Thursday, June 30, 2005

High School

Editor's note: Please take part in the current

Mitzi regretted breaking up almost as soon as the words escaped her lips.

I understood her reasons for wanting to end it.

She likes me, but she felt she was unable to get enough time together. There are other people at the parties, and it seems I am often hosting friends from out of town. The out-of-towners get overnights, even weekends, when I don’t have my kids.

Mitzi lives in Manhattan. We have sleepovers, but more seem to go to those who can’t go home after a date.

It’s frustrating for her.

I accepted her rationale, and agreed that she should quit me if our relationship was making her unhappy.

My acceptance only made her unhappier.

Why wasn't I fighting her on this?

Why wouldn’t I promise to change things? Well, because I don’t want to take on an obligation or make false promises.

Why was not seeing me better than seeing me? It’s not, unless seeing me makes her feel sad for the times when she can’t.

We clearly had to talk about this.

For the time being, I wasn’t keen on sex.

In this situation, sex would offer the sense of a resolution where it was clear that was lacking.

So we began to meet more often to talk.

We talked in the park. We talked over meals. We talked in long exchanges of instant messages.

We saw more of each other than we had when we were meeting for sex.

It was as if we had decided to go back and take care of the dating steps we had missed by accelerating into sex.

Much of the time, I felt we were making no progress. We just kept saying the same things, over and again, with no real changes of position.

It frustrated her even more that I was holding out on sex. There was no rush, from my point of view. We could postpone that until it felt right.

Of course, I was still keeping busy with others, as she read in my blog.

She wasn’t getting any sex. She was just not interested in starting up with someone else.

This impasse could not stand.

We both broke.

I agreed to do what I could to arrange more sleepovers for us.

She agreed to do what she could to contain her jealousy.

“Now can we fuck?”

“Yes, and about time.”

We met to mix it up on my sheets.

Mitzi had brought her short leather belt. She needed a spanking in the worst way.

She got it.

She gasped as I reddened her ass, her thighs, her arms and back.

As she took her spanking, she pressed her clit on my thigh. I tensed my leg muscles.

She wanted to “high school.”

Mitzi can bring herself to orgasm in next than no time. “High school” is a technique she discovered when she was fifteen, fooling around with her boyfriend.

She presses her clit down on me, someplace firm and resistant. Usually my pubis, but this time, my thigh was doing the trick.

She grinds and rubs and rubs and grinds until she rubs it out.

“High school” is guaranteed to work, every time.

She came as I spanked her. Her face was ecstatic.

“Better?” I asked.

“Mmmhmmm.” She said, her head tipping onto my ribs. “I like it when you take control of me.”

I slept at her place that weekend.

On Again . . . ?

Editor's note: Please take part in the current

Shelby offered her sympathies when she heard that I was dumped by two lovers—Anna and Mitzi—within twenty-four hours.

Shelby: I don’t understand why anyone would think she could have a relationship with you now.

Jefferson: That’s an interesting comment for you to make, considering that you and I have a relationship.

Shelby: I guess you can call this thing, whatever it is, a ‘relationship.’ I don’t really put a name on it.

Jefferson: Name or no name, it’s working okay.

Shelby: Yeah, baby! Because we are having fun.

Jefferson: Yep, that we are! You are more fun that a barrel of monkeys—and as everyone knows, monkeys are damned fun.

Shelby: *eats a banana*

Jefferson: Still, I guess after putting in some time with me, its understandable that Anna would want more than fun.

Shelby: You are getting divorced! You should have some fun. Don’t sweat it.

Shelby keeps things in perspective.

Still, I don’t know if my relationship with Shelby—I mean, my “thing” with Shelby—offers many corollaries that would carry over with other lovers in my life.

Ours is a rather unique situation. She fucks my friends, I fuck her friends.

Yet so long as we hew to her edict that we not fuck each other over, we only grow more at ease with one another.

Shelby has tripped a magic combination.

The fact that she puts so few demands on our “thing”—asking that it grow, or change, or be anything other than what it is—only makes me feel more committed to the sustenance of our “thing.”

It comes naturally to her.

It is not so easy for others.

Two weeks had passed since Anna dumped me. We had not been in contact, which was not as I wanted it. I meant to follow through, to pursue some way of continuing a relationship—a “thing”—of some sort.

Even if we can’t find satisfactory common ground in a romantic relationship, I don’t want to lose her friendship.

But ugh, the prospect of once more having those long “what I want/what I need” conversations was tedious to contemplate.

Neither of us would have anything new to say. It would be agonizing to pass that ice-cold potato back and forth, hoping to feel some new heat.

I couldn’t escape the dread suspicion that it would be a waste of time.

And if we tried to find a way to continue, I suspected we would wind up back in bed—because the fun parts are fun!—only to be back at endgame in a few well-rehearsed moves.

So to my chagrin, two weeks passed without contact.

I was working when I received an instant message from Anna.

As we chatted, I tried to keep things cordial yet removed from romantic innuendo.

Anna: Hey baby. Just wondering how you've been.

Jefferson: Been better, been worse. I’m enjoying a very quiet weekend. I just showered and will soon go look at art.

Anna: Just had a shower myself. You have time for a drink later?

Jefferson: Today? No. Last night, yes, but that is unfortunately in the past.

Anna: Yes. Still working on the time travel thing. Haven't gotten it solved yet.

Jefferson: When you figure it out, let me know. I want to give Hitler a piece of my mind.

Anna: Just thought I'd try to see you in a public setting, doing things like other people do . . . drinking, hanging out, talking, blah, blah, blah . . .

Jefferson: A fine idea.

Anna: Well, just a thought.

Jefferson: And a good one for another time.

Anna: So, any chance you're free for a drink either Monday or Tuesday evening?

Jefferson: Tuesday, no. But Monday maybe—I have dinner plans at 8pm. Maybe before?

Anna: Monday it is. Too bad about tonight. I was feeling kind of horny and my evening plans fell through.

Jefferson: That is too bad.

Anna: I'll manage.

Jefferson: Too bad you weren’t horny last night. Last night was just Bill de Kooning and me. I’m reading the recent bio.

Anna: Who says I wasn’t? If I had known you were free, I would have come over and done you and Bill simultaneously.

Jefferson: A necrophiliac threesome . That would be novel.

Anna: J?

Jefferson: Yes?

Anna: I’m sorry for the other night. I'd like for us to be better friends. Is that possible, given that we are so into the sex? Or are the two mutually exclusive?

Jefferson: Being better friends sure beats the hell out of not seeing one another at all.

Anna: D'accord. What can we do then, if the previous was an affirmative to my first question?

Jefferson: Umm . . . we could be better friends?

Anna: Yes, silly, of course. But how do we do that? Given everything we know.

Jefferson: Maybe we can sacrifice some of the time we spend having better sex than anyone deserves to have, in order to see the occasional movie or art show?

Anna: That's a start.

Jefferson: So, once again, art trumps sex.

Anna: Listen (lol), we can always decide what to do with the time, whether it's more movies or more sex or more laundry or more Scrabble or more Parcheesi or whatever. I just want more time. Perhaps a little, a wee tiny little itsy bitsy bit more effort. Though I'm not voting down more sex.

Jefferson: More movies, that depends on the film. Some of them really suck. I'd rather take you out for a slice. Most fresh pizzas are better than most fresh movies.

Anna: I can agree with that. What would you like? Pepperoni?

Jefferson: Well, you know, I am the adventurous sort.

Anna: Yeah.

Jefferson: Black olives. Green olives. Jalapenos. All available anchovies.

Anna: Will that just be for you?

Jefferson: I like to share.

Anna: "Yes," she thinks as she types, mouth watering. The question is: do you want to share? Cos you can have the entire pie to yourself if you want. Freeze the leftovers for the kids. Eat the cold slices for breakfast.

Jefferson: This is not a pie I can share with the kids. And while cold pizza for breakfast is one of life's greatest pleasures, I think that pleasure is surpassed by sharing it hot with an appreciative mouth.

Anna: I think I know someone who would like that. She likes De Kooning, and would like to know more about him. And more about you—aside from your tastes in pizza and art.

Jefferson: Uh huh.

Anna: But I dunno, J. You got a lot of mouths to feed. She's got a pretty big appetite.

Jefferson: Gulp.

Anna: Well, we can mix more metaphors if we meet on Monday. I should get going. As should you.

Jefferson: I should go. I have art to castigate. A meal to masticate. It will get late . . . I may masturbate.

Anna: You may? Oh, give me a break! Again, tant pis about tonight. I was in the mood for . . . well, you.

Jefferson: Serves you right for breaking up with me.

Anna: Taking a break. Not the same thing.

Jefferson: One of these times, I will be able to make that distinction as it occurs.

Anna: I think it's better you're not available tonight.

Jefferson: Less messy?

Anna: Yes, less messy. I think you once said that old habits die hard. Wheels often roll into the same familiar ruts.

Jefferson: I said that? I am so wise.

Anna: At times, yes. Talk to you tomorrow.

Jefferson: Have a good evening.

Wednesday, June 29, 2005


There are always last minute details to tend to before an orgy.

I sat at my desk, answering emails and checking phone messages. Reese couldn’t make it, so I dropped her a line of regret. John would be late and wanted to be sure that was acceptable; I gave him the nod.

