back to her phone. “Okay, come over later, like eight or so. We’re just about to eat dinner.”

“Well,” I said, breading chicken. “So much for watching a movie.”

“I would like to see him tonight, but I can tell you one thing now: if he doesn’t eat my pussy, I am not sucking his cock.”

As chicken fried, Marla and I kissed in the kitchen. “You remember eating me out on that counter top?” she smiled, nodding toward the microwave. “That was so hot.”

With that memory in mind, she pulled out my cock and started blowing me, hard and fast. It was all I could do to remain standing.

“You like that?” she looked up at me, eyes wide.

“Oh yeah, baby. God damn but you take it hard.”

“It’s what I do sweetie. Tend to your chicken so I can suck your cock.”

I turned the chicken and put the lid on the skillet. I grabbed her head and fucked her mouth, forcibly. “You cock slut,” I sneered.

She is teaching me to sneer and talk nasty.


When the chicken was ready, we poured more wine—pinot grigiot for her, cabernet for me—and sat to eat.

We were clearing the dishes when Donny arrived. He brought a large beer to drink before we got naked. We sat and talked; Marla teased him about not fucking her.

“How hot do I have to be for you to fuck me?” she prodded.

He was embarrassed, but resolute as he gulped Budweiser. With a few glasses in him, he stood. “Well, let’s do this,” he said, and walked to the bedroom. Marla and I exchanged glances and followed.

We popped on some porn and undressed. He asked to see me go down on her. With pleasure, I complied. I watched him stand at her side, stroking his large cock to erection.

Marla’s clit ring clacked behind my teeth.

“You ready to get fucked?” she asked him. He nodded. “How do you want it?” she asked.

“I want to ride him.”

I rolled over on my back, resting my head on Marla’s thigh. He and I were rock hard. She was wet from my tongue.

As he positioned himself over me, Marla lowered her pussy onto my mouth. I sucked her clit, tugging it with my lips as he slid my cock into him.

I gently put a hand on his firm, slender hip, and roamed my other hand over the musculature of his torso. My vision obscured by Marla’s pussy, I watched as the leaned forward to kiss her.

His mouth traveled to her breasts.

I grabbed his hard cock, using it as a lever as I thrust upward, licking and sucking her to orgasm.

We moved so that he was on his back. I kept my hand firm on his cock, pulling his hips onto me.

He asked Marla to suck him. “Are you going to eat my pussy?” she asked. He shook his head. “Then no,” she laughed.

“I think you should fuck him, baby,” I suggested. I pulled out and retrieved a dildo.

“Ooh, I’d like that,” she said. He was game. I slipped a condom on the dildo, and lubed it for her. Donny lubed his ass again.

She slipped it in. “Like this?” she asked him. Donny arched back, taking it. I jerked his cock.

She pushed the dildo in and out of his ass, using her wrist. “Try pushing from your elbow, not your wrist,” I suggested. “You get more muscle on it, and it’s less taxing on you.”

She tried this, and got better leverage. I held his legs back.

“You should fuck her,” Donny moaned. I thought, hey, maybe I should fuck her.

I put on a condom, stood behind her, and spread her hips. I entered her and started fucking. But, I noticed, this broke her concentration. I pulled out.

She fucked him hard. He came over his torso, shooting over his shoulder.

Donny looked back. “Sorry about the wall,” he winced.

“Comes right off,” I reassured him. “Nice aim.”

A few moments later, he was clean, dressed and out the door.

“Now that’s what I mean,” Marla said when he was gone. “He cums and he goes—he could use some better manners.”

I wasn’t complaining.

Marla and I lay nude in bed, critiquing the porn. She had plans to meet friends for drinks downtown and invited me to join.

It was nearly midnight. I was nude in bed, already sexed. I declined.

After she was gone, I realized: dog gone it, I forgot to cum again.

I signed on and found my online girlfriend, Madeline. We fired up the web cams. She smiled as her face came up on my screen.

How are you doing hun?

I’m fine. Just had some folks over.

Have fun?

Oh yeah. But I’m feeling kind of lonely. Sleeping with myself tonight.

Yeah, me too. Want to join me in a drink?

We poured bourbons and settled down for talk before bed.

Thursday, March 24, 2005


Anna wanted a very domestic evening.

You take care of your writing, she told me. I will cook while you work. We’ll have dinner, and afterwards you can work, or we will watch a movie, or whatever. Just an easy night at home.

A night at home with someone you care about. The very thing she most wants from life.

I can do a command performance of domestic bliss. That satisfies a craving of my own, to just be happy like that.

She arrived with bags of groceries, and set up camp in my kitchen. Here, she said, offering a bottle of cabernet. Open the wine.

She spread out her ingredients. I was asked to provide a non-reactive dish, a colander, a chopping block and a sharp knife. I was given a mix CD to play, loaded with smart romantic choices.

Those tasks accomplished, I was sent back to my computer, glass of wine in hand. Just write, she told me.

Dinner was pitch perfect. Baked chicken breasts on eggplant, blanketed in sundried tomatoes and capers, drenched in balsamic vinegar and served with polenta.

I was in a quiet mood. We talked casually. It was easy. Just friends relaxing, eating.

I had selected a movie. My Peter Sarsgaard crush has led me to The Center of the World, a flick about a computer geek who hires a freckled sex worker for a weekend in Vegas. Dorks, freckles, commercial sex . . . my cup of tea.

In the film, we learn that “cunt” is the eponymous center of the world. For about two hours, the film obsesses a bit about cunt.

The movie’s eroticism was submerged under an avalanche of adolescent notions about sex—what it might mean if one were actually so fortunate to encounter an actual woman who might actually desire sex.

In my bed was an actual woman who actually desired sex.

We were nude and kissing. The movie had roused a playfulness in Anna. She smiled and got up from the bed, heading to my drawer of sex toys.

“Hmmm,” she said, holding up a pair of stockings. “What have we here?”

“Put them on,” I said. “Slowly.”

Anna’s a dancer. She knows the effect of pacing movement. She lifted a leg while standing, and slowly rolled a stocking to her thigh. She snapped it in place.


She lifted the other leg, and inched the hose up, her eyes locked on me. Snap.

Her limbs were sheathed in sheer black, transforming her lovely legs into pure form. She returned to the bed. Resting on her elbows, she lifted her legs into scissor kicks. She raised her eyebrows.

I should have just enjoyed the show, but I had to lick her, to feel those hose on my cheeks, as I tasted the center of the world.

She came for me.

I returned to the drawer for a butt plug.

A while back, at her request, we retired anal sex from our repertoire. We also retired kink. Maybe both were back for an encore.

I put a condom on the plug and lubed it, my eyes on hers. I took a stockinged foot into my mouth. I slid the plug into her.

When she tensed, I bit into her toes.

Her ass was full. I put on a condom and filled the center of the world, holding her sheer calves to my chest.

She moaned when I flipped her, feeling that solid plug in her ass. I fucked her hard, spanking her without regard to mercy.

She grabbed a pillow and held it to her face, screaming her orgasms into it.

Her ass was still red the next morning when we resumed.

She breakfasted on my cock.

I had her well fucked and ready to head off to work at the appointed hour.

She cuddled close. “Maybe I can go in late,” she murmured.

Uh oh.

This violates the code of school night sleepovers. When it is time to go, you should go. No fair pulling a weekend attitude.

But what could I say? She was in her bliss. I held her close and we passed the time. I was sweet, and did not let on that I was thinking about work.

She eventually decided it was as late as she could reasonably stay. She showered and dressed as I made phone calls.

We indulged a lengthy kiss at the door.

Later I got an email:

Do you still have that rope?

Wednesday, March 23, 2005


Several days had passed since the most recent gathering. During that time I had juggled three kids, four work projects and eight sex partners.

Never mind the three butt plugs.

Mitzi called. Can we talk?

Sure, I said. Come on over.

As I waited for her to arrive, I made coffee, washed sex toys and put four loads of sheets into the wash. I worked. I had a rare morning to myself.

She smiled at the door. I took her coat and we sat on the couch.

Look Jefferson, she began, I am really enjoying getting to know you. It’s been a short time . . .

It seems like a much longer time, doesn’t it? I interrupted.

It does seem a long time, she agreed. A lot has happened, fast, and it’s been really . . . enlightening. And enjoyable. But—and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way—I am still trying to figure out what to do with all this.

How do you mean? I asked.

Well, it’s like this. I know you are fucking other people. I am fucking other people. Now we are fucking some of the same people.

True . . .

And I think about that, and I know that I have a tendency to be jealous . . . and I know that jealousy just isn’t a very appropriate response in this situation . . .

This is a very unusual situation, I agreed. I mean, I make no pretense about seeing other people. You read my blog, so you get details of that, and you attend parties where you see that with your own eyes.

And I don’t mind that, she said. Really. I accept that.

So how does jealousy come into play? I asked.

It’s just that . . . you know your posting about last Monday? Where you met Melissa, and Tevin came over, and she slept over?

Yes. You are jealous of Melissa?

Well, no, not really.


No, no. I guess I am jealous of the situation. I want to be someone you call for spontaneous things like that.


And I want to spend the night together. It makes me sad that Melissa just had that, so easily. We have slept together, and it was really nice. I like seeing you at parties, or for lunch breaks, but . . . well, I think I would like more time when it is just us, and we have time together.

