Monday, November 28, 2005

In Laws

After meeting us at the train station, my boyfriend went over the details of our cover story.

“Now remember,” Marcus said, turning up the music so my kids would not overhear. “My sister Abigail is very fond of Madeline. She will likely ask you to convince Maddie to come visit us—“us” being me and my sister.”

“Abigail met Madeline?”

“No, but you know, Abigail calls her all the time, and they email and shit.”


“So you have to remember that Maddie is my girlfriend, not yours. You just introduced us.”

“Right. But how do I know her?”

Marcus pulled into his sister’s driveway. “I don’t know, you just know her.”

“That’s not good! I have to know her in some way that is beyond suspicion.”

“If Abigail asks, just make up something.”

“Maybe another mutual friend?”


My kids and I were joining Marcus’s family for Thanksgiving.

In this alternate universe, Marcus is not my boyfriend and we do not share a girlfriend. Instead, I am his best friend and Madeline is his new girlfriend with serious potential.

Legend has it that I introduced the two lovebirds in New York.

(Well, that part, at least, is entirely accurate)

Marcus shouted to his sister as he opened the door. We stepped inside to be greeted by two large dogs, two teenage nieces and one dodgy aunt.

These were followed by a sister, a brother-in-law, a cousin, another cousin . . .

Marcus had told me there would be twenty-three relatives at dinner, plus me and my three kids.

I began to wish for name tags.

As grown ups made introductions, my boys followed Marcus’s boys to the recreation room in the basement. They would play ping pong and air hockey for most of the day.

My daughter amused herself with a black Labrador who shared her name, keeping her eyes on the teenage girls.

Cocktails were mixed—Marcus and I took Bloody Marys, thank you—and I cleared a space to prepare my contribution to the festivities: my Granny’s famous deviled eggs.

Marcus had vetoed my other ideas for appetizers.

“No bacon wrapped anything,” he ordered. “No pork egg rolls, no sausages hidden in anything. We’re Jews, okay? Our people have suffered enough without you disrepecting our traditions.”

Allah be praised that my repertoire includes this family favorite.

“What are you doing?” a niece asked.

“Slicing eggs,” I replied, slicing eggs. “Soon to be deviled eggs.”

“Deviled eggs?” her sister asked. “What, is that a Christian thing?”

“I think so,” Abigail nodded. “Doesn’t the egg symbolize something?”

Marcus laughed. “Let’s try ‘fertility,’ okay, Abigail?”

“I don’t know about that,” I said, reaching for the mayonnaise I had packed. “But its damned good eating.”

“You brought mayonnaise?” Abigail asked. “What, you think we wouldn’t have mayonnaise? I’ve got regular mayonnaise, I’ve got fat-free mayo, I’ve got—what’s that called?—Miracle Whip . . .”

“Then you girls should learn how to make this,” I suggested to the teenagers. “Because it’s very easy.”

“But please, girls,” Abigail said to her daughters. “Just one apiece until everyone has had some, please?”

I sprinkled paprika on a tray full of eggs, declared them deviled, and set the dish on a side table.

Lillie took two deviled eggs, stuffing one entirely into her mouth. The teenagers took one each.

Then another.

And another.

Abigail shook her head.

“Those won’t last long,” she said. She sipped her cocktail, and turned to me. “So, how long have you known Madeline?”

“Oh, well, not so long . . .”

I was rescued by the arrival of my divorce attorney.

When I was beginning my divorce process, Marcus had suggested that I get in touch with his cousin, who had offered him great advice on his divorce.

I met Betsy and knew she was perfect for me. She’s aggressive and tough, unlikely to be cowed by my aggressive and tough spouse. As it turns out, she is also much smarter and engaged than Lucy’s lawyer proved to be.

Betsy met Lucy at every turn, and fought back her unreasonable claims on custody. It was a tough fight, but Betsy did what was right for me and the kids.

It was an added bonus that my divorce was handled by my boyfriend’s cousin.

It’s all in the family.

I like Betsy, but I was unsure I wanted to spend Thanksgiving with her, considering I owe her over seven thousand dollars.

Relax, Marcus told me. She’s got her own worries—she’s divorcing her husband now.

I kissed Betsy’s cheek and introduced her to my kids. She was soon outfitted with a Cosmopolitan and talking with her relatives about her divorce.

A true lawyer, she focused on hours spent preparing the documents.

Turns out the family has a few fresh divorces in our generation. A clique of divorced people formed. We swapped stories of dating. I listened as JDate was contrasted to eHarmony.

We swapped tales of ex spouses. I listened as a one cousin’s chummy ex husband was contrasted to someone else’s nogoodnik.

Marcus brought my second Bloody Mary. I took a sip and smiled at him.

Near as I can tell, Marcus and I were the only ones churning our new freedom into all manner of perversions.

Marcus’s mother listened in.