There were also some loose ends with work. I quickly read and approved a second draft, and signed off on a new proposal deadline.

As I worked, I would occasionally rest my hand on Theresa’s head.

She crouched beside my desk, her blue eyes waiting for me to look at her. She would have to wait longer for that glance; other things required my attention.

Theresa was feeling contrite.

With Shelby out of town, Theresa had offered to come early to help with preparations for the gathering. The bathroom needed a scrub, the bedrooms required sex sheets and candles, and so on and so forth.

She also offered a back rub and blowjob for the host.

Alas, Theresa was tired from her job. After a late lunch with Todd, she arrived at my apartment only to fall asleep on the couch.

When she awoke, the apartment was ready for the party. There was no time left for a back rub. There was nothing left for her to do.

Except to wait, in contrition, ready to serve.

I hit “send” on a final email and turned to look at her. Her lovely face was so tender and eager to please.

I pet her hair and smiled. She beamed.

I turned my chair and leaned forward to kiss her.

Her mouth was receptive and open. She sighed with the pleasure of being kissed so softly. I caressed her cheeks as our lips and tongues mingled.

She really does try to be good.

I looked at the time. Nearly eight. People could arrive at any moment.

I pulled her face to my crotch. She rubbed her cheeks against the fabric covering my erection.

I unfastened my shorts.

“You can suck me,” I offered, exposing my cock to her. “But you may not have much time for that.”

She looked up and nodded. She took my cock whole into her mouth.

I leaned back.

Her soft tongue moved slowly over me. Her piercing paused over the underside of my head. She wriggled it to maximum effect.

I tucked strands of her long blonde hair behind her ear. “Sweet girl,” I commended her. “You give me so much pleasure.”

A grin formed at the corners of her mouth, her mouth filled with my cock.

There was a knock at the door.

“Sorry baby,” I ran a thumb under her eye. “Time to stop for now. Can you get the door while I dress?”

She released my cock.

I headed to a bedroom as Theresa greeted Dacia and Jeremy at the door.

Guests arrived and settled into their familiar conversations. It was a small gathering, signaling a transition to the summer season. Some of the regulars would soon be heading off until autumn; some of last summer’s regulars would soon be back for the steamy months.

Dacia knew it would be her last party for a while. She got things going by ditching her clothes and bossing the boys into action. The living room was getting busy. The bedrooms were silent in anticipation.

Farahnaz took me aside in the kitchen.

“Mister Jefferson, I am so glad to be in your company.” She kissed me. “I am really here tonight to be with you.”

“Thank you, Farahnaz.” I traced a hand along the line of her tangerine dress. I detected the crease of a thong on her lean boyish hips. “I have looked forward to being with you again.”

I returned her kiss, my mouth open. She parted her sensuous lips.

We pulled back and smiled.

Theresa joined us, already nude. She kissed Farahnaz.

“Things are getting going in the bedroom,” she said. “Should we join in?”

“Actually, darling, I think Jefferson and I are going to spend a little time together,” Farahnaz smiled, holding her hand. “Can I find you later?”

“Of course. Well, have fun!”

“Oh, we will, Theresa darling.”

Farahnaz took my hand and led me down the hall. Passing a bedroom, I peered in to see Dacia on her knees, working three cocks.

Mark turned and waved as Dacia jerked him, her mouth full of Jeremy.

“Come along,” Farahnaz tugged, tossing her hair over a shoulder.

The next bedroom was empty. Candles flickered in the cool darkness.

“Now,” she pulled me close. “It is just us.”

“I am indeed fortunate, beautiful woman.” My hands brought her face to mine. We kissed.

Our hands moved over one another as we stood, undressing and kissing. Our hips swayed slowly, as if dancing to unheard music.

My eyes were open, drinking in her exquisite face, her deep brown eyes, her luxurious black hair.

In that moment, her radiance shrouded us both, transforming me into a pale shadow of her beauty. I must be beautiful too, I thought, to be here with her.

We are a visual contrast. Her skin is warm and dark under my cool white hands. I felt broad as I held her slender frame.

She lay back on the bed, and pulled me to her. I lay over her, our skin touching lightly.

I moved to kiss her. She put a finger to my lips.

“I want to tell you how I want you to make love to me.”

“Tell me, Farahnaz.”

She tucked her chin down and raised her eyes to me. Mine is only the latest heart to melt in her gaze.

Farahnaz is the first transgendered person to be a regular lover of mine. I am still learning her body and desires. I wonder if she will want me to touch her differently than another woman might. Like any lover, she will have her own preferences.

“I want to feel you inside me, so go slow at first. Let me . . . feel you.”


“And be gentle until I tell you otherwise.”


“You are a good lover, Mister Jefferson,” she kissed me. “Now you must fuck me.”

I kissed her, then pulled back to lick her pussy as I rolled on a condom. My lips tugged at the folds of her labia.

I was in her, entering slowly. Her back arched as my cock disappeared into her body.

She is so slender, I half expect to see her belly bulge with the contours of my cock.

As we fucked, slow and tender, someone flopped onto the bed above her head.

“Hey,” Donny said.

“Hello, handsome,” Farahnaz turned her head and smiled. They kissed. “And why is your gorgeous body still wearing clothes?”

“I just got here,” he apologized. He stood and removed his shirt. He hesitated about removing his pants—should he reserve that?—before opting for nudity.

He returned to his place behind Farahnaz’s head.

I looked down and saw Farahnaz, so glamorous and effeminate, and Donny, so muscular and masculine.

Todd came into the room. “Wow, you look amazing,” he remarked.

He put his water bottle on a table near a candle. The warm light refracted through the water, casting waves of candlelight over our bodies.

Dacia and Jeremy joined us, laying together on another bed.

“Farahnaz, you can not be more beautiful” Dacia marveled.

Farahnaz took Donny’s cock from her mouth. “You are too sweet. Thank you, Dacia.”

I joined Farahnaz in sucking Donny, my hips moving in rhythm to her own, his thick cock passed back and forth between our mouths, between our kisses.

To be a part of such a lovely vignette, to feel such gorgeous flesh against my own, to feel such discerning eyes on us, was exhilarating.

We were loath to end the moment, but in time, we had to break.

Todd moved to suck Donny’s cock.

Donny, the straight boy I fuck, has become more relaxed among the partygoers. He once allowed no one other than me to touch him. He gradually allowed some of the women to touch him, to suck him.

And now Todd.

Later that night, I walked past a bedroom to see Todd blowing Donny, who was sprawled across a bed. They were alone.

I sat near Donny’s head and smiled at him.

He drew me close to kiss.

I put my hands on his smooth, firm torso.

Paul joined us, quietly sitting on a chair to watch. His monster cock was hard in his hand.

Theresa stood in the door, her eyes taking in these four men, so easy together.

She joined us on the bed.

Theresa’s fingers found Donny’s nipples. Her mouth chased her fingers away.

Her fingers found their way to Donny’s balls and Todd’s mouth.

Her mouth was again jealous of her fingers.

Todd caught the look in her eyes. He pulled his mouth away and waved her forward. She moved quickly, eager to taste the beefcake on my bed.

I remained at Donny’s head, stroking his face and body.

Todd wanted the cock back.

Theresa moved on to John’s. John leaned back on Donny, who ran his hands along John’s body as Theresa sucked.

“You need to stop,” Donny told Todd. “I’m close to cumming.”

“So cum,” Todd shrugged.

“This is not how I want to cum.”

“You want me to fuck you?” I offered. This usually finishes him off.

“No, I want to cum on her tits.”

Theresa looked up from her cock. “I’d like that.”

“Come here then, and lay back.”

Theresa lay on the bed as instructed. Donny straddled her belly.

“Maybe you would like it if Jefferson ate you as I jerked in your face?” he asked.

“Or perhaps Jefferson would prefer to fuck you,” I offered.

“Oh yes, fuck me please,” she said.

A condom later, I was inside her. Todd held her legs back with one hand as he jerked with another.

My face rested against Donny’s muscled back as he jerked.

John sat near Theresa’s face, tugging his own cock.

“You doing okay?” Donny asked Theresa.

“Mmmhmmm,” she murmured. “This is like a dream.”

I caressed Donny’s hips and ass, pulling back to hit Theresa’s g spot as I fucked her.

“Okay, I’m going to cum,” Donny alerted us.

I craned to watch over his shoulder.

He pulled his head back to me as he came in great loops on her tits and neck.

She moaned in delight.

“Damn, very hot,” Todd commented.

Donny kissed her and dismounted, leaving the room to wash up.

I continued to fuck Theresa as cum ran over her flesh. With Donny gone, I could move harder and deeper.

“This feel good?” I asked.

“Uh huh.”

“Such a cum slut, Theresa.”

“Uh huh.”

“You ready for John to fuck you?”

“Uh huh.”

John grinned and reached for a condom.

When he was ready, I motioned for him to kneel next to me.

“Okay, that was the end of me . . . “ I said, pulling out.

“ . . . and here’s John,” I added, as he entered her.

I asked John to pull Theresa down a little lower on the bed so she could suck my cock. I fed it to her as he fucked her.

Todd’s cock joined us, offering her a choice in either direction.

She whimpered and moaned.

Her first gangbang was unfolding spontaneously.

John announced his impending orgasm. Theresa pushed back into him, her body asking for his thrusts.