I’d like that, too. I mean, you know I don’t have so many nights to offer, what with the kids . . .

I know. I appreciate that. And I know you have friends and lovers come in from out of town sometimes, which means a sleepover. But I’d like for us to make time to make that happen.

How could I refuse so sweet a request? Yes, Mitzi, I said, let’s try to make that happen.

We kissed. We made love in my fresh sheets. We made a date for later in the week.

We parted feeling that we had resolved something.

Now comes the hard part: living up to that resolution.

I fret about things that can interfere with the best of intentions.

Keep in mind that Mitzi has her own life. She does not rest at my beck and call. She has friends, rehearsals, yoga, a dog to walk—she is not always waiting by the phone.

Still, she is single and lives alone, so her time is very much her own. Whereas I have kids, which means sleepover dates are not often possible.

Just to spell things out for you, gentle reader, let’s slice up a typical month to see how that pans out in terms of dating possibilities.

Take March. Thirty-one days hath March.

In March, I was destined to be a single parent for sixteen days. Dating was not possible on those days.

Because children were sick or on vacation, more than sixteen days were actually devoted to parenting. That’s just fate. But let’s stick with the numbers—let’s assume I was available for fifteen evenings this month.

Of those, I give three nights per month over to orgies: two for the biweekly gatherings of my friends, one for the monthly male orgy I co-host with Jimmy.

I am down to twelve free nights.

On any given month, I host family or friends for three to four days. This is New York City—someone is always coming to town.

Holidays turn my apartment into a bed and breakfast. I have no privacy and no sex. It’s better in March. Still, I assume that in addition to time with the kids, I will be hosting for a few days a month.

I am down to nine free nights.

What impressed me about last Monday was not just how hot it was to have such a fine threesome. What impressed me was that I was free to engage in that because I was not otherwise committed. It was spontaneous.

I related this experience to my pal Jake, a single man who keeps a very active dating and sex schedule. He related that he reserves one night a week, at least, as a cushion to just chill and do whatever he likes.

Maybe that night results in sex, maybe it results in reading, maybe it results in getting his bathroom clean. That is his night to do whatever.

Wow, I thought. I need that. A regular night to myself.

I can’t possibly afford one night a week to myself. So let me reserve half of that per month. Once every two weeks, that is my night.

This gets me down to about seven free nights a month. Seven potential sleepovers.

This assuming that the children and I aren’t sick, or I don’t travel for work, or a friend doesn’t have a dinner party, or . . .

Can I maintain good relationships with multiple partners with so few free nights per month to offer?

Mitzi is a great person I am just getting to know. We would like more time as we get to know one another. Can that happen at a pace that suits her, with sleepovers being few and far between?

Consider Anna, who had clamored for a sleepover for a month. We finally had one scheduled for that very night.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Fixer Upper

“Jefferson, that was so hot, watching you suck cock at my gangbang.”

“You liked? It was nice, Mitzi, the way you were agog at the sight.”

“Mmmm hmmm. I liked. Will I see more of that at your gathering?”

“Baby, you point to any cock you like, and I will suck it for you.”

“You are too good to me!”

Mitzi decided to come to the next gathering. She arrived early, exuding calm repose, professing great nervousness. As I kissed her, the scent of vanilla wafted from her neck.

I put her to work, making the beds with the sex party sheets while I put out candles and grabbed a quick shower.

Nadia was first to arrive, eager to get going early so she would not make too late a night of it.

Nest to arrive was Jake . . . with Tammy, Alice and his friend Angelina. For months, Jake had been encouraging Angelina to visit the gatherings. She decided to take the plunge this time around; it would be her first group sex situation.

Jake’s former recruits, Tammy and Alice, are now regulars.

Angelina was certainly pretty. Tall, blonde, nice figure and in her early twenties.

“I’m sure Angelina will enjoy this,” Jake had told me. “If she has fun, she will be a regular.”

“We’ll treat her right, never fear.”

“Just be sure to go down on her. That, and me fucking her in a group, will surely rope her in.”

“I’ll do my bit,” I assured him. The quarterback was making a good call—my g-spot massage backed by his powerfuck is a classic from the playbook.

Jake mixed a batch of a cocktail that he invented in my kitchen. It has something to do with vodka, tequila and crème de menthe—maybe bourbon as well?

I remarked that it looked like a concoction British expats might have downed in Sub-Saharan Africa. He dubbed it “The Horny Englishman.”

I wouldn’t go near it, but it was a crowd pleaser.

Angelina and I found common ground on Rufus Wainwright. Tammy and Nadia got reacquainted, having hit if off at a previous party. Mitzi was very gracious in keeping the conversation going, mentally matching face to name, and name to the pseudonyms used on my blog.

Five women, Jake and me.

A knock at the door: it was Mona, “The Enabler,” who uses her powers of charm and grace to encourage people to do her bidding.

Another knock: it was Bugs, without her boyfriend.

“What’s this?” Bugs asked, kissing my cheek. “A convent?”

Seven women, Jake and me.

Looks like Mitzi wasn’t going to see much boy-on-boy action after all.

I had a situation. I needed boys, fast. I worked the phone and cranked up the instant messages. I wasn’t worried—at moments like these, I am like Liberace on a baby grand.

Someone was singing the Beach Boys, “Two girls for every bo-oo-oy,” but the gender ratio was not yet even that balanced.

Mitzi stood behind my chair as I worked, offering encouraging words, urging me to come on, let’s get this party going. I tried our best men.

Thomas was sick. And sicker still he could not make it.

Alfie, who did so well at Mitzi’s gangbang, was overwhelmed with homework.

Tevin was still blissed from our threesome with Melissa on the previous night. He passed.

Mark was going to be late. Todd was on his way. John would come after rehearsals.

Max had told Alice he would be working late and unable to attend. I told him we needed his cock in action tonight. Give me a half hour, he said.

He was there in fifteen minutes. Todd was close behind.

Nadia put down her foot. She wasn’t going to wait around for more boys. Mitzi took her by the arm. “You’re right,” she agreed. “Let’s make this happen.” They retired to my bedroom, stripped down and got to fondling.

“I’m rather new to girls,” Mitzi confessed. Nadia was glad to guide the way.

Alas, nothing will wreck a nice lesbian scene like two horny boys.

Todd and I dove in. I put my mouth to work on Mitzi’s familiar clit. Todd offered cock to Nadia.

Jake and Angelina undressed. She lay on the bed, raising her arms over her head. Jake cuffed her wrists.

“Excuse me, Mitzi,” I apologized, lifting my face from her pussy. “But hosting duties call.”

“Of course,” Mitzi smiled. She joined Nadia with Todd’s cock as I retrieved rope.

No point in cuffing a girl if the cuffs aren’t secured. I roped Angelina to the bed frame.

Jake fed his cock her waiting mouth. I took my cue to busy my mouth with her pussy. I spread her legs.

Jake commended Angelina for waxing in advance of the party. Her skin was smooth and soft on my cheek. I licked her slit open and sucked her clit. She grew wet quickly; I slipped two fingers to her g spot. She moved her hips to me.

Soon Jake and I switched positions. Angelina swallowed my cock as Jake slipped his into her.

I looked across the room and saw Mitzi in a chair, as Todd worked between her legs. She caught my eye. We smiled.

After a time, I left Jake and Angelina to go at it. I had a date with Tammy.

At a previous party, Jake and I had teamed up with Tammy. It was the first time I had my mouth on her, and I discovered her large and very responsive clit. She went into orgasms quickly and sustained them for great durations—very gratifying for an aficionado of muff diving such as yours truly.

Since that party, she and I had exchanged notes, agreeing that my oral fixation was well matched to her multiple orgasms.

Tammy and Mona were dressed and chatting on the sofa. “Sorry to interrupt, ladies,” I excused myself. “But Tammy’s clit is next on my dance card.”

“By all means,” Mona smiled.

I took her hand and guided her to a bed. She stripped to her underwear; I relieved her of these.

My mouth met her body, and within moments, she was emitting a continuous soprano wail. My fingers joined at the task, and her volume increased. She buried her face in a pillow.

Nadia was lured by the sound of Tammy’s orgasm. She sat on the bed, watching Tammy let go. I was willing to keep at it for as long as she endured.

Her body buckled and twitched as she wailed.

Finally she relented. “Enough, no more, no more,” she gasped, waving a hand.

Nadia clocked it at twenty minutes. One long ripple of orgasm after orgasm.

By this time, Mark and John had arrived. The number of boys was now more evenly matched with that of the girls.

In one room, Mark fucked Nadia as Todd fucked Bugs, side by side on the bed.

In the next room, Max fucked Mitzi next to John fucking Alice. Across the room, Jake and Alexandra were at it.

Mona and I stood in the hallway, a vantage allowing us to look into both rooms.

All of the women were on their backs in missionary positions, their legs identically pulled back and lifted into the air.

“Such a sight,” Mona marveled.

“They look like so many trussed chickens,” I nodded.

After our threesome at the start of the evening, Angelina stayed close to Jake. They went at it vigorously in a variety of positions, and never with another partner.

During a break, I found myself sitting alone with Angelina. I asked how it was going.

“It’s a little intimidating,” she admitted, lying back on a bed, her knees propped up.