“You know, children, your father and I have an announcement to make today. Having just celebrated our fiftieth anniversary, we are also getting divorced. We’re tired of missing all the fun!”

Marcus put an arm around his mom. “Finally! Now I can introduce you to a few friends. Take Jefferson here . . .”

“That’s nice,” I said. “Sure, sign me up for the next fifty.”

Marcus found me later, playing ping pong with the kids. He held two Bloody Marys—our third—and nodded toward a staircase.

I finished my game with my son and surrendered the paddle to Marcus’s son.

Marcus led me upstairs to Abigail’s bedroom.

I followed him into her large bathroom.

He closed the door.

“Hey sweety,” he smiled, leaning in. “I just wanted a moment with you to myself.”

He kissed me.

I lifted myself into his lips, savoring the Bloody Mary taste of his tongue.

“Happy Thanksgiving, baby.”

“Thanks honey. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Is it weird, being with so much of my family?”

“No, it’s fine. And may I tell you, you have a fucking gorgeous family.”

He smiled. “You like?”

“Yeah! Are any of them off limits, you know, for me to fuck?”

He thought a moment. “No, it’s fine with me. Anyone in particular I can set you up with?”

“Well, the teenage sister combo is appealing. And of course, Abigail is very attractive. I could do her just to complete the brother and sister pair.”

“I do have another brother, you know, he’s just not here.”

“I don’t care about that, really. I would only be using your sister to get to her husband.”


“Yeah, he’s to die for—all tall, dark and handsome like. He’s too damn hot in his glasses. ”

“You’re telling me? I’ve known him forever.”

There was a knock at the door. “Anyone in here?”

“Come in, Abigail, it’s just me,” Marcus called. “And Jefferson.”

“Are you decent?”

“No, we’re taking a bath. Come in.”

“Thanks,” she said, entering. “Oh, thank God, you were kidding. You two hiding out?”

“Something like that.”

“I just need to ditch this sweater. Ugh, I can’t believe how much I am eating. I’m too fat.”

“Abigail, you’re not fat.”

“Yes I am, look.” She lifted her shirt and pinched a sliver of skin on her toned stomach. “I can’t even get into my daughter’s jeans now.”

“You’re fat because you can’t wear a fifteen-year-old’s jeans?” I chided.

Marcus nodded at me. “Jefferson thinks you’re hot. He says he’d do you.”

“Actually, I said I would do you to get to your hunky husband.”

“Well, thanks for the offer,” she smiled, checking her mascara. “But we’re committed.”

“Just take my number anyway—you know, for after the divorce.”

“What?” she said, turning to me, “You’ve heard something?”

Evidently, Abigail and David are accustomed to being the hot couple that everyone wants to get with. And yet they don’t fool around, and they are happy.

Go figure.

Dinner was traditional.

Marcus’s twelve-year-old chafed that he was relegated to the children’s table, when his fifteen-year-old cousin sat with the adults.

Marcus’s dad sat at the head of the table, leading the young people into a political discussion that the older people knew to avoid.

Marcus sat with me, and we chewed as we listened to his aunt talk about the misogynist men at her new nursing home.

After dinner, I chatted with David, now stripped to a t-shirt, until I thought the better of it. Everyone knows not to stand next to the best-looking man at a party, lest one risk unfavorable comparisons.

Instead, I treated a two-year-old girl to swings and flips, until I was exhausted by her cries of “Again! Again!”

The kids and I took Lillie the dog outside to play catch. My eldest son and I played air hockey.

Marcus took me back outside for cigars and scotch.

“You having a good time, baby?” he asked.

“Yeah, I am.” I leaned on his shoulder. “Will you marry me?”

Sunday, November 27, 2005

Fan Fiction

Rose is a sweet submissive in the city, in search of a dom.

She found my blog. It cost her a good night’s sleep, as she read and masturbated.

Her vibrator and nipple clamps called my name.

“Since reading your blog, an entirely new world seems to be opening up.” she wrote me. “I may have to start a blog of my own to record my ascent to perversity. Mostly thanks to you. Reveling in my sluttines is, mmmmmmmmmmm, so good . . .”

I instructed her to return the favor by imagining what might happen if we met.

The following arrived in my in box.

. . . and finally we meet

As I dress, I smile to myself hoping you enjoy the little surprise I’ve planned for you. Feeling rather nervous about meeting, wanting to please you, aching to experience the pleasures I’ve read about, I take comfort in my rituals of preparing for a date . . . a long, luscious shower, shaving my pussy, doing my hair, dabbing those hot spots with yummy perfume. I’m so happy that you granted my request for drinks and a light supper at your apartment . . . it goes with my surprise. One final check of my makeup, outfit and bag and I’m out the door.

Once in a cab, I notice that, while my stomach feels as if bats are flying around in there, there is also a wetness growing between my legs. So slutty, I think and smile with anticipation, wrapping my coat tightly around me.