He came in quiet waves.

As he pulled out, Todd kissed Theresa’s cheek. “Now it’s your turn.” He moved his face between her legs, giving her his long fingers.

She turned her mouth back to my cock.

I caressed her forehead.

Soon, she seemed distracted. Her mouth gasped as she sucked me.

I pulled out. She needed to focus on her own pleasure.

As her body moved to Todd’s mouth, I pet her hair and jerked in her face.

She began to moan loudly.

Her voice turned me on, and put me over the edge.

“Okay, here I cum.” I shot over the length of her torso.

“Hey, some distance!” Todd looked up and wiped his shoulder.

“Sorry,” I breathed.

We soon untangled and headed to the terrace. Theresa sat back, allowing our cum to dry on her skin in the cool night air.

She eventually showered away all that sticky goodness.

When she returned, she and Todd were craving sweets.

I could take care of that.

“Don’t go to any trouble,” Theresa called.

“He’s a dad,” Todd assured her. “This is what he does.”

I went to the kitchen and put together an oversized banana split.

I brought them two spoons and kissed them good night.

They could enjoy the remains of the night alone together.

I put fresh sheets on my bed and collapsed into my pillows.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Los Mentes Comprensivas

Editor's note: Please take part in the current

Alejandro sifted through the books on my coffee table.

“What is this?” he asked, holding up JT LeRoy’s The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things. He turned the book to read its back cover.

“It’s the story of a young boy to whom bad things continuously happen,” I said. “You know, if he’s not getting beaten, he’s getting raped. That sort of thing.”

Alejandro read the blurb, then put down the book. “Sounds like another faggot feeling miserable for himself.” He stood to examine the bookcases.

“I suppose you could say that. It’s not bad juvenilia—you know, it’s likely to appeal to post-adolescents who need to confirm that the world is full of hypocrisy and misery.”

“I fucking hate that shit,” Alejandro complained. “Gays are so good at self-pity. It is embarrassing to be gay with that shit. This, this is better,” he said, pulling down Franz Kafka. “It is possible to write about the . . . condition of humanity without being . . . patetico . . . ”


He pointed The Trial at me. “Pathetic. Yes.”

Intellectual snobbery is a trait common among my Cuban friends. Alejandro fits that mold.

He is a twenty-four-year-old artist new to New York. Having trained in Havana, he moved here to pursue a career. He left behind a son.

Alejandro is a bundle of restless energy. You can see his mind race ahead of his facility in English. He jumps to his feet as he talks. His green eyes bore intently into me as he discusses art and books.

We compared art in Havana with what he sees in New York. He was surprised that I know about art in Cuba, that I know many of his former professors.

It was a warm afternoon.

We were discussing a painter we know in common when he tugged his shirt and asks, “You mind if I take this off?”

“Please, make yourself at home.”

Almost forgot: we had a sex date.

He pulled the shirt over his head, revealing a naturally muscular torso.

“Thanks, it’s very hot.”

“You want more water?”

“No, this is good.” He turned and rested his head in my lap.

I rested my hand on his chest.

At my touch, he turned his face away. I raised my hand to trace fingers on his torso.

His hand moved to my face.

This had been an interesting date.

Alejandro was ready to play it as a straight-ahead pick up when we discovered a fairly rich field of shared interest. We found ourselves sidetracked by conversation about art and books, Habana Vieja and Chelsea.

He now seemed eager to get back on the original track.

As I touched his chest, his hand went to his jeans, feeling his cock through denim, then unfastening and unzipping to release it.

He lifted his ass to tug down his pants. His thick cock flopped heavily onto his naked thigh.

I massaged his cock, feeling it grow harder in my hand. He turned his face to me. I bent to kiss him.

He raised his head to meet my kiss. My legs were no longer under him. Soon my pants were no longer on my legs. My t-shirt joined them on the floor.

He sucked my cock as I sucked his. He crouched as he fed it to my mouth. I relaxed and extended my neck so I wouldn’t gag.

Working him, I thought that for someone rather indifferent to cock size, I sure do find a lot of big dicks coming my way. Surely, somewhere out there, a size queen goes wanting.

He lay back, his face turned to the side, his eyes closed, his hand jerking.

I kissed his chest, now red and glowing with the sheen of sweat.

I bit into the flesh of his belly.

I rubbed my hands gently on his thighs, then more firmly.

As my touch grew more aggressive, his hand worked his cock more feverishly.

I touched his cheek, and kissed his neck. My hand began to cover his eyes, to smother his mouth.

My other hand massaged his throat, clenching under his jaw.

I allowed him only his nostrils to breathe, kissing his face as his breathing became more rapid.

His face and upper torso grew more red. His hand jerked in longer tugs.

I released my hands.

He came. Jism shot over his chest and belly, then pooled in spurts within the reservoir of his foreskin.

His eyes were still closed, his hands still working his cock, still hard in his hands.

I stood and rested a foot on his face. I pressed down, sliding the flesh of his face under my sole.

He subs so naturally. A born masochist. I wanted to fast forward, to see where we could take that.

That would be reserved for future dates.

I came on his chest.

We washed up and relaxed, chatting nude.

He asked to use my computer to check email, and saw that I had several windows open to download software. I had been working on this when he arrived.

“If you like, I can finish this and arrange it in a better configuration,” he offered.

“Thanks. Show me what you are talking about.”

I looked over his shoulder, rubbing his chest as he walked me through his proposed plan of action. It was smarter than mine. I approved it, kissing his head.

I sat and read the newspaper as he typed.

When he was gone, I opened the files he had created and got back to work.

Now I am on to something, I thought.

If boys can’t be counted on to returns calls, at least get something useful out of them on the first date.

Sunday, June 26, 2005

Cerebral Sensuality

Editor's note: Please take part in the current

Stephen was really looking forward to meeting me.

We had been through the standard back-and-forth while becoming acquainted online.

He liked my sense of humor. He liked my photo. He liked my idea of taking on a summer boyfriend. He liked that I enjoy putting my cock inside the asses of cute guys.

Then he noticed my unusual first name. He googled me and found examples of my writing. Not this blog, mind you: the other stuff I write.

Are you by the chance the same Jefferson who wrote this? he asked, sending me a link.

Yep, that’s me.

Wow, I’ve read a lot of your articles. It’s nice to meet you.

Thanks! Glad you enjoy.

To be honest, I am not very comfortable when people make the link between my new life as pervert and my ongoing professional life.

For much of my professional life to date, I was married. I was glad that this excused me from vulgarity of some of my peers, who use their small measure of fame to impress potential sex partners and groupies.

My reluctance to use my writing to gain influence or to get laid made me feel more . . . I don’t know . . . pure. Professional. I published with only the best of intentions.

Now, here it was. Stephen was hot that I was someone he had read.

I rather liked that.

Mind you, I was relieved that he was already hooked because I am one hot-looking piece of man meat.

I don’t mind being adored for my mind. But please, only after I am adored for being so damn fine.

We decided to meet outside.

I brought water. I am thoughtful, this demonstrated, and I plan ahead.

He was grateful for the water.

Stephen blends in well in his neighborhood, Williamsburg—an artsy part of Brooklyn that is gentrifying faster than you can say decaf double mocha.

His jeans are ripped, and because there is a chill in the air, he is wearing two vintage t-shirts, one over the other, each inside out. The t-shirts are too tight, though he is rail thin.

He’s a young video artist with dark hair and blue eyes.

Even as we shook hands in greeting, he already knew his way around my bibliography. He also knew that I like to have my ass licked.

I felt a little exposed.

I also thought, in that first moment, that I just wasn’t that into him physically. Let’s see where this goes, I told myself.

We shared a few generalities, then fell into talking about video art. He asked me about some things I had written. I basically rehearsed what I remembered of an article he mentioned—this to make myself look as if I had at least read it too.

He nodded vigorously when I mentioned Bill Viola.

“He’s a big influence on me,” Stephen said into his water bottle.

“Oh yeah? Tell me about your work.”

Stephen described his work in some detail. I generally had no idea what he was talking about, but I nodded and repeated key words that made sense to me.

I offered to look at his work sometime. He said he would like that.

If I went to his place to look at his art, I wondered, would he assume that we were going to have sex?

If I were not that into him, I wondered, would we do it anyway?

He’s not bad looking, I thought, and he’s smart. If the art is good, that may put me over the edge.

I was eager to talk about anything other than art.

By way of shifting the conversation to sex, I picked up on some themes in our conversation about Bill Viola—life, death, redemption—to bring up Matthew Barney.

I referred to a “cerebral sensuality” in Barney’s work.

That term doesn’t mean anything special. It just the kind of thing one says.

Stephen’s brow furrowed. “I have a lot of problems with Matthew Barney,” he averred.

Fuck, I thought. Why oh why did I casually mention Matthew Barney? Of course Stephen will have a strong opinion about Matthew Barney. Everyone does.

And worse yet, everyone has to express that opinion.

Note to self: no more Matthew Barney on first dates.

So I listened as Stephen expounded his opinion. I nodded. And agreed. And dissented.

After he made what seemed to be his final point—or at least the final one he thought I would sit still to hear—Stephen paused.

“Jefferson, I have to say: it is really great to have this opportunity to sit here and talk about this with you. You have a great mind. It’s exciting.”