“Of course it can be,” I agreed. “This is a new experience for you. And while we all know one another, you are having sex in an apartment full of naked strangers.”

“Everyone is very nice,” she said. “But I’m just not used to this, I guess.”

“Well, you are brave to try it out. It may or may not be the thing for you. Maybe you will know better tomorrow when you look back and think: oh my gosh, what was all that?”

As we talked, I massaged her feet, compulsively popping her toes.

“Thanks,” she said. “I feel better.” I’m not sure if she referred to our talk, or to the popping of her toes, but I was glad she felt better.

Our conversation ended as Max tossed Alice on top of me and began to fuck her.

I excused myself from this tangle of bodies, thinking I should make the rounds. Mitzi cornered me. “What about that cocksucking I was promised?”

“Sorry about the oversight. Of course—who do you choose?”


“Mmmmmm. Mark.”

“Did I hear my name?” Mark called.

Mark lay on a bed. I kissed him good and long before taking his cock in my mouth. I rubbed his perineum, plunging my face up and down his shaft.

I looked down at Mitzi; she watched me, smiling as she wrapped her mouth around my cock.

Mark was very hard and large, hard to take entirely. I could see I was doing well by the rapid breathing of his tight belly.

“I think it may be time for Jefferson to fuck me,” Mark suggested.

Mitzi cooed in anticipation.

“I have another idea,” I said. I extricated myself and left, returning with the house dildo. “I think it may be time for Mitzi to fuck Mark.”

She had lately taken to tinkering with my ass. Mark’s is far better trained.

“Oh, but what if I don’t do a good job?” Mitzi demurred.

“You will do very well,” I reassured her, sheathing the dildo in a condom.

It’s a nice dildo: about seven inches of silicone yowser, with a hole in the base to accommodate the insertion of a thumb or vibrator—all the better to fuck you with, my dear.

Mark lubed himself and the dildo. Mitzi took it and entered him, tentatively at first and then, as she saw the effect on him, with increased vigor.

“Pull out more and plunge back in,” I suggested. I offered more advice based on my year-plus experience with fucking Mark before finding a better use for my mouth. I sucked in tandem with Mitzi’s thrusts.

As we went at it, various guests waved their goodbyes.

We stopped when Mark had his fill, closer to overstimulation than to orgasm.

We talked for a while, and then Mark had to be on his way.

It was late, nearly two.

Mitzi was sleeping over. Our last guest was Todd, who was still feeling social and recommended a nightcap of bacon cheeseburgers. Deluxe, with fries. These were promptly ordered, delivered and consumed.

Just as the sexless expanses of my marriage enhance my appreciation of an orgy, my vegetarian years are recent enough for me to take great pleasure in the decadence of a bacon cheeseburger.

To follow one with the other—well, Caligula would have blushed.

Mitzi and I got under the covers around three. Todd joined us. Have fun kids, I thought, closing my eyes.

Mitzi conked out soon after.

Todd let himself out.

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Free Night

I woke up at five on Tuesday morning. My lamp was on. I turned it off.

I scratched my head and got up to check on the kids. The kids were not in their beds.

Oh right: they are with their mom. Good—I can sleep a bit more. I slid under the duvet and hugged the pillows close.

Wait, I do feel the need to check on someone . . .

Oh yeah, I smiled. Melissa.

She was gone now, but she had been here. And she wasn't alone.

My spontaneous Monday night had gone very well.

In my life, there is no spontaneity without structure.

My life is parceled into bits and pieces. I parent half of the week. And those days are set in stone.

You may ask: what am I doing on Wednesday, March 12, 2008? I have the kids. Thursday, October 14, 2010? I have the kids. Want to catch a movie on Monday, June 11, 2007? Sounds good; the kids will be with their mom.

Everything that isn’t about the kids—work, socializing, sex—falls to the other half of my life. And those days and nights are generally booked well in advance.

This week, I saw that Monday evening was unclaimed. Good, I thought. I’ve got plenty of things that went undone while the kids were sick. I’ll take that night to myself, thank you very much.

I worked until evening, when my libido began to intrude upon my diligence.

I had an email from Melissa. We had never met. She is a reader of this blog who lives in the city. Our correspondence is lively, concerned with art and sex. We were sure to meet sometime.

It seemed altogether likely that meeting one another would lead to coitus. She had a novel idea: since sex seems highly probable, what if we met and got to know one another before falling into bed?

Kinky, but I was game.

I dropped her a line. Are you free for a drink after work? Alas, no: she had plans. Perhaps next week?

Fine. I look forward to it.

I went back to work, keeping an eye on Craig’s List in case some interesting posts came along. The most intriguing was a young man looking to get fucked as he wore panties. I requested a photo—he was a pretty girl.

Melissa wrote that her plans had fallen through. Still up for a drink?

We conferred and decided it was stupid to meet over Cosmopolitans at fifteen dollars a pop. Her office was nearby; she would pick up a bottle of bourbon and head to my place.

She’s Southern, like me. She knows that bourbon greases the wheels when paying a visit.

By day, Melissa is a researcher (that’s right, astute reader—another library rat in the mix!). And some nights, like several of my friends, she does a little whoring on the side to make ends meet.

She arrived with a smile and a decanter of Knob Creek.

Melissa is a real beauty, with long wavy red hair, freckles and a lithe figure. As she removed her sweater, I caught a glimpse of her washboard abs, firmed by her morning runs, punctuated by a silver navel piercing.

We poured drinks and settled into an easy conversation. Our correspondence, and her familiarity with my blog, had given us a nice head start on getting to know one another.

Of course, you put two crackers in a room and they are going to find something to talk about.

By the second drink, we were losing our resolve to postpone sex.

“This is very nice,” she said, settling in. “But am I keeping you from other plans?”

“No, not at all. My alternative plan for the evening was to fuck a cute boy in panties, but this is much more appealing.”

“Ooooh,” she smiled. “I might like to watch that.”

“Oh yeah? Well, let me see about that.”

I didn’t have a phone number for panty boy, so I checked to see if he was online. Nope. But Tevin was.

“Hey,” I asked Melissa. “Do you remember my post about the cute black waif, Tevin? The one at the gathering last month?”

“Oh yeah, he sounds adorable.”

“He’s very adorable. Want to get your hands on him?”

“Can we?” She bit her lower lip, impulsively drawing a sip of bourbon.

Of course we can, via the magic of instant messaging.

Jeffferson: Hey there, Tevin.

Tevin: Hey, what’s up?

Jeffferson: I’m hanging out with a very attractive woman and we are about to get naked. Want to join us?

Tevin: Sure that sounds fun. I’ll be there in a few.

I like that about Tevin. No long exchanges of notes, no pleading for a photo of her, no request to talk with her on the phone. He was available and I said she was worth the trip. That’s all he needed to know.

As Tevin made his way to us, I made a salmon croquette sandwich for Melissa. We poured another round, laughing and talking as she ate.

By the time Tevin showed up, we were ready to throw down.

Melissa liked what she saw. Tevin is twenty, handsome, lean and smooth, with shoulder length dreads. Tevin was similarly impressed with Melissa.

And I thought: there are two beautiful people in my living room, ready to have sex with me and with each other, all because they read this blog.

I took the two beautiful people to my bedroom.

There was a swift round of blowjobs.

I busied my mouth on Melissa’s pussy, topped in trimmed red pubes. Pubic hair on a young lady; how rarely we see that nowadays. I ran my hands across her taut body as I worked.

I watched Tevin’s large cock vanish into her mouth, his slender body pushing it deep.

Between the two of them, there was not enough body fat to fry an egg.

She sucked me as he fucked her from behind. Positions were traded, swapped, resumed.

We stuffed our two cocks into her pussy, a first for Tevin, a moan from Melissa.

Tevin has wanted to fuck ass for the first time, and so he took this opportunity to strike that from his “to do” list. I kissed her as she took it, his hips swaying back and forth.

Spanking. Licking. Touching.

We continued until . . . well, I can’t say for sure, because eventually I fell asleep, leaving them to it.

Tevin started for home, making it as far as my couch, where he dozed.

Melissa curled up in my bed.

They were gone when I awoke at five, like memories of a dream.

The next day, Melissa dropped a line, asking if I was free for lunch. She offered to bring soup to my place.

Are you talking about lunch, or did you want a side order of cock with that, I asked?

We know that we can be in the same room and want to tear off each other’s clothes, she wrote. Let’s try to keep our clothes on.

We had a very nice lunch. Chicken noodle soup she picked up at a deli, with Saltines. We chatted amiably, like we go way back.

Our goodbye kiss was steamy. “Sorry we didn’t get in any cock sucking this time,” she smiled. “Perhaps for our next lunch.”

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Back to School


“Good morning! Time to wa-aa-ake uu-uu-up! It’s Monday and back to school time!”

“Unhhhh . . .”

“Lillie, wake up, baby. Your teacher is going to be so happy to see you! You missed a lot of school last week. Wake up, baby!”

“Dad, I don’t have any socks.”

“Take a pair from your brother’s drawer. They are the same size.”

“I brushed my teeth already. You can smell my breath if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you. Now get dressed while I finish making lunches.”

“Did you make egg salad?”

“Yes I did! Now hop to it; we need to get out of here soon.”


“Good morning, Lillie! We missed you!”

“I was sick. Like this: cough, cough.”

“I know! Is she feeling better, Daddy?”

“She’s fine. No fever for a few days. Still has a nasty sounding cough, but it is very infrequent.”

“Good. You know, we had ten kids absent last week.”

“Good grief!”

“Hopefully, this virus has done it’s worst. Okay, Lillie, say goodbye to Daddy.”

“Bye Daddy!”

“Bye honey. Have a good day. I’ll call you at your mom’s tonight.”

“Okay Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you too baby.”


“Good morning, Jefferson. You catch me just getting out of the shower.”

“Is that so, Mitzi? Or have you been lounging in that towel, just for the effect of opening the door wearing it?”

“You see right through me.”

“I want to see all of you. Lose the towel.”


“I like that you play with your clit when I’m fucking you.”

“I can’t help myself . . . you know, this weekend I made a little trip to Toys in Babeland . . .”

“And what did you procure from said establishment?”

“Let me just show you, from my box of tricks . . .”

“Can you reach it while I’m inside you?”

“Yes, I keep it close for that reason. Let’s see here . . .”

“Ah! The Rabbit!

“Yes, I am still getting acquainted with Mister Rabbit. And there’s this . . .”

“Okay, cute butt plug.

“And I believe you are familiar with this?”

“Oh yes, the Silver Bullet. We like the Silver Bullet. May I?”

“Yes please.”

“Let me get a condom on that bad boy. It’s going in your ass while I suck your clit.”

“Thank you!”


“Mind if I suck your cock?”

“Please, enjoy.”

“You are so good to me.”


“Unh, unh . . .”

“Yes, cum for me!”


“Umph . . .”

“Sorry sweet, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I didn’t know I was asleep.”

“We both dozed off for a moment. I’m afraid I need to get to work. Can I take a quick shower?”

“Of course. I’ll get you a towel.”

“I can use the one you were wearing.”

“I won’t hear of it. You get a fresh one.”


“So Jefferson, I’ve been thinking about your group sex parties . . .”

“Oh yeah?”

“You think I would do well there?”

“Honey, I know you would. I would take care of you. And heck, after your gangbang, you know a few of the folks already.”

“That’s true . . . well, maybe I will come tomorrow night.”

“You would be welcome. Come early and we’ll hang out beforehand.”

“I’d like that.”

“Me too, Mitzi.”

Tuesday, March 15, 2005


Anna was in a melancholy mood on our most recent date.

She was sitting with my head in her lap, stroking my hair. I felt very relaxed and not a little sleepy, having had an early morning with the kids.

She has been thinking of me a lot, she said. Not as in “thinking of you,” but giving serious thought to how I am adjusting to my new life. She is trying to understand what makes me tick.

“I’m not that difficult to figure out,” I said. “I mean, I’m pretty open about my inner mechanics.”

I know you are, she said, but I don’t think you fully understand all that goes on inside. You don’t understand how hurt you still are by the divorce. You don’t understand how that hurt affects the choices you make, the things you do.

I listened, eyes closed.

She talked in a low tone at great length, dissecting the pain and confusion the attributes to me. She said that sex is a nice balm on my pain, but warned that promiscuity will only leave me feeling hollow inside.

“What experience have you had with promiscuity?” I teased.

“I’ve been busy this week.”

I opened my eyes. Her face was serious.

She told me that she had meet a few guys online in the past week, and had sex with all of them.

“And did you enjoy that?” I asked.

She shrugged. “One of them is okay. I may see him again.”

“You don’t seem too thrilled about this,” I observed. “If you don’t like it, why do it?”

“You’re not the only one who can fuck around, you know.”

I remembered last week, when she announced that she had had sex with another man, saying that now we were both nonmonogamous. Now she had seen several men, saying that now were both promiscuous.

She wasn’t just thinking about what made me tick. She was synchronizing her clock to match mine. In trying to understand me, she was emulating me. What’s good for the goose may be good for the gander, but what’s good for me seems ill-suited to her.

I closed my eyes. “You don’t have to do as I do.”

“I know. But it does give me insights.” She went on with her analysis of me. Her words wafted over me. I felt passive, sinking as she spoke. Was she being promiscuous as an experiment to better understand me?

I waited for her to end this. She knows that I am not comfortable talking in detail about other people I see, and yet she brings it up almost every time we meet.

My answers are always the same. I am bisexual. I am seeing other people. I am very sexually active. Beyond that, I don’t provide details about specific people—she will only try to determine if someone else holds a higher place in my heart.

It’s fair enough that she wants to talk about our relationship. But her persistent return to studying my psyche so closely—in some ways on target, in some ways off the mark—leaves me feeling inert.

I escape into my eyelids.

As she spoke, in a low even tone, she slid her hand into my pants. She took my cock. I grew hard to her touch.

“Don’t you agree?”


“I asked if you agreed that we are both free to do as we want?”

“Uh, yes, I agree.” I’m not sure she believes that. My body and mind were limp. Only my cock was hard.

“Good. Now I want to suck your cock, and I want you to cum. I want you to let go of your control.”

I lay still as she pulled my pants down to my knees. My arms rested on my chest. She went at me fast with her mouth and hand, as she does when she means business.

I’m not sure what she is after in this ritual of analysis and release.

She wants to get behind my defenses to bring me intimacy and pleasure, yet I don’t know what defenses she rails against. She seems to believe that my disinterest in monogamy is a rampart put in place to insure that I won’t be hurt again. She assumes that I avoid commitment to one person so that I won’t risk the pain of losing that person.

Her assumption is based on the premise that anyone who is not interested in monogamy must be avoiding commitment, as everyone wants to be loved by that special someone.

She doesn’t get it when I explain that I am not avoiding anything. Monogamy has plenty going for it, but it isn’t what I want now. I prefer honesty. I enjoy having multiple partners. I enjoy sex with men as well as women.

She doesn’t get it. My choices don’t square with her paradigm of happiness.

She sucks me until I shoot. She got big load out of me. If I felt passive and inert before, those feelings were now compounded by relaxation. I could barely move.

I didn’t move.

She sat on the floor, pleased that she had brought pleasure to me.

“Do you want to sleep?” she asked.

“No,” I replied. “I want your pussy on my mouth.”

We went into the bedroom and shed our clothes. As I licked her, my erection returned. I gave her a few orgasms before we fucked. She came again and again.

She left in high spirits. Her melancholia had shifted to me.

Over the weekend, as I parented sick children, she dropped off a box containing children’s novels, animated movies and—for Dad—a bottle of bourbon.

A care package.

Sunday, March 13, 2005


In the words of the Tavares brothers: heaven must be missing an angel.

Missing one angel, child, ‘cause Sophie has appointed herself as my webmistress. Heavenly to me, baby.

Sophie knows that when I am not parenting, I am pretty busy writing, fucking, or writing about fucking. She agreed to soup up my blog one evening as I ministered to sick young’uns.

As a gift to the host, she brought red wine, gummy bears and Children’s Tylenol. Girl knows the ways to a man’s heart.

She arrived as I was making grilled cheese sandwiches for the kids. As they ate, we toured the apartment she knows so well from my blog.

There is the terrace often peopled by naked people. Here is the bed broken by gangbangs on top of orgies. There is the futon that folds like a taco if you don’t position everyone on it just so.

With gay icon Spongebob Squarepants babysitting the kids, we poured wine and set to work on the blog.

Some of her handiwork is tucked away inside the website template, most of it intended to help like-minded flies find this particular spider’s parlor.

As she explained these systemic changes, I nodded, sipping wine and looking as blonde as I knew how.

If you will look to the left of your screen, you can see a few enhanced features she suggested.

At the top of the links is a Cast of Characters offering mini-bios of people who recur in this blog with some frequency. If you are trying to distinguish between Dacia and Marla, or Lucy and May, this can prove useful.

Bloglet will allow you to subscribe to this blog in a newsletter format that is emailed to your inbox, so that you no longer have to obsessively check the blog to discover new posts.

This leaves the obsession to yours truly, your own post-a-matic pervert.

If you prefer reading the post on the original template, never fear—the newsletter comes with a link back to the site.

Sophie also added Paypal, which you can reach by clicking the “Make a Donation” button.

“Why Paypal?” I asked. “I’m not selling anything. I’m a slut. I give it away.”

“Look at it this way, Jefferson,” Sophie explained. “You broke your bedframe with group sex. When are you going to replace it?”

“I don’t know. I can’t afford it right now.”

“Right. And why is that?”

“Well, I have kids. It’s not my biggest priority. ”

“True. Will you still have orgies on your broken bed?”

“Of course!”

“That’s why you need Paypal,” she explained. “It allows your readers and supporters to contribute to the things you blog about. They can pitch in to help you get a new bed frame, or condoms or bourbon or bacon or whatever. It brings them into the community.”

I got that. So fine, let’s see if my gentle readers want to keep us all bouncing on a secure bed frame.

Sophie and I sat talking until bedtime for the kids. We had put away a bottle of very good red wine.

As the children were in the back room watching “Full House,” I fetched Sophie’s coat and scarf. We embraced at the door and bussed cheeks.

We kissed cheeks again.

I took her face in my hands and kissed her lips.

Heck yeah, I slipped her the tongue. I met hers seeking mine.