What great mind? I basically listened to him talk. I am at least that smart.

“But . . .” he began.

I thought I smelled a “but.”

“ . . . I just don’t know if I am that interested in you, you know, physically.”

“That’s okay,” I replied, a little too quickly, a little too defensively.

“Are you sure?” He reached for my hand. “You are handsome and obviously very smart, but it’s just . . . I guess you are not my type or whatever.”

“That’s okay.”

“I just think it’s better to have those things out in the open.”

“No, you are right. And that’s okay.” Please stop talking about it.

“I do want to stay in touch. I would really like to continue this dialogue. It would be great to have you see my work.”

And write letters of recommendation, I continued the thought. And suggest galleries. And introduce collectors . . .

After a while we parted company.

“It was great to meet you,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Likewise. Let’s talk soon.”

I decided the next call would be on his dime.

A week has passed, and my phone ain’t ringing.

Saturday, June 25, 2005


Editor's note: Please take part in the current

This year, I resolved to take on a summer boyfriend, should the opportunity present itself.

For me, this is a novel endeavor.

I’ve had my share of sex with men, but I’ve never really had a day-to-day boyfriend that was acknowledged as such.

I slept with straight and gay friends before marriage. Those relationships came about due to friendships, and endured because of that, but none were boyfriends per se.

These days, most of the time I spend bumping cocks happens at my sex parties or through pickups. It’s all good, and no complaints.

But this summer, I am ready to contemplate having a regular fellow.

Someone who gives with the sex, and also enjoys long walks on the beach, sharing crossword puzzles and dreaming up weekend getaways as we make breakfast.

How great if it proves to last.

But otherwise, we can go our separate ways come September, our heads crammed with happy memories, our wallets sporting pictures of one another, our friends asking, “Say, whatever happened to that guy—you were so cute together!”

A summer idyll.

I prepared the casting couch.

Julius was the first to audition.

Julius was looking for someone interested in regular sex and hanging out. He sent a very cute photo, and liked mine in response.

We traded emails, planning a good time to meet. He was patient with my schedule, as I apologized for being busy with my kids. He was celever, and had a good sense of humor about trying this out.

After a week of attempts, we met at my place.

Julius is tall, Indonesian, slim, twenty-four. His hair is longish, and his smile bright.

He had broken his glasses on the way to meet me.

“This looks ridiculous, I’m sure,” he said, removing his glasses to indicate the missing arm. “I have to get a new pair this afternoon.”

“They seem to function—why the rush?”

He returned the glasses to his face, adjusting them to balance on his nose. “I need to see this evening. I have a summer job as a pianist for ballet rehearsals.”

As we chatted, my mind logged salient details. Musician. Summer job in the city. Dance aficionado.

He asked me about art and books on the coffee table. He was well informed.

There was a moment’s lull.

“So . . . ,” he said. He dropped his hands in his lap and smiled.

“Of course,” I replied. “You want to get naked?”

“Yes, if that’s all right.”

“It’s fine with me. Let’s retire to the bedroom.”

I stood to lead the way.

He paused to remove his sneakers, fastidiously untying the laces.

I watched his long fingers work.

We had enjoyed a nice conversation. My radio supplied the soundtrack.

It felt like a sufficient amount of time had passed as we got acquainted. Our conversation confirmed what we learned about one another in our emails.

Still, we had been together for just a little longer than it took Jack Johnson to sing “Banana Pancakes.”

We stood by my bed. I took his face in my hands and kissed his cheek.

He moved his lips to meet mine.

I opened my mouth to his kiss.

He kisses, I thought. Very good.

He turned, and sat on my bed.

I sat beside him, and resumed our kiss. I turned up the passion. He met my heat.

We fell back on the bed.

His fingers raced my face and clothes.

I put my arm around his waist.

I licked his teeth. He grinned and wrapped his lips on my tongue.

I was very content to kiss him, stroking his hair in my fingers.

But I knew to supply what he had sought in his emails. I sat on his hips as I removed my shirt. I dropped my head to one side as he looked me over.

I unbuttoned his shirt. His torso was lean and smooth. I ran my hand along his chest. His limbs flinched as I squeezed his nipples.

I kissed him again, firm on his lips. My mouth wandered to his neck and chest, my hands feeling his undulations.

I paused at his jeans.

My eyes looked up. His eyes were closed, his head turned. He was in his own place.

I rubbed my cheek on his pants, letting my scalp massage his cock.

I unzipped him.

His cock pressed against his exposed boxers.

I pulled out the head and licked it. He twisted, only slightly.

His body was limp, passive to my explorations. His arms were back, his torso open to me.

I pulled down his pants.

I removed his socks.

My clothes were tossed to a chair.

I lowered my body onto his and kissed his mouth. His arms wrapped around me, so sweetly. We pressed our naked flesh to one another.

As we kissed, I pressed my cock into his. He spread his legs, holding me close.

His kiss was so light, so tender.

He rolled me on my back and moved down, taking my cock in his mouth. He watched for my reaction.

I squirmed and moaned, settling back.

Apparently, he was just visiting. My cock dropped from his mouth, He climbed back to kiss me.

All right, I thought. Can use some work with the cock sucking, but his kisses are spot on.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” I asked. He had asked me to plow him in our emails.

“Can we save that for next time?” he asked.

“Of course,” I replied, caressing his chest. I must have looked curious about why he wanted to wait.

“It’s just . . . you remind me of someone I used to date.”


“Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?” I ventured, assuming the worst.

He shrugged. “Little bit of both”

My hand went to his cheek. “Then let’s wait until it’s more of a good thing about us, and less about that other fellow.”

He kissed me.

I turned him on his back.

Let’s start dispelling those ghosts by showing him how to distribute those gentle kisses.

My hands and mouth traveled his body, leaving impressions, leaving memories, but also drinking his scent, remembering his textures.

I spoke sweet words as his talented fingers took his cock in hand.

I stroked his hair as he stroked and came on his torso.

I held his hand in mine as I came over his load.

“This was really hot,” he said as we washed.

“It was,” I agreed. “I’m glad we’ve met.”

“Me too.”

He kissed me.

We chatted as he dressed. He kissed me again at the door.

“See you next time,” I said, patting his back.

“Can’t wait!” he smiled.

I went to my computer and dropped him an email.

I really enjoyed meeting you, Julius. Here’s to more of the same.

Two days passed. No response.

I called and left a message.

Julius, it was great to meet after so many attempts. Hope to see you soon. What are you up to this week?


The curse of reminding someone of someone he used to date.

Friday, June 24, 2005

Man About Town

Editor's note: Please take part in the current

On the Saturday after the track meet, Jason took a call from his best friend, David.

“Dad?” He held the phone to his chest. “Can I go to David’s for a while?”

“Sure, hon. Let me talk to his mom, okay?”

David lives a block from us. We have known his family since David and Jason were in kindergarten together.

“Hey, Jefferson.”

“Good morning, Mariam. So you are cool with Jason coming over?”

“Yes, that’s fine, but here’s the thing—we won’t be home. David wants to take Jason to a street fair, and then to a magic store at 110th Street.”

“110th Street? How will they get there?”

“They’ll take the subway. David does this every weekend on his own.”

I glanced at Jason.

His legs are so long now.

Same saucer-sized eyes he had as a baby.

“David knows the way, huh?”

“Yes. But if you aren’t comfortable with this . . .”

“No, I suppose it will be okay.”

“Good. Let me give you David’s cell phone number.”

“I have it already. I’ll send Jason right over.”

I closed the phone.

I went over the plan with Jason. He would be taking the subway alone with David. David would have his cell.

I would be in the park with his siblings. I would have my cell.

He could call for any reason.

He shrugged. No big deal.

He put on his shoes, took fifteen dollars from my wallet, and kissed me goodbye.

I had made the right decision.


The cell rang as I packed a picnic. It was Richard, the brother of my ex, Lucy.

He asked if Lucy had mentioned he would be in town. She had not.

Well, he had a few hours available. Could he visit the kids?

Of course, I said. We are just about to head to the park, I said; come join us.

Great, he said, adding that he was with Lucy. Would it be all right if she joined us?

I had not talked with Lucy since she hung up on me when Jason was missing.

Now Jason and David were out on the town, with no adult supervision.

Sure, I said. By all means, bring Lucy.

Brother. This could complicate my resolve that I had made the right decision.

I had no idea why her mood was so mercurial of late. But I knew I did not want to spark her reaction.

I didn’t want to be second-guessed about allowing Jason to take the subway with David.

I decided I would not bring this up.

Hopefully, it would not be a problem.

Nothing to do but cross fingers.

Collie and Lillie were excited about picnicking with Mom and Uncle Richard. We found them in our usual spot at Sheep Meadow.

I kissed Richard hello, and waved to Lucy. She smiled at me as she lifted Lillie to a kiss.

We ate our lunch and began to play games.

Richard and I caught up. He’s a very smart and funny man who inevitably makes me wish I had made a point of reading the entire New York Times that morning.

Somehow I had missed gossip about Phoebe Cates’s mom.

Lucy was in fine spirits. The kids were delighted—down one brother and up two adults!

It was great to have some breathing space. Tending three kids alone is nonstop. This was much more relaxed.

Just so long as the phone didn’t ring with reports that Jason and David had fallen into trouble.