Good night, Sophie.

Saturday, March 12, 2005

Sweet Potato Says

My inbox is full of the good stuff today. Sweet Potato wrote to tell me that she enjoyed our recent romp.

She included part of a letter she had written to a friend about the experience, and allowed me to share it here.

Such kind words—they melt my pervy heart.

I made a new friend in New York who I recently visited.

J. is a pumpkin. I may have forwarded you the link to his very well written but very dirty blog. I began a correspondence only with the intent of asking questions and not having any actual contact with him whatsoever.

As we spoke via e-mail, it soon became apparent that rule was going to fall by the wayside.

Fortunately one of my girlfriends has airline miles and hotel points to burn from her days as a consultant so she was kind enough to spring for a weekend away in New York at a hotel on Central Park South.

Luckily my flight reservations were for the day after the rest of my friends left. I had an extra day all to myself with my new friend J.

We met at the Ritz Carlton bar for drinks. He looked like his picture, was easy to talk to and seemed to be very charming. I adore smart men.

Seeing that the chemistry was there and the Ritz happened to be down the street from my hotel, we made the progression from the Ritz to the Whiskey Parc then to the bar at my hotel. Seemingly with a wink and a nod we were upstairs in bed undressing and kissing.

At times I think that there’s something wrong with me sexually. I love sex—I just don't want to have it with everyone. But to further confound the issue, I've never gone through my true slut phase. I think one should go through this phase to see if I can run these thoughts and feelings out of my system. Sowing wild oats and all that jazz.

Among many things that seem to cause drama is that I truly would rather fuck than do anything else.

Those sentiments are a bit off putting to most men. I think that they believe my enthusiasm and experience don't accurately reflect on how few men I've truly been intimate with. In short, they tend to think I am the village whore when in actuality I am anything but. My intensity very well may scare them or perhaps it's my own sense of ego that may not let me see other things that have been wrong with past relationships.

But I digress . . .

I can honestly say the details are sketchy. From the moment he put his hands on me (and in me) I wouldn't have been able to tell you my name or where I lived. The man is a masterful lover—perhaps a
Happy Hooker-type book is in the future for him. No trepidation, no fear just carnality in its purest form. Simply there to please me and to be pleased.

I now understand how a good woman can go very, very bad.

I was under the impression I didn't have a “G” spot, but boy was I wrong. The intensity of my orgasms scared me and I had to make him stop as it was just too much for my brain and my body to handle all at once. I can't remember when I've responded so quickly to someone who really doesn’t know me or my body.

That man is a quick study.

We romped most of the late evening/early morning and went right back at it again after the sun came up. BTW, did I mention that I love morning sex?

The more he touched me, the more I wanted. We even fucked through my 9:10 airport shuttle ride. My only regret is that we didn't have at least a full weekend to devote to pleasure. We didn't do it doggie style and I wanted to try anal again. I figure with such a commanding lover, it wouldn't be a bad thing, eh?

Naturally he has a standing invitation to visit provided he gives me enough notice.

When I think of him the word “sated” comes to mind.

Now isn’t that a stirring testimonial? And a very nice ego stroke for yours truly.

A word to the wise, gentle reader: when you have really great sex with someone, let them know how much you enjoyed it. Sweet’s note really got me going!

I don’t include this note here to demonstrate that I am one dynamic sex machine. (Okay, I’m lying—of course I am!)

Primarily though, I thought Sweet’s comments on being considered the “village whore” because she is such an enthusiastic sex partner might elicit comment on that age-old “Madonna/Whore” complex.

My friends and I talk about this all the time. Every slut knows those moments of “slut remorse,” when you ponder if perhaps too much sex is just too much. We all take breaks now and then; mine are enforced by the regular cycles of parenting duties.

Women may get the bigger doses of slut remorse, given that societal double standard that promiscuous women are “sluts” and promiscuous men are “studs.” But trust me, men get it too.

In Sweet’s case, the dilemma is that she is a true good girl. She flies right, she works hard and she is square with the Lord. And yet that good girl loves to fuck. She likes hours of intense, hardcore, pounding sex that leaves you unable to walk steady or form complete sentences.

It’s hard for her to find a lover (or lovers) who can reconcile those two aspects of her personality. Anyone with similar tales to relate?

Readers' Queries

This has certainly been a challenging week. The kids are sick, the ex is a shrew, the work piles up, and the evil eye hits my blog.

My spirits were lifted considerably when I received this note:


I want to share with you what's been happening in my life since I started reading your blog last week. You seem to be the kind of person who would be interested in this.

I've lived a pretty sheltered life and it's an understatement to say I'm ignorant to a lot of sexual activities that other people indulge in. Some of the stuff you write about, well, wow. Things I've never heard confessed, to be sure.

I've been married for a year now, and the relationship is wonderful, but we both suffer from very low sex drive. It hasn't been weighing on our relationship so much as it has been on my mind. I often wonder why when we were dating we couldn't get enough sex, but now that we're married, it just doesn't come up very often.

I was starting to feel unsexy and old, wondering if this is what being a wife is.

Since I've read your blog, though, we've been having sex more and it's better, too. I can't really tell you why, but it's great and fun and I feel like we're dating again. I have lots of theories, but thinking about them too much ruins it, so I'm just going to bask.

Who knew that bi-sexual-orgy-blog guy three thousand miles away would help my sex life?

Just wanted to thank you.


Could that be any sweeter? After the recent unpleasantness with Shelby—which taught me that blogging can have unfortunate and unintended consequences—here was a testimonial that that it can have a positive impact as well.

Samantha wrote about something very common to long-term relationships; inevitably, the hot burning flames of lust give way to the slower burning embers of committed love.

It’s a natural progression, as couples become increasingly familiar and adjust to the new realities of life together. Marriage and cohabitation bring on new realities and stresses that can interfere with desire for one another. It's natural, but it can be a tough transition from near-constant sex to the occasional roll in the hay.

As long as each partner feels fulfilled, and the romance is sustained, this shouldn’t be cause for concern. So maybe you are no longer humping like rabbits on the dining room table because you just couldn’t wait to get the bedroom. That doesn’t mean you have lost something irreplaceable.

It’s great when partners are open to new stimuli that can stir up that lustful spark. Samantha found it in this blog—which is personally gratifying to me!—but it could be anything: a shared favorite song, a vacation, or even a renewed commitment.

I recall that my ex and I had more sex when she was first pregnant with our eldest; we were excited and frightened, and brought closer by the baby gestating in her body.

I thanked Samantha for sharing her good news with me, and asked if she was sharing the blog with her spouse. I was also curious to know: was there anything in particular that she found arousing in my posts?

She replied:

It is exciting and arousing to read about your exploits, but I don’t know if it’s that simple. I just feel relieved, mostly.

I guess I was putting a lot of pressure on myself to perform a certain way and somehow reading about someone else's sex life helps me to see that there are things that go right and there are things that go wrong and it's all okay. And with that relief I feel more available and relaxed.

My husband doesn't read the blog, but I've told him about it. We had a lengthy discussion about being sexually healthy, about realizing what you want and being comfortable with that. We (I’m speaking generally now) seem very concerned with repressing ourselves and spend a lot of time trying to curb our desires and put a lid on our eccentricities.

My husband and I remarked how you labeled yourself a pervert, but we thought you might be one of the healthiest people out there.


Samantha honey, if you are this sweet to me, I can only imagine the loving you are pouring on that lucky husband of yours.

You two keep up that dialogue and let les bon temps roulez.

Friday, March 11, 2005


The longevity of my marriage was largely derived from my ability to disguise my wife’s . . . eccentricities.

I had a secure place in her life. She had me to anchor her, so that she would behave as people are supposed to act.

She grew up hiding her own mother’s eccentricities. She was very appreciative that I could manage all the quirks she inherited, while never losing respect for her.

In public situations, I knew when to lean over and whisper, “Ix-nay on the olitics-pay. ” I could tell her, with a glance, when an opinion became a rant, or when the drinks had made her incoherent. She trusted me to do this.

In private, I endured her hypercritical assessments of yours truly.

She was trained to avoid any imperfections. Her mother was a model, a copyeditor, and an alcoholic in the 1950s. You couldn’t ask for a more volatile mix to create a perfectionist.

Lucy did a number on herself, battling depression and anorexia in her struggle to live up to her mother’s ideals. Then she found good clay to mold in me, a talented kid who needed direction and ambition.

No more sleeping in. I was up early, responding to her monologue.

No more late nights with friends. Why go out when I could be with her?

No more dead end jobs. I needed to make more money.

She trained me well. Under her tutelage, I became a responsible husband and father, just like my own dad before me.

But there were some things she could not change.

I snore. She tried waking me. She tried nudging me. She hit me, so hard there were bruises. Nothing made me stop. I was sent to my doctor to seek a cure.

The doctor said that if she could do anything, she would have cured her own husband’s snoring years ago. She recommended my wife get earplugs.

Lucy was not happy with this diagnosis.

Lucy decided I had bad breath. I was sent to the dentist to seek a cure for chronic halitosis.

The dentist told me I did not have chronic halitosis. She asked why I thought I had bad breath. My wife says so, I replied. Try gargling when you get home from work, she recommended.