Eventually, Lucy took her leave, off to see a concert with a date.

Richard stayed with us until he also had to leave for a dinner appointment.

I walked home with the kids. The sun set in our eyes.

I called Jason.

“Did you have a good time?”

“Yes, and I got this cool expanding lizard. It grows in a water bottle.”

“I have no idea what that is. Can you bring the lizard and your own bad self home now?”

The lizard was indeed cool.

You put it in water and it grows, so fast.


Editor's note: Please take part in the current

Jason had a track meet. The school sent home a flyer noting that the track meet would probably go long, so arrangements should be made for students to be picked up between three thirty and four thirty.

Jason and I had a plan.

I would pick up his younger siblings at the usual time. We would hang out at a pizza parlor within site of Jason’s school, waiting for him to arrive.

Jason would borrow a chaperone’s cell phone to call us when he was on the way.

After school, Collie, Lillie and I killed time at the library. At three thirty, we walked to Jason’s school. “Let’s go in to see if there is any news from the track team,” I suggested.

The security guards said the track team had been back since eighth period. The students had been dismissed at the usual time.

“Really? The school sent home a flyer saying there were due back after school, between now and four thirty.”

“Let me see about that,” a guard suggested. She waved to someone down the hall. “Mister Poole, can you come over here, please?”

Mister Poole, an assistant principal, joined us. He confirmed that the track team had returned at eighth period.

“But . . . the flyer sent to parents said it would go until after school.”

“I don’t understand this,” Mister Poole replied, putting his hands on his hips. He flagged a man coming down a stairway. “Jim, did your students come back from the track meet?”

“That’s right, they were back at eighth period.”

“Huh,” I said. “Well, I don’t know what to say. I wish I had brought the flyer. It was pretty clear about the time students would return.”

“Daddy?” Lillie asked. “Where’s Jason?”

“That’s what we are trying to figure out, sweetie. Don’t worry.”

Lillie and Collie both looked worried.

Where was Jason?

Jason can be spacey, like any kid. I wouldn’t be surprised that he forgot to call after the track meet.

If he had returned early, perhaps he had followed through with a usual routine for that day, and walked to his mother’s workplace.

I called Lucy.


“It’s Jefferson.”

“I know. What is it?”

“I am at Jason’s school. His track meet was today, as you know, and he was supposed to be back between three thirty and four thirty. The office says the track team was back early. He’s not here. Is he with you?”


“Jason’s track meet apparently ended early.”

“He’s not with you?!”

I coughed. “I am at the school. Apparently the track meet ended early. He’s not here.”

Lucy sighed in profound exasperation. “He is not with me. This is your day to pick up the children, Jefferson. I can not deal with this now.”


“Hello?” No answer. She hung up on me.

“Dad . . .”

“Just sit over on the bench, Collie. We’ll figure this out.” I returned to the security desk, where Mister Poole and the guards were talking.

“Okay, I’m a little concerned here. My son was at the track meet, and now we don’t know where he is. Can we find anyone who was at the meet who may have seen him?”

Mister Poole looked concerned. “Hmmm. Well, the faculty and students are gone for the day . . .”

My cell phone rang. Unidentified caller.


“Hey Dad.”

“Jason! Where are you?”

“We’re at Van Cortlandt Park, just about to get on the bus. We did really well today!”

“You are still at the meet?” I looked at Mister Poole. He looked confused. He picked up a phone and dialed.

“Yeah, we are just about to leave. So, are you at school?”

“Yes, we’ll see you when you get here. Bye baby, I love you.”

“Loveyoutoo. Bye.”

Mister Poole held up a finger as he completed his call. He returned the phone to the receiver.

“What grade is your son in?”


“That’s it, then. We were mistaken. The eighth grade came back early, but the sixth and seventh graders are still out.”

“Whew. Well, that’s resolved.”

“Sorry for the confusion.”

“It happens. Just glad it worked out.” I turned to the kids. “So, Jason is on his way here. You want to get some pizza?”

“Yes!” They were relieved. Thank God the grown ups got it right this time.

As we walked down the sidewalk, I called Lucy to alleviate her worries.


“It’s me. So the school made a mistake and Jason is on his way here now. It’s just as the flyer said.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“So, about before: I call about the kids and you hang up on me?”

“I really can not deal with this now.”



I pocketed the phone.

She had repeated that same phrase—“I really can not deal with this now”—in putting me off.

A mantra. Does that indicate that she’s in therapy?

Jason showed up right on time, sporting a new personal best in the one hundred yard dash.

Jason is now at an age—eleven and a half—when many city kids use public transportation on their own. That was the dream of my suburban childhood: the liberty to go places independent of my parents and their cars.

Yet now that I am on the parenting side of childhood, it is hard to let go.

Once Jason takes to the subways and bus lines, as most of his peers have done, the city is his for the price of a student Metro Card.

He is a good kid, and a smart one. I am a vigilant parent. He will be fine once he is out there on his own.

Just . . . not now. Maybe next year.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

So Adult

Editor's note: Please take part in the current

On the morning after Anna dumped me—once more, yet again—I woke the boys, then shuffled to the kitchen to put on the kettle. I prepared lunches and poured coffee into a travel mug as the boys dressed.

Tall mug, long pour of sugar, two dollops of half and half. Top screwed down tight.

With my coffee at hand, I was ready to face the challenge of rousing my daughter. My girl is a very heavy sleeper. Just like her Dad. Her brothers helped.

“Baby,” I took charge. “We have to go. Let me find you some clothes to wear. Something really ugly . . .”

“No!” She sat up. “I picked them out last night! I am wearing the pink cat shirt and my black shorts with the racing stripes. And my pink Hello Kitty underwears.”

“Okay, get dressed. We’re brushing teeth in a few minutes.”

We were out the door on schedule at seven-thirty. The kids were to school early.

It was a splendid morning.

I sipped coffee as I strolled home through the park, past the familiar dog walkers, past the tourists on a morning outing, past Henry Winkler filming a movie.

I had to get home to clean up and work. I had a lunch date with Mitzi.

She wanted to talk.

We’ve done a lot of talking lately.

Mitzi has been fending with a shift in her feelings about how things are, and the way she would like them to be.

She signed on with me a few months ago, looking for fun and sexual adventure.

Things got a little complicated when her feelings kicked in.

So lately, we meet for sex, we meet to talk things over, we meet for meals. We both want to make this work.

But we are too stubborn to give in very much ground.

Mitzi was right on time.

We kissed. She smiled wanely.

“Jefferson . . . we need to talk.”

“I know. We often do.”

We sat on the couch. I was caffeinated, showered and alert, ready to listen.

“Jefferson,” she began slowly. “You know, I’m crazy for you.”

“Yes. It’s really great to be with you.” I touched her shoulder.

“I’m glad.” She tilted her head toward my hand in a gesture that simultaneously sought my touch and pulled from it. “But, Jefferson, this really isn’t working for me.”

“I know. I mean, I can see that.”

“I enjoy the fun sex,” she struggled, measuring her words. “Really, I do. The party is just great. The kinky stuff is fun. I enjoy it. And when it’s just you and me, it’s really really great.”

“I know.”

“But . . . it’s not what I need.”

“I know.”

“I really want someone who is more . . . devoted to me.”

“I know.”

“I mean, I deserve that.”

“You really do.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

Mitzi lowered her eyes. “Jefferson . . . I’m just not going to get that from you.”

“I know.”

She looked up at me. “So I need to . . . I just can’t do this.”

“I know.” I touched her shoulder. Her cheek moved to my hand.

She sighed.

“You aren’t going to stop me, are you?” She was half joking, half serious.

I smiled sadly. “I really can’t, Mitzi. I mean, we keep treading the same ground. I hear you when you say this isn’t working for you. You shouldn’t do what isn’t right for you.”

Her smile was just as sad. “That’s not the right thing to say.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“I know, it is.”

There were long exchanges of meaningful glances.

Mitzi’s eyes reached to mine.

Break-up sex was not on the agenda. My body was numb.

She left.

I worked for a bit, very distracted.

I had been dumped twice in less that twenty-four hours.

At two, I walked across the park and brought my children home. My daughter was on my lap talking about her day when I got an instant message.

Mitzi: Thank you for being so adult.

Off Again

Editor's note: Please take part in the current

Anna instant messaged to ask if she could stop by that night, after I put the kids to bed.

She was going to be in my neighborhood for rehearsals, and wanted to retrieve utensils and a pan she had recently brought to my place to prepare dinner for me and the kids.

I teased her about this.

Jefferson: What, you are cleaning out my kitchen? Did we break up again? Why am I always the last to know?

Anna: No, silly. We are good. I’m just doing a lot of cooking lately and I miss my stuff.

The kids usually go to bed at nine or so. She planned to be at my place by a quarter to ten.

After the kids were fed, bathed and tucked away, I finished the dishes and gathered Anna’s things into a bag.

It was a warm night. I poured a bourbon and sat down for the first time since dinner.

I was beat.

Anna knocked.

I stood to answer the door.

We kissed hello.

She was dressed in sweats, her hair wet with perspiration. She looked worn out from the exertions of rehearsing after eight hours at her day job.

I offered her a drink. We sat heavily onto the couch.

“So how’s your week been?” I asked. We had seen each other a few days before.