Lucy had no interest in touching me. When we passed in the hall, I tried to steal a kiss. She turned away, grimacing awkwardly.

Sometimes she allowed me to snuggle next to her as we slept. I gulped that human contact.

Other times she flayed her arms, telling me to get the hell off her and back to my side of the bed.

She complained that my erection pressed against her as I slept.

We went into couple’s therapy. Every week. For years.

Lucy was encouraged to initiate physical contact when she wanted it. By this point, I was too discouraged to start anything sexual. I thought I was repulsive. I was encouraged to use words rather than touch to suggest intimacy.

It was a good thing that I was so interested in her pleasure, I was told. But what about my own?

I was really embarrassed about this. I get off sometimes, I protested.

How often do you have sex? Now and then.

How often do you orgasm during sex? Umm, sometimes.

Lucy, he enjoys giving oral sex to you. Do you go down on him? No.

Why not? Because that is disgusting.

Jefferson, do you enjoy receiving oral sex? Yes.

Do you want Lucy to give you oral sex? Well, no.

Why not, if you like it? If she doesn’t like it, she shouldn’t do it. Right?

Well, yes, no one should do what she doesn’t want to do. But it can be satisfying to pleasure your partner.

You are both in your mid-twenties and in good health. You are really too young to live as companions. You are sexual partners. You need to take care of each other’s needs.

Will you work on that?

We nodded.

We had more sex, doing our homework like the diligent graduate students we were. No blowjobs, of course, but I came now and then.

We made some progress.

I never, never told anyone that we had no sex life to speak of.

I never, never told anyone how she railed at me, and made me feel like dirt.

I never, never told anyone about the many times she threatened to leave me.

She didn’t hit me often, and I only had scars now and then. The scratch she tore into my face on the night before our wedding was awkward to explain, but everyone put that down to wedding day jitters.

That’s just how she was. I could deal with that. She was worth the effort.

So long as no one else knew.

Soldier On

In combat situations, good soldiers emerge as heroes when they withstand extraordinary duress with clear thinking and utmost regard for their comrades.

Would that divorce made good soldiers of us all.

My two younger kids are sick again, having missed most of this week at school due to fevers and the croup. They are with me today, as I work feverishly on deadline.

Yesterday, their mother took on the task of calling their doctor about a prescription. Around noon, she called to say it would be phoned to a pharmacy in my neighborhood at noon. Would I please, please call them in a half hour to be sure it was ready?

Yes, I can handle that.

I called and it was not ready. It would be ready in late afternoon. And by the way, it could not be delivered. I needed to pick it up with the insurance card in hand.

Going to the druggist would mean bundling up two sick kids and dragging them along as—remember—I am a single parent with no one to watch them at home. But if that is the way it is, that is the way it is.

If it were ready for pick up in the late afternoon, at least Jason would be home from school to stay with the younger kids, so I could race off for a few minutes.

Jason is eleven, and I have begun to rely on him as a babysitter when I make short outings in the neighborhood. It is so much easier and efficient than dressing his younger siblings and dragging their complaints into the winter every time I need eggs or milk.

It was about three when the medicine was ready. Lillie was conked out, and I was not going to wake her for a bracing walk in freezing weather. Jason was due home at four thirty. I would just wait it out.

Now, all you armchair generals take note: this was a pivotal decision! Had I rallied the troops and marched forward, that medicine might have been working its magic by three thirty.

But I drew up a divergent tact of engagement.

Jason came home and I dashed off to pick up the medicine. It was to be administered twice daily. It tastes chalky, so the doctor recommended mixing it with ice cream.

Twice a day . . . ice cream . . . it was already approaching the supper hour. I opted to reserve the medicine until after dinner.

Another crucial decision made. Perhaps it was the right one, perhaps not. All I know is: I will live with it for the rest of my life.

My ex Lucy called as I made dinner and asked to speak with Lillie and Collie. I handed the phone to Lillie and went back to frying chicken.

In a few moments, Lillie brought the phone to me. “Mommy wants to talk to you.”

I took the phone. I held it away from my ear as she ranted.

“Why haven’t you given the children their medicine?! Jefferson, the children are sick. The medicine will make them better. The prescription was phoned in at noon, and it is now nearly six o’clock! You have to give them the medicine! Why don’t you understand that? Please, please give them the medicine!”

“Well, the doctor said . . . hello?”

She hung up on me. Pretty common practice, actually. You get used to it, though I don’t have to tolerate it.

I did as I often do. Adopt a very soothing tone and call back.

I got the machine.

“It is very rude to hang up on someone, particularly family. But you know that, and you do it anyway. At any rate, the medicine was only ready late this afternoon. The doctor suggested giving it with ice cream, so I am giving it to them after dinner. I guess that’s all. Bye.”

I got a snippy email about how a mother worries and I wouldn’t understand that.

Yes, it’s true. I will never know what it is like to be a mother.

I replied that the kids have had their medicine, and I would see her in the morning when she picked up Jason for school at six thirty.

My cell rang a little after six. I was in the bathroom and missed it. I woke Jason and made his lunch. Collie woke up too, so I gave him his medicine.

Six thirty came and went. No sign of Lucy. I called.

“Good morning. Are you picking up Jason?”

“No I am not. I called to say I was on my way, and there was no answer. So I am at work.”

“I’m sorry we missed your call. But the plan was . . .”

“I can’t trust plans with you! That’s why I had to call!”

“But if you had done as planned, we would have heard you at the door. Did you drive to the apartment?”

“No I called because I knew you would oversleep!”

“Well, we didn’t oversleep. We are up.”

“I can’t do anything about that.”

“Okay, I’ll get Jason to school. Bye.”

She had already hung up.

We killed a little time. I left the younger kids alone and took Jason to the corner. It was snowing. I put him in a cab.

He is growing up fast thanks to this divorce.

He’s a good soldier.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Madonna of the Dreams

I suppose everyone has had “sex with Madonna” dreams.

I rememberhaving one in which she appeared as she looked circa 1995. She held my handand wept that she truly missed Sean. I listened sympathetically, tellingher it would hurt for a long time, and she would never stop loving him, butshe would find happiness again.

I awoke from that dream liking Madonna better.

I’mnot a big fan or anything, but that’s how the subconscious works. It seeksout cultural icons to throw into the mishmash of daily life to fabricatedreams.

Madonna equals sex in the popular imagination, so it’s no surprise she haunts our sex dreams.

This morning, I awoke from this dream:

Iwas at Madonna’s beach house. Madonna was home, but in a private wing. Justas visitors to the White House aren’t likely to bump into the President,I assumed I would not see Madonna.

I was in a small bedroom withBugs, and we started to fool around. Raven soon joined us. Then Meg. Allthree were focused on me.

This isn’t right, I thought. There should be more men here.

The dreaming became metacognitive at this point; I was aware of being in a dream.

The bedroom led onto a living room where men milled about. I didn’t recognize them.

Oneof the men was drunk. He went into a room, from which soon came the soundof breaking wood. Investigating, I saw that he had broken a bed.

I looked for Jake or Todd, thinking we should get this guy to leave. I couldn’t find them.

I ran into Madonna in the kitchen. She looked as she does now, long blonde hair, very fit and pretty. She was making a snack.

I tried to be nonchalant.

“Hey, Jefferson,” she said, as she chopped vegetables. “I got something for your kids . . . it’s on the counter.”

Iguess she knows me in this dream, I thought. On the counter was a bubbleblower. I was nervous around her, so I distracted myself by blowing bubbles.

“Thanks Madonna.”

“Oh it’s no big deal. I thought it wascute.” She remembered something, and pointed her knife at me. “Listen, whateverthe greyhounds tell you, it’s a lie.”

“The greyhounds?”

“Yeah,they’re miffed because we got some dachshunds. It’s like a civil war aroundhere.” She laughed, picking up her plate. “See you, Jefferson. Have fun.”She strolled into an adjacent corridor leading to the private quarters.

Two greyhounds approached me by the pool. They were barking and agitated. They wanted me to follow.

In a patch of high grasses, they showed me the corpse of a third greyhound. Its four paws had been amputated.

“You see what they are doing to us?,” one implored of me.

Backinside the house, a sex party was underway. At least, I was told it was asex party, but my metacognitive mind believed that it was not a sex party.

Madonna walked up to me. She was heavier, resembling Mae West, andvery intent on me. We kissed. We were soon on the floor, having sex.

“Umm, I want you to be happy, Jefferson.”

Dacia strolled by, nude. She patted me on the back. “Having fun there, Jefferson?” she smiled. She walked out to the pool.

I came. Madonna smiled.

Her smile broadened mischievously. I didn’t like the looks of this.

Shelifted her neck, and closed her eyes. Her head detached from her body androlled quickly toward to the kitchen and the private quarters beyond.

“Hey Jefferson! Jefferson!” Dacia called from the grasses by the pool. The greyhounds were at her side. “You have to see this!”

“I know about the greyhounds! Come here, you have to see this!”

Madonna’shead stopped and emitted a bubble. The bubble grew and transformed into Madonna’smore familiar body. The body reached down and put the head in place.

Enough! I woke myself.


My two youngest children are home sick again today. I will call for a prescription once the doctor is in.

A deadline looms. I will work when they sleep or drowse to cartoons.

It will be a trying day. At the end of this week, the world owes me a drink.