“Good, fine. Rehearsals are good. Very physical, very challenging choreography. And your week?”

“Can’t complain. Lots of work, and I have the kids for five days, so there’s a lot to juggle. But, you know, the usual.”

“Yeah, you have a busy life.”

“We both do.”

“So, listen.” Anna adjusted her body to sit on one leg. She cupped her glass in one palm. “I really don’t think I can continue to see you.”

A wave of exhaustion passed over me.


“No, I don’t think so.” She sipped her bourbon and paused. “It’s just that . . . you know, I really want to think ahead to my future. I want to be married and make my parents into grandparents. This means I need to think about when I am going to be a mother, whether I am going to have kids or make myself a part of someone’s family. And that’s just not what you want.”

“No, right now it really isn’t. We’ve talked about that a lot . . .”

“I know. And here we sit, after seeing one another for over a year. And we are basically in the same place.”

“I suppose so.”

“So anyway . . .” she put her glass on the coffee table and reached into her bag. “I wrote something I would like you to read.”

“You prepared a statement?”

“Well, more of a . . . few thoughts.” She handed me a folded page.

“You want me to read this now?”

“Yes, please.”

I opened the page. It was full of text, single-spaced.

My eyes scanned the phrases.

I folded the page and put it down.

“Very poetic.”

“That’s what you have to say?”

“You write very movingly.”

“Do you have anything else to say?”

I thought for a moment.

“No, not really. I mean, you’ve evidently given this some thought and preparation. I just put the kids to bed, and fifteen minutes later, you are here breaking up with me.”

“I know.”

“So I don’t have anything new to say since the last time you broke up with me.”

We sat for a few moments.

“Well,” I said, standing. “Let me get your stuff from the kitchen.”

“Um, okay.”

We went into the kitchen. I opened the bag and inventoried the items.

She asked about a pair of tongs. They were in my drawer. I retrieved them and added them to the bag.

I took her to the door.

“Let’s talk when we aren’t exhausted,” I said.


We embraced for a long time.

We kissed.

She left.

I locked the door.

About a week later, I received an envelope in the mail. It was from Anna. Inside was this poem.

Love After Love
By Derek Wolcott

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

And say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was yourself.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

The envelope had a stamp that read “Love. Thirty-seven cents.”

If the past is any guide, I would soon receive a CD of evocative songs.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Six Figures

Uncork the champagne! Today marked a milestone.

The number of hits to One Life, Take Two has now crossed over the one hundred thousand mark.

That is the number of people who have stopped by the blog since Dacia installed my StatCounter last February.

In part, this reflects a recent surge in traffic due to Violet Blue choosing certain posts for her sexblog round-up at Fleshbot, and an article by Amy Sohn in New York Magazine that mentions my blog.

Which means that there are many readers new to One Life, Take Two.

Which means that it is time for me to ask for your indulgence by taking part in a poll.

Help me to know you better!

You can take the poll here:


You can read the results without voting by clicking here:


As always, feel free to drop me a line.

In other blog news, the indefatigable Depraved Librarian has set up domains for Madeline in the Mirror ( and One Life, Take Two (

You can still find me here, or you may prefer the shorter and niftier dot com. Both roads lead you home.

Thanks, Depraved!

In other non-blog news—I’ve been thinking about my doorbell.

My doorbell has been broken for quite some time.

My pal Raven (now of the left coast) joshed that this was a clear indication that I was a slut. My doorbell was taking a beating from all the comings and goings.

Then we broke my bed having sex.

That sealed it. I was a slut for sure.

I am happy to report that I have fixed my doorbell.

And I have replaced my broken box spring.

Yes, the fabled box spring—first broken by William’s gangbang on my birthday, broken again by Mitzi’s gangbang on her birthday, and broken a third time by heavy hearts when Madeline and I ended our first (and to date, only) weekend together—is no more.

It survived a little over a year.

A new box spring is in its place.

My bed is now level again. If you sleep with me—or should I say “when?”—we will not list to one side.

I was a little embarrassed when the man who delivered my new box spring got a look at my old one.

The underside was so much kindling.

I shrugged. “Kids! Heh. Heh.”

Shelby and I inaugurated the box spring within two hours of its installation.

For a change, the only squeaks were those emanating from Shelby’s mouth.

The new box spring endured its first orgy the very next evening.

It came with a fifteen-year warranty.

Side bets, anyone, on how long it lasts?

Monday, June 20, 2005

Noah P.

“Noah P. is very mean! I hate him!”

Lillie was agitated when I picked her up from school.

“I thought Noah P. was your friend. What happened?”

“He calls me names. He said I am stupid, he says I stink, he says red hair is weird.”

Lillie ticked off each complaint by counting her fingers. She walked so that each step was a stomp of her sandals to the sidewalk.

I reached to hold her hand. “But those things aren’t true, sweet. Why would he say them?”

“Because he is mean. He makes me mad. Constance is mad too. He made us both mad—in one day!” She held out her hands in disbelief. “Can you believe it?”

Constance is Lillie’s best friend.

I reached to hold her hand.

Lillie has been talking about Noah P. quite a bit of late, so I recently made a point of meeting him.

Dropping Lillie at school one morning, I asked her and Constance to introduce me to Noah P.

“That’s me!” said the boy just behind me. I turned to find Noah P., smiling.

Noah P. was very cute. His blond hair was parted and combed back with gel. He wore a short sleeve white shirt over a wife beater.

“How do you do, Noah P.? I’m Jefferson, Lillie’s dad.” I offered my hand.

He grinned at Lillie and Constance, then shook my hand.

The girls giggled.

“Show him your muscle,” Lillie said. She was giggling so hard she could barely finish the sentence. Constance laughed all the harder at that.

“You want to see my muscle?” Noah P. asked me.

“Sure pal, show it.”

Noah P. began to take off his shirt.

“Can you do it with your shirt on?” I asked.

“It’s okay, I have two shirts!” He stripped to the wife beater, throwing his outer shirt to a nearby table with exaggerated aplomb.

He flexed a bicep. “See?”

“Very nice!” I admired.

The girls leaned on one another, laughing uncontrollably.

Lillie sat up and drew a breath. “We’re going to marry him,” she confessed.

“Yes!” Constance agreed. The girls gave themselves over to guffaws.

Noah P. joined in the laughter. A grown up was in on the secret!

“Oh, you are both going to marry Noah P.? At the same time?”

“Yes,” Lillie said. She pointed to her friend. “First Constance, then me, at the same time.”

“Well, well! That should be some wedding!”

This had them in stitches. I know when to leave an audience wanting more; I kissed Lillie, took my bows and exited, stage left.

The three conferred before lining up for class.

But now, after school, there was trouble brewing at the engagement party.

Noah P. had turned mean. Lillie and Constance were mad.

I listened to Lillie’s complaints as we walked home.

“Well, you know, Lillie,” I offered by way of fatherly wisdom. “Sometimes when boys like girls, they can say or do things that seem mean.

“It’s dumb, but that can be one way a boy shows that he like a girl—by doing things to get her attention. Even if those things seem mean, he might just want you to notice him. Does that make sense?”


“I know. It probably never will.”

My ex, Lucy, took the more direct approach.

She heard Lillie’s tale of woe. She then took her questions to the source—Noah P. himself.

Lucy was never one to hesitate in reprimanding other people’s children.

She took Lillie by the hand and approached Noah P. in the school cafeteria.

“Noah P., can I have a word with you?”

“Uh huh.” They sat.

“Noah P., I understand you have been saying unkind words to Lillie and Constance. Is that true?”

Lillie tucked down her chin and watched Noah P.

Noah P. looked panicked. He was cornered, caught dead to rights.

“No! No! I didn’t mean to do that!”

“Well, Noah P., you need to consider how the words you use can affect other people. If you call someone “stupid” or “stinky,” it can hurt that person’s feelings. It can make that person wonder if you are a good friend. Do you understand?”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you want to be good friends with Lillie?”

Lillie watched closely for the answer.

“Uh huh.”

“I thought so. Well then, try to be aware of what you say. Now, shake my hand.”

Lucy extended her hand. Noah took it. They shook.

“I’m glad we had this talk. Now both of you need to join your group for class. Bye, Noah P. Bye, Lillie.”

Lucy stood and kissed Lillie. Lillie hugged her mother’s hips.

Man, I thought. I sure miss having that ballbuster on my side.

That afternoon, I asked Lillie about school.

“School was good. And Noah P. is my friend again!”

“Really? Oh that’s splendid news. Why is that?”

“He is being nice again! Constance is his friend too.”

“All’s well that ends well, Lillie.”

That night, Lillie wrote a note to Noah P.:

To Noah P.

I lov you

Noah P.

We ur good!

Bast + boyfnd


She added a happy face to the “o” in his name, and drew a heart next to her name.

Sweet Lillie. Dear Constance.

I am so glad that Noah P. is being nice.

I am so glad that you are no longer mad at Noah P.

And I know you adore his moussed blonde hair, his cherubic smile, his tough boy clothes and his awesome muscles. It’s nice that such a cool boy wants to hang with two great girls.

But girls, how can you miss the clues?

Don’t you see?

Sweeties, Noah P. is gay.

Saturday, June 18, 2005

Readers' Queries

A note from a faithful reader has slipped over the transom.


I know I'm going out on a limb here, but I have a teeny problem and, after salivating over your blog, I'm thinking you might be just the right guy to help me out.

I'm a twenty-four-year-old lesbian, born and raised in Kentucky, and I've been in a monogamous relationship with a lovely woman for about nine months.

I don't want to bore you with back story, so here is the deal: My girl loves it (as do I) when I eat her pussy while fucking her g-spot hard with three or four fingers. From what I've read, you seem to be a pro at this.

How do you breathe? What position works best? I try to breathe through my nose, but after a few minutes, my girl usually grabs handfuls of my hair and smothers me in pussy.

I mean, I love it and I am not complaining, but I know I could do better if I could go a little longer without getting oxygen deprived.

If you have any advice or the time to give it, I would really appreciate it.

I stumbled upon your blog through Fleshbot and I'm hooked. I'm making my way through the archives now and I keep coming across things I want to try or need to try again. I'm going to have to get a notebook pretty soon.

Thanks so much,

Get the notebook ready, Alex.

I’m no sex advice writer (I leave that to the pros, such as the incomparable Ask Ellen). But I am always happy to share lessons learned through experience.

And as you surmise, I have acquired a fair amount of schooling in pussy licking.

But before I address your specific concerns, may I just borrow a page from my friend Dacia, who is continuously impressed by her own awesomeness?

How awesome am I that young lesbians come to me for advice on muff diving?

Let me just savor that moment . . .

Okay, back to you, Alex.

My friend, you have what my mama would call a “happy problem.”

You have a sweet relationship with a lovely woman to whom you supply some rocking good loving.

You simply want to avoid asphyxiation when you deliver the goods.

One solution would be to tell your girlfriend that while she may enjoy fucking your face as she climaxes, her hair-grabbing habit has the unfortunate side effect of smothering the object of her affections.

This is uncomfortable and cuts short your abilities to give her what she wants.

She could simply refrain from doing this.

That’s one solution, but I don’t think it is the right one for you. As you write, you enjoy being forced to take a face full of sweet stuff. It turns you on to get her so worked up.

You want your lover in that delirium.

So in order to help her let go, you need to stay alert at the helm, ready to keep breathing when she goes for the hair.

There are a few things you may want to try.

Prepare a landing pad.

With your free hand—the one you don’t have stuffed in her cooch—press firmly and gently down on the flesh just above her pubic bone. The pressure should be directed in and down.

Visualize that your hands are pressing toward one another through her body.

You may want to use the pressure of four extended fingers or the flat butt of your lower palm. I often use the flat surface formed by the second knuckles when folding the fingers toward the palm—in karate, the technique of kaiko ken zuki, or “crab-shell fist.”

This can have two good effects.

First, as the external pressure makes contact with the internal pressure on her g spot, you may add to her pleasure.

Second, your hand is in place to prepare a landing pad for your nose.

When she goes for the hair, flatten your hand on her flesh and press down. Aim your nose to the back of your hand—this should prevent her flesh from blocking your nostrils.

Alternate the position of your face.

Rather than allowing her to push your face down, counter by moving your jaw forward and your head back. You can still keep your mouth firmly on her clit, while raising your nose clear of her skin, as she holds your head to her.

Alternate your breathing technique.

Chances are that where your mouth is concerned, she is responding to the sensation of your tongue on her clit.

You can keep that going without maintaining suction with your lips.

If you extend your tongue and retract your lips, you can pant through your mouth as you lick her.

Alternate her position.

You don’t mention what position your girlfriend is in when you whip her into a hair-grabbing frenzy. You may want to try switching that up to see if another position is more comfortable.

When she is on her back, try lifting her legs up and back over her body. She can hold them in place, or you can rest your forearm on the backs of her thighs.

(At my place, I keep assistants around to help with this. Rope also comes in mighty handy when someone should be kept firmly in position.)

This position allows gravity to flatten the playing field, pushing her pussy forward and her belly back. You may find yourself with a much more breathing room.

Make her wait.

You write that “after a few minutes” of working your girlfriend, she pulls you in for a sound face fucking.

But what if you made her wait for it? What if you pulled your head back and denied her the full throw down she craves?

This may be a new twist, as you counter her demand. That in itself can be hot.

On a practical level, it allows you more time with unobstructed breathing, and reserves the thing you know she loves until you are both ready for the money shot.


Try out these and other techniques at a time when you aren’t in the throes of passion.

Besides offering opportunities for just plain fun, rehearsals allow time to communicate and discuss what works, what doesn’t work, and why.

The next time you go at it—very likely, immediately after rehearsing—you will both have a clearer idea of what the other needs.

Get back to me!

I hope these few thoughts are useful, Alex. Let us know how things progress; we hate to think of you drowning in your lover’s pussy.

Readers, I answered Alex’s query here so that you could pitch in your suggestions in the comments below.

And readers, feel free to drop me a line when you like. You don’t need to drench it in compliments, as Alex did—but you know, it never hurts to play to vanity.

Friday, June 17, 2005


With all the new attention to her ass, it was only a matter for time before Shelby would want to test her mettle.

We were lazing on the couch when she blurted those words everyone longs to hear:

“I think I want to eat your ass.”

“You do?” I sat up. “Have you ever done that, honey?”

“No, you’re my first.”

I kissed her. “You are too sweet. I am happy to give myself over to that talented mouth. Come on.”

She soon had me naked and face down on the bed.

“Good luck, baby,” I encouraged, resting my head in my folded arms. “I’m rooting for you.”

She slapped my ass.

“Let’s see what you can take.”

She spanked me a bit more, warming to her task.

She spread my cheeks.

She dove in, tongue flying fast.

I squirmed.

She was going right for the score.

It was wet, warm and every bit as intense as her blowjob.

She stopped and panted a bit, then dove back in with renewed gusto.

She licked, she twirled, she munched.

She came up for air.

“That feels so good,” I said. “But are you holding your breath?”

“No,” she gasped. “I just can’t breath when I’m doing this.”

“What?” I looked over my shoulder. “Why not?”

“My mouth and nose are buried in your ass. So I can’t breath.”

“Maybe we should shift angles . . .”

“Eh, I’m wet now. I’d rather just fuck.”

I was happy to oblige. Her inaugural ass dive had me ready to go as well.

We could return to this another time.

Still some work to be done.

A good rimming is awesome.

But breathing is essential.

Magic Asses

When Shelby and I first took to doing the nasty, I toured her body to get acquainted with her erogenous zones.

I found her feet to be neglected and very much in need of some loving.

And her ass . . . well, it was a bricked-up lot, prime real estate awaiting development.

The only previous tenant was a former big-dicked boyfriend who made up for what he lacked in patience with an abundance of urgency.

To this fellow, ass was what you fucked when your girlfriend had her period.

Tsk, tsk.

Straight boys. What can you do?

I could empathize with Shelby’s situation, for I was once an ass novice myself.

Whatever I had once known about my ass was pretty much lost during my marriage.

Back in the day, I had been fucked by my straight boyfriend Alan. I had been tentatively explored by many a girlfriend’s fingers.

But my wife was just not interested in visiting my nether regions.

My ass was shuttered for the season.

As my marriage ended, Marcus visited to cheer me up. Of course, Marcus always delivers cheer with plenty of sex.

“The end of your marriage means you have your balls back,” he consoled me. “Now I am going to give you your ass.”

“You are not putting that thing in me.”

“Baby,” he shook his head. He put his hands on my shoulders. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes . . .” His Svengali eyes are hard to resist.

“Good. Now sprawl on the bed, face down.”

I did as instructed, my arms tucked under me, my fists clenched under my shoulders.

“Baby, relax . . . relax . . .” He rubbed my shoulders, my back, my arms. His hands traveled my buttocks, my legs, my feet.

Tenderly. No rushing.

I gave over to his hands.

His mouth followed his hands over my body.

I drifted.

He moved my feet further apart. He found my legs pliable in his hands.

He poised between them. His hands massaged the smooth flesh of my ass, separating my cheeks.

“You are very pink,” he said. His voice was calm, conversational. It surprised me.

“I am?”

“You really don’t know your ass, do you?”

“No, I guess not.”

“You will enjoy this.” He lowered his tongue to my anus.

“Ummf, wait, wait.” I clenched my cheeks. “That’s too much!”

“Baby, relax. I’ll go slowly.”

I relaxed my buttocks.

His tongue found a very tight and nervous sphincter. It swirled around, lapping now and then.

My fists were clenched.

My cock was hard.

He tongue was so gentle, so warm. I could feel my shoulders relaxing, my hands melting.

His jaw set to work. His licks grew more intense.

He kept his face buried in my ass as time slowed, then stopped.

My body was limp, my cock all the harder.

That morning, he fucked me. Slowly, gently.

He gave me my ass.

Now I was passing on that gift to Shelby.

My tongue and Shelby’s ass are now bosom buddies.

To Shelby’s continued surprise, her ass sends for me now and then.

As we lay nude in bed recently, she said, “I think I want you to eat my ass.”


She flipped over, and I propped a pillow under her hips. I spread her legs and opened her lovely cheeks.

I tongued her hole, nibbling her cheeks as my ardor increased.

My finger found her pussy wet.

My finger was soon joined by her own, making its way to her sweet spot, just to the left of her clit.

Her back heaved as her breathing grew shallow.