Wide web of the world, let's put this on your tab. Wanna buy me a drink, sailor?

Drop me an email if so. You can phone an order into a liquor store near me. They will deliver to your very own pervert.

I will toast to you as I write.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Sweet Potato

Pain. Pleasure.

My head hurt like hell.

My dick was being sucked.

My eyes opened, dry and shrinking. An unfamiliar corner of ceiling.

I looked down. An unfamiliar face.

She took my cock from her mouth. My cock, at least, was familiar. “Good morning. I hope this is all right?”

“Its very good, Sweet Potato.”

The night before, after weeks of emails, I met Sweet at the bar of the Ritz Carlton, an oak-paneled hotel room on Central Park South. At nice hotel bars in this zip code, the staff dresses far better than the patrons.

She was drinking white wine. I ordered bourbon.

“Why am I not surprised that you want bourbon, Jefferson?”

She addressed me as “Jefferson,” which, by the way, is not my real name. I didn’t correct her.

We had a drink and compared notes based on our shared emails, and her reading of my blog. We also sized each other up physically.

She is a good-looking woman, with a great smile and short cropped hair, chic and 1920s, like Josephine Baker. I guess I look how “Jefferson” is supposed to look.

She told me about her nights out with the girls, which included an evening at the Gaiety, a Village stand-by for seeing male strippers. She marveled at the routine there. The boys come out and strip, then go backstage and come out again, rock hard.

“Do they have a fluffer back there?”

“I’m not sure. I think they do it themselves, or amongst themselves, maybe.”

“But they are mostly straight, right?”

“So they say. Some of the dancers are regulars, some are just passing through.”

“All I can say is: hot, hot, hot! I still have all these singles that I procured to make tips.” When I went home the next day, that wad of singles was in my wallet. I don’t remember why.

We talked about my blog, but I was more interested in her life. We got another round.

Sweet has a full time job and puts in a part time job on weekends. She gets by by flying right.

But her inner bad girl survives the daily grind and the Sunday schooling that mark the days of her life by finding an outlet in her trips to New. It helps to find a like mind in my blog, she says.

Its true, folks. Behind the curtain of Jefferson’s Oz, I’m really a pretty normal fellow. She picked up on that.

Another round, she suggests? Let’s go over to the Whiskey Bar.

Two more. I am past my limit. Okay, so I don’t have a limit, but it’s clear that she is getting me pretty loose.

It’s okay. Her agenda.

“You want to go my hotel?” It’s all of two doors down.


We enter the lobby, and she suggests we hit the bar. I am fed two more whiskeys. We talk and talk. I like her. She is fun. And I am drunk.

I don’t know how late we fucked in her room. We just kept going.

Once I got my bearings the next morning, we were back at it. I listened as I pounded her. “You are going to knock all of that church out of me, I know it,” she said.

“Come to daddy,” I intoned.

A while later, she worried, “I am going to miss my shuttle. Oh well.”

A while later, she worried, “I am going to miss my flight. Oh well.”

She made the shuttle. I fucked her efficiently once I knew she was on schedule. We only had to send the housekeeper packing once.

As we parted, she said we are on again when you are in Chicago. I was last there in 2000, but I agreed.

Don’t forget to blog me, she said.

What should I call you? I asked as she got into a cab.

"Sweet Potato," she shouted to me.


A few weeks ago, I received an email that read:

I am an avid reader of your blog and commend your adventurous spirit and well-crafted writing. It's rare to find eroticism and good writing in one package but you have filled that void nicely.

I'll dispense with any pesky questions as you pretty much answer them when others write in with the same queries. I will say that I've often found that when people say that they're bisexual , it is often the first step for coming out of the closet.

I guess my thoughts on the subject are a part of my solid Midwestern background. I generally don't care which team you play on but pick a team—any team. To say that my skepticism about true bisexuality is high would be putting it mildly.

Nonetheless, you and your blog and taking my smug little assumptions and pronouncements, dragging them front and center and giving them a sound thrashing. I'm not completely won over to believe in bisexuality but you make a compelling case.

I'm coming to Gotham on March 4-6th. I would love to have a meal or a drink with you. I usually not curious to meet the people behind the blogs but you have piqued my interest.

Perhaps it's to see that other perfectly normal looking people have perfectly dirty thoughts. Perhaps in some way you'll serve as a muse to get me to open up other avenues of pleasure. Either way you intrigue me.

Now, how did this person know I was susceptible to flattery?

I say “this person” because I learned so little about writer from this email. Male or female? Old or young? Gay or straight? No idea.

I knew that the writer was a Midwesterner who considered his/her attitudes on bisexuality to be provincial, yet he/she had the chutzpah to ask me on a date, sight unseen. That was about all I could ascertain from one note.

Smart money said the writer was an older gay man, as it is the “friends of Dorothy” generation who tends to subscribe to the notion that bisexuals are “fence sitters” who have yet to accept their “true” sexuality.

And why not? They are the ones who remember life before Stonewall. They fought for the freedom to be out, and it changed their lives. I forgive a little partisanship where they are concerned.

Compare this to many of the twentysomething queers I know, who care less whether you are gay, bi or straight. It’s more about whether you are top, vers or bottom. It’s not about politics. It’s about, uh, can we fuck?

I also assumed a male author because I supposed it would be pretty bold of a woman who confesses to “smug little assumptions” about sexuality to ask out a self-avowed perv like me, knowing me only through my blog.

In response to the email, I wrote:

Thank you for your kind words. I'm glad that you enjoy reading the blog. It's certainly become a favorite writing project of mine.

It sounds as if your attitudes on bisexuality were due for a thorough thrashing. Keep reading this blog, baby—we'll make a believer of you.

Almost to prove the point: it is unclear from your note whether you are male or female. Yet as I ponder your invitation to meet, my slutty mind thinks, say, d'ya think he or she is making a move on me?

Let me know more about yourself.

The writer apologized for the mystery, and sent a pic.

On the weekend of March 4-6, I had a date with an attractive black woman in her thirties, an avid churchgoer from Chicago in town with the girls.

She wanted to meet someone like me to be sure she wasn’t a freak for being a normal person who has “nasty” thoughts.

Birthday Gangbang

The kids were sick and a deadline loomed, but plans proceeded apace for the party for Mitzi’s twenty-sixth birthday. Per her request, I organized a gangbang. This was her second gangbang, the first under my management.

We talked about what she would ideally want to have happen. I also took log of other gaps in her sexual history—she had never played with a woman, for example, or a black man—that she was interested in addressing.

I wrote a scenario for the evening, to be distributed to the participants, and sent it to her for approval.

In a room, you will find a woman tied to a bed. She will be blindfolded. You will not know her name.

She is there for you and the other men to use.

She cannot see anyone, so her senses will be confused. You can compound this by touching parts of her body—her feet, her arms, her hair—so that she will be unable to distinguish one man from another, or even to know how many there are.

Don’t address any of the other men by name. She will be in the dark, literally and figuratively.

I am responsible for her, so pay attention to me through out.

After a while, I will remove the blindfold and ropes. She will be able to see the handsome men she has been with.

Introductions will be made and we will all make nice. Chances are there will be more sex!

That gets me so wet, she said.

We agreed that there should be five men, to be chosen by yours truly from my cadre of group sex regulars.

My first choice was Thomas. I thought he would respond well to the intense yet tender way Mitzi can go at it, and there’s a nice mesh to their personalities.

I dropped a line to Jacob, a former party regular who has been scarce since breaking up with his girlfriend a few months back. He’s a regular fellow, good looking, athletic and nicely endowed. He’s straight, but always played well with our bi group. He was in.

Franz said he expected to be there. He is tall, blonde, distractingly handsome, and a very pleasant person to be around. He’s gay, but enjoyed playing with women at our parties—much to their joy. He had gone monogamous on us for a while there, as he had a boyfriend. Sadly, that relationship had not worked out, but the good news is that he is ready to return to our fold.

For the final man, I turned to Alfie. We’ve been online pals for a while. We had talked about the gatherings, but he is straight and could not bring a date, so that didn’t quite mesh with the demographics. He wasn’t sure he would be into such a scene anyway. In our chats, we generally talk about things other than sex.

He dropped me a line, asking I wanted to go to a museum with him next week. Sounds good, I said. Want to go to a gangbang with me this week?

He mulled it over, and decided to join us. Cool. That would take care of Mitzi having her first black man.

With five men and one woman, I wondered: did we need a fluffer? A fluffer could work the men Mitzi wasn’t with at a given moment, keeping things at a nice pitch.

I ran the idea by Alice. She has a submissive streak, and could be attracted to the bondage elements we had introduced. She appreciated the invitation—she’s never been to a gangbang, and she would love to watch.

In keeping with the theme of anonymity, Mitzi would know nothing about any of these people beforehand. I withheld that I had invited another woman. Normally, there should be a free flow of information between the participants in a gangbang. But Mitzi was turned on by the idea of not knowing them, and I was turned on that she trusted me to make good decisions.

The party was cast, and everything set in motion.

Then we had another snowstorm.

Mitzi was nervous and excited all day. She arrived an hour before the main event, beaming as I lit candles and made the beds with the sex sheets. “What’s going to happen, Jefferson? Tell me again.”

I poured her a bourbon and related the scenario again, kissing her, touching her.