“Can you get the vibrator?” she asked.

I retrieved a double bullet. I sheathed one bullet in a lubricated condom, and gently fed it to her ass.

Another condom, and the other bullet was in her pussy. I pushed it in deep, as she likes, close to her cervix.

I turned it on.

She moaned. “Oh yes, just like that.”

Her finger worked her clit. My tongue returned to her asshole.

We built up the intensity of sensation. Her legs trembled.

She squealed.

I stroked my cock. You can wait, I told it.

“I need more in me,” she begged.

I added two fingers to her cunt, reversed to hook her g spot.

She squealed louder. She panted.

She screamed into my mattress.

I wasn’t giving up that easy.

I wanted that scream again, longer.

I got what I wanted.

“I’m sorry,” she said, as she recovered. “I drooled a puddle in your sheets.”

“That’s not the only puddle,” I observed, removing the bullets from her body.

She flipped over, heavily flopping her arms and legs akimbo.

“God I love my ass!” she sighed.

“Me too baby.” I kissed her. “Your ass is magic.”

Thursday, June 16, 2005


Shelby has caught the bug for one of my favorite hobbies: performing live sex shows.

She’s every bit the exhibitionist I am, if not more so.

It’s hot to see how hot we can make another person, just by being so . . . hot.

We get plenty of chances to see and to be seen at the sex parties, But every now and then, it’s fun to recruit a fresh pair of eyes.

I particularly like it if those fresh eyes are bulging from the sockets of a married man.

Not that I have any special fetish for wedding bands.

My preference comes from remembering all too well what it was like to live with sexual deprivation, just because I was so concerned with doing the right thing as a husband.

Offering shows is just my way of giving back to the brothers still fighting the good fight.

Our shows are designed for those who want to enjoy some sex without cheating—at least, not really cheating.

The are only watching.

The show has a simple script.

You can watch us have sex. We enjoy talking, but we don’t take direction.

You can be nude and jerk off. You cannot touch her below the waist—you will have no sexual contact with her. He is bisexual and open to touch, if negotiated in advance.

Not surprisingly, there is a lot of interest from voyeurs.

We get our pick of the litter.

One fellow sent us a very handsome photo. Rob was straight, blonde, well built and twenty-eight. He asked an interesting question:

Rob: Does she happen to have thigh-high boots?

Jefferson: No she doesn’t, but I like this line of inquiry.

Rob: Would she wear hose?

“Shelby, would you wear hose?”

“Sure. . . but why would I want to?”

Jefferson: She’s not opposed to the idea. But she doesn’t have any.

Rob: I can bring some panty hose.

Jefferson: Panty hose? Wouldn’t thigh-high hose be better? I mean, I sorta want access to the panty area.

Rob: So you cut them.

Jefferson: Oh, I see . . . you have given this some thought! That does sound sexy.

Rob: You like the idea? Maybe I should bring you a pair as well. LOL.

Oh, the honest admissions lurking beyond “LOL.” I took the bait.

Jefferson: You’d better bring three pair, then. You’ll want something to wear.

Rob: I think that would be very hot. Tell me your heights and I will take care of the rest.


Hose fetishist.

Shelby and I decided that he made the cut.

“Now, what is so sexy about this?” Shelby asked as we awaited his arrival.

“I like the line and form that hose give. They really define the shape of your legs. And then again, there is the tactile sensation. You know how hose feel when you wear them?”

“No. I’ve never worn hose.”

Shelby is a cellist. “You play concerts and you’ve never worn hose?”

“No, never. Have you?”

I smiled.

“Oh yes, baby. They can feel very close and sensuous. And as good as they feel on you, they feel even better when rubbed against other legs in hose.”

Our fetishist was very friendly in person—outgoing and down to earth. Pretty darned cute too.

He carried a small black bag from Victoria’s Secret.

After a little conversation, I asked about the hose.

“I brought four pair,” he said, opening the bag. “They were two-for-one.”

“Ooh, black!” Shelby observed.

“And so sheer!” I noted. “Shall we?”

We took the bag to the bedroom. I lit candles.

I slowly undressed Shelby, losing my clothes in the process. We kissed, nude in the candlelight.

Our fetishist undressed as he watched. His cock was thick and hard.

“Okay, where is my pair?” I asked.

“Here you go—you and I are the same size.”

“Nice. We can be sisters.”

Shelby took her pair. She unwrapped the package and held them aloft.

“Is there a front on these things?”

“There is a white panel on the front,” our fetishist showed her.

We sat to pull on our hose. “Like this,” I showed Shelby. “First your foot, then allow yourself a little more hose as you weave your hands up your legs . . . slowly, now . . .”

Rob stood. The hose fit his sturdy body like a leotard. He looked ready to take the stage for Balanchine.

Minus the dance belt. His cock pressed hard at the nylon.

Encased in hose, Shelby’s firm, pale legs seemed elongated, her full hips and small waist tapering her mid-section.

“What do you think? How’s my ass look?” I asked, turning.

“Very nice!” Shelby said, glancing my way as she rubbed her calves together. “This is very sexy.”

“Welcome to my fetish!” Rob grinned.

“Let’s lay down,” I suggested.

Rob and I sandwiched Shelby between us. I wrapped my arms around her.

We overlapped our legs, touching one another with our toes, pressing thighs to thighs, calves to calves.

I ran my fingers along Shelby’s smooth flesh, caressing her new hose.

I kissed her.

“This is getting you very hard,” Rob observed. “Maybe we should free your cock.”

He took a pair of scissors and carefully cut a hole in my panty hose, releasing my cock.

I thanked him. “Maybe we should release yours as well.” I pinched two parts of the tent formed by his cock and tugged them apart with a gratifying rip.

His cock swirled into open space.

“And now, you, young lady.” I turned to Shelby, who sat on the side of the bed. I pushed her shoulders playfully. She fell backwards with exaggerated force.

I crawled over her, looming above on my hands and knees.

My mouth swooped in, kissing her cheek, the nape of her neck, her shoulder.

I suckled her breasts, taking each full in my mouth.

I held them together, extending my tongue to explore the nipples joined in my hands.

I glanced at Rob. One of his hands worked his cock while the other explored his legs.

He does have a nice cock, I thought. Thick, with a mushroom head.

My tongue resumed its journey down Shelby’s body, licking her belly and crossing into the region covered in a new texture.

I left a wet trail along her inner thighs, down her calves to her ankles—such sweet ankles!—and to her feet.

I gave each foot in long, loving suck.

Shelby raised an eyebrow to me.

She has only just begun to comprehend the erotics of feet. She has recently let me have her feet, and taken mine in return.

I treasure her new gift.

One recent night, we massaged each other’s feet as we talked, taking our time, feeling at ease in our skin and with one another’s skin.

That night, I fell asleep to her hands on my feet.

“You were all curled up with my feet,” she said, “Like they were your teddy bear.”

This night was a little more electric.

Rob was very turned on by the sight of me working her feet.

So was I.

My tongue traveled back up her legs, leaving more tracks of wetness.

It arrived at its destination: wetness central.

I swirled my tongue over the hose that covered the skin I craved. She moved under me.

I took a pinch of nylon. My teeth sank into it.

I tore open a passage.

My mouth was on her flesh.

I licked open her slit, her perfectly symmetrical slit, and sucked her clit into my mouth.

My hands grabbed her hips, sliding on the hose.

Rob crouched over me, jerking as he watched me devour her.

I lifted my neck and in a motion took his cock in my mouth.

I pulled up, placing a hand on his hip. I plunged him deep into me, swallowing that straight cock.

He moaned.

Shelby grabbed his nipples. We worked him together.

I fingered her clit as I sucked him.

I was rock hard.

My legs ached to feel Shelby’s hose.

“C’mon,” I gasped, pulling away from that cock. “Let’s fuck.”

I wanted her to ride me. My mouth was alive. I wanted her breasts.

She could smell my aroused frenzy.

She was on me fast.

Rob knelt behind her, stroking as he watched her fuck me through shredded hose.

He came pronto.

“Good boy,” I commended, fucking Shelby harder. “Kiss me, girl.”

He washed up and returned.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, flipping Shelby. I put my cock back in her.

Thanking him for coming was my signal that he should be going.

He slipped out of his hose.

I pulled Shelby’s hips harder.

She closed her eyes and turned her face, giving herself to me.

Rob was dressed. “Thanks again for having me.” He patted my back.

I pulled my lips from her. “Thanks for coming. You can show yourself out?”

“Sure. See you.”

My mouth was too busy for more conversation.

Do lions converse when they devour zebra?

Later, we lay side by side, holding hands in our destroyed hose.

“You liked the hose?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Though it made me miss the rope.”

I turned to her. “Seriously.”

She stood as I roped her chest. I tied her small breasts tight, so that her nipples were pointed.

“I am taking pictures of you,” I said. “You are too damn much.”

“Oooh, do! But wait until I pull up my hair.”

She pulled her hair up in ponytails.

On a good day, Shelby the twenty-year-old looks maybe eighteen. With her hair up, she pushes the schoolgirl look.

She plays that in photos. She gives good face.

Her phone rang. It was Todd.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“I am in hose, my tits are tied and Jefferson has his camera.”

“I’ll be right there.”

The three of us played camera club for a spell.

Shelby promptly posted a nice snap at her blog.