I took down her pants and licked her wet pussy. She squirmed down in her chair, touching her breasts through her sweater. She sat up, pulling the sweater over her head, unclasping her bra.

I stood and fed her my cock, holding a fistful of her hair.

“On the bed,” I commanded.

She lay back on the bed. I joined her, covering her body with my own, covering her mouth with kisses. I sucked her breasts long and hard.

I was preparing to fuck her when Jacob arrived. I left her on the bed, dressed and went to the door. With Jacob situated with a glass of wine in the living room, I returned to Mitzi.

“Time for the ropes!” I said. She giggled nervously and wriggled on the bed. I tied her arms behind her head, lashing the rope to a bedpost.

“Wait, wait, I should go to the bathroom!” she said.

Damn, I meant to remember that. So many details to organize.

I unleashed her. A piss later, she was back and secured. The restraints were widely spaced, so that she had some flexibility. I tested this by ordering her to get on all fours. She could manage that. Good.

We put the blindfold in place, and reconfirmed our safe word, which she would say to indicate that she was finished. We chose “popcorn,” borrowing it from a Saturday Night Live skit.

Thomas arrived, and caught up with Jacob in the living room. I joined them a moment later.

“Okay, I’ve got the naked woman tied up so she won’t come in here to interrupt our conversation.”

“Great,” Thomas responded.


“Hey wait, maybe we should go hang out with the naked woman.” Jacob agreed that this was a fine idea and stood to lead the way.

Hewing to the scenario, the men undressed silently. Jacob ran a hand along Mitzi’s side. Her body turned to his touch. Thomas ran his hands through her hair. I mouthed her toes.

She turned her face to Thomas. He gave his cock to her mouth. Jacob fingered her clit.

Thomas mounted her face as Jacob began to fuck her. They rode her in tandem. Mitzi’s restraints only allowed her to touch Thomas.

I remained clothed, as I was still responsible for working the door. I ran my hands along her legs.

When Alfie arrived, I was glad to see that he was even better looking in person, and just as easy going. I was even happier as he undressed, revealing a lean and well-muscled body, and a cock as big as my forearm.

Alfie had confided once that he didn’t consider himself very attractive. But he is a stunning man.

Jacob and Thomas stood aside, allowing Alfie to have a go. A gangbang is just a pleasure with such gentlemen.

Alfie pulled on a condom and climbed onto Mitzi, kissing her in greeting. She moaned as he entered her, gasping as his cock kept going and going. She ran her hands to his head and neck, trying to catalogue details about this new man.

Alice arrived, and we chatted in the kitchen. I handed her a glass of wine. “Let’s go back,” I suggested. “Remember, if you don’t say anything, she won’t know you are there.”

Thomas kissed Alice in greeting. Josh waved hello from the other side of the bed, as Mitzi sucked his cock. Alfie was going fast and furious, but managed a nod.

Alice stayed close to a wall, as she often does when becoming acclimated to a sex party. I stayed with her for a while, and then joined Josh at Mitzi’s mouth. I took her hair and guided her mouth to my cock. I fucked her face good and hard.

“Mmmf,” she murmured, pulling away and looking up with blindfolded eyes. “Hello, Jefferson.”

“Nice detective work, Sherlock.” I slapped her face with my dick. “Now suck that cock.” She went at it with gusto.

As she worked me, I noticed Alice tugging off her panties. Thomas was putting on a condom to fuck Mitzi, so I dismounted. In two steps, I was kneeling before Alice, licking her pussy as she watched the action.

That’s right, I was fluffing the fluffer. I can’t help myself.

I stood and gave my cock to Alice’s mouth. She took it noisily. “Ah ha,” said Mitzi, turning towards the sound. “Someone is getting his dick sucked.” She envisioned boy-on-boy action, which she had never witnessed, not knowing about the other woman in the room.

I put a finger to Alice’s lips as I retrieved a condom. As I entered her, she pulled her legs back. I pulled her hips forward on the chair. With my hand on the arms of the chair, and my feet on the floor, I could push deep and fast into her, barely touching her skin.

“Should I remove the blindfold now?” Mitzi wondered.

“Is now the time?” I responded, pounding Alice.

She reached down, feeling Alfie’s face as she rode his cock. “No, I think I will wait,” she smiled.

Eventually, though, the time did come. Mitzi was sitting on the bed, as we all gathered around. She removed the blindfold, blinking as she surveyed the candlelit room.

I sat next to her. Even now, she could barely see the features of their faces.

I asked everyone to make introductions. They went around the room. Alice was last.

“Oh, hello,” Mitzi said. “You are not a boy.”

“That’s right,” I smiled. “One of your boys became a girl.”

“Where is the other boy?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. I would later find that Franz had sent his regrets due to the snowstorm.

Mitzi told us that she had been unable to distinguish much, though touching had told her some things. She figured that Alfie was black by the texture of his hair, for example, and when he went at her again, the necklace he wore told her it wasn’t another man. Josh and Thomas had each fucked her from behind a few times, and she was unclear who was who then.

“Did you fuck me?” she asked.

“Did I?”

Did you?

Did I?

“Fucker. I’ll know when you blog it.”

“Will you? Will I?”

Some mysteries are fun to keep mysterious.

As we settled into an intermission, Mitzi took me aside. “Jefferson, you know I have a problem with jealousy. Why did you invite some other girl you fuck?”

“Alice is not some other girl I fuck, really,” I explained, as honestly as I could, considering I had just fucked her. “She is someone who comes to the parties. She was here to observe, and to play along in the next phase of the evening. With all these guys, you will be glad she’s here.”

After a brief round of conversation, during which Jacob had to go, we resumed. I focused my energies on Mitzi. Thomas and Alfie were eager to work on Alice, who was all about Alfie.

As we all hit the bed, there was a loud crack. Mitzi’s eyes widened.

“Huzzah, another crack in the bedframe.” I high-fived Mitzi. “You get credit for that one!” The original break had been sustained at another gangbang, held to honor my birthday. Credit for that break went to Jake.

Mtizi was on her back at one corner of the bed, eyes wide open. I stood above, making eye contact as I fucked her.

Alfie moved Alice around the bed, their feet clonking Mitzi in the head. They settled down, and Alice reached to suck Thomas. Alfie lay besides her, fucking her in deep long strokes.

“Hey Thomas,” I asked. “You up for some double pussy penetration?”

Mitzi squealed in delight. “Sure man, let’s do it,” he said, reclaiming his cock from Alice.

I appointed him the anchor. He lay on the bed, and Mitzi mounted him. Once they had a groove going, I stood behind her, holding Thomas’s cock. I slide mine in on top of his, as Mitzi moaned. We both pounded.

Thomas and I have done this on several occasions, so we’re pretty good at it. This was Mitzi’s first—she is sold on it.

“Damn, that’s hot,” Alfie admired as he fucked Alice.

In time, I pulled out to let Thomas do his business. I rimmed Mitzi, occasionally borrowing Thomas’s cock to get in some sucking.

Mtizi hopped down to watch. “Ooh, Jefferson,” she cooed. “You are bisexual.”

Damn straight.

Thomas arched his back and moaned as my hands roamed his body. He was poised to cum.

“Okay, I need to fuck this one,” he said, a thumb to Mitzi. That’s my Thomas; always ready to reassert his heterosexuality.

Mitzi bent over, and he entered her. “Hey Mitzi, “ I said. “Meet me over at Alice’s breasts.” She crawled forward a bit, and we each took one.

I leaned over her to lick Alice’s clit as Alfie fucked her. It was a very nice view.

“Try it out, Mitzi,” I suggested.

“Really? Can I eat pussy for the first time ever?”

“Why not? It’s your party,” I replied. “Anyway, it’s stuffed full of cock. You will recognize the flavor.”

Mitzi set to it. My cock had found it’s way to Alice’s mouth. I checked her face; she was in her bliss. Nothing could kill that buzz for her.

Actually, something could.

Later, Mitzi sat in my lap in tall chairs, as we sipped bourbons and watched Thomas and Alice fuck.

“You two look so regal,” Alfie admired. “Can I take your picture?”

Cameras are not allowed at my parties. Everyone knows that, but this was Alfie’s first party at my place. He always carries a camera. This was not something he had planned; it just occurred to him that we looked worthy of photographing.

Our tangled limps naturally covered the naughty bits. Mitzi shrugged, “Oh, okay.” I said sure, let’s do it.

“Cool,” Alfie said, going to his bag. He pulled out camera and tested the flash.

“Was that a camera?” Alice hopped up.

“No, just a flash, actually . . . ,” Alfie began to explain. Alice, though, was miffed. She told him that cameras were totally uncool at sex parties, as people do have real lives to be concerned about.

Things cooled down, as Alice understood that this was an honest mistake, and no photographs had been made. She certainly forgave him; when everyone went home, she took him to hers.

Mitzi stayed overnight with me. It was a great party, she said. Thank you.

It was my pleasure, I replied.

But in my head, I made note of my errors in judgment.

One, Mitzi should have been informed that there would be another woman, and know why I recommended it.

Two, I should have been very clear on the camera policy, instead of seeing a nuance in having two consenting models. It just muddies the waters.

I don’t want to repeat those mistakes next time.

Oh, and there will be a next time.