You greet me at the door with a luscious kiss . . . long, slow, deep, our tongues playing over each other and as you pull back you nip my lower lip. Then you look at me inquisitively, asking why I have myself so wrapped up in my coat.

“Are you cold?,” you ask, with an offer to warm me up. I grin mischievously as I drop my coat revealing my surprise. . . You find me dressed in my black leather corset with my breasts exposed, nipples hard, a garter belt with thigh high stockings and heels

You applaud my moxie for our first meeting.

Picking up my coat and taking my bag, you draw me into the living room, kissing me again and I moan quietly feeling your kiss all the way down to my clit. I feel your hand in my hair, pulling, keeping my lips against yours, and devouring my mouth as I squirm with delight at your heavenly kisses.

“What would you like to drink?”

“Please let me serve you, Sexy Man. My desire is to serve and please you tonight,” I answer.

You point me toward the kitchen where I rummage for glasses, and ice. I ask about a particular bottle of red wine, which I open with your assent. I pour your bourbon and return to you. You’ve settled yourself into the couch and I cozy in next to you.

Drinks in hand, we fall into conversation, covering a variety of topics . . . careers, your kids, sex . . . Feeling more comfortable, my hand wanders to your leg almost absentmindedly, and I start to run my fingers up and down, in circles as I feel your hand in my hair.

Silence descends as we gaze at each other and you ask what I’m thinking. Laughing, I tell you I’m thinking of your kisses, how delicious they are and that I would like another one, please. You happily oblige me, setting down our drinks and moving closer.

I feel your hand tracing circles on my exposed breast, closer and closer your hand moves toward my already hard nipple. I’m arching my body trying to get your hand to that nipple more quickly. In response, you pull your hand away. I pull away from your mouth and pout, ”You are such a tease.” You reply with an evil little laugh, enjoying my desire and frustration.

“All in good time, my pet,” you tell me and announce that dinner is waiting.

Again, I ask your permission to serve you, which you grant and we move toward the kitchen. As we walk, I feel your hand on my ass, snaking it’s way down and you feel my pussy, happy to find that I’m already wet and swollen with desire.

I move my hips, wanting more contact, but again you pull your hand away, giving my ass a sound smack. Your hands grab my waist and pull me toward you, kissing me again.

I feel as if my knees may buckle under me as I melt into you, lost in your mouth. As our bodies press against each other, I can feel your hard cock straining against your pants.

Suddenly, your hand is in my hair lowering me to my knees, dinner forgotten for the moment. Removing your belt, you move behind me, taking my arms and wrapping your belt around them, giving me the end with the request that I hold onto it.

Moving back to face me, you lower your pants, your cock springing loose in my face. Looking up at you, I stick out my tongue and begin to lick the tip of your cock, swirling my tongue around the head. Creeping forward on my knees, I open my mouth and take your throbbing hard cock deep into my mouth, running my tongue down the underside of the shaft, then returning to the head.

You watch as I happily suck your cock, slowly, hungrily as you run your hands through my hair. Then I feel you tighten your grip and start to fuck my face, enjoying my wide eyes, the slurpy sound as I suck, you fuck and drool runs down my chin.

You pull out, help me up from my knees and with my wrists still bound behind me, you lead me by my hair into the bedroom. Situating me on the bed, you remove my heels, stockings and garter belt and pull my hips to the edge of the bed. You start to tease my pussy with your tongue and I squirm closer, wanting you more, harder . . . but you are still teasing and back away again.

Laughing as you watch me pout you tell me we have plenty of time and you don’t intend to rush this. You seem to enjoy my frustration at wanting, wanting, wanting and not getting exactly what I want.

“Isn’t that what a good Dom does, create intensity, heightened feelings? I’m just giving you what you wish for,” you tell me with that impish grin and a caress of my cheek as you move to take the belt off my wrists.

Scooting me to the middle of your bed, you walk to a drawer and pull out wrist and ankle restraints and put them on me. Then you remove my corset, push me back so I’m lying down. You bind me spread-eagle to the bed.

“Now I have you totally in my control. No more squirming. I will do as I please with you.”

I smile in reply as you kiss me, moving onto the bed and on top of me. The weight of you on top of me feels wonderful. You kiss me again and I can feel your hard cock between my legs. Try as I might, I can’t move to get you inside of me.

You leave my mouth, nibbling my neck and moving on to my breasts. Finally your hands slowly circle my nipples and then squeeze them hard, watching my reaction.

I gasp and beg you to fuck me.

I am so hungry for your cock in my cunt.

You slip a pillow under my ass, slip on a condom and I feel you enter me. I moan with pleasure.

You fuck me slowly for a time, bending down to kiss me, suck and bite at my nipples and then you move away again. Moving up my body, you straddle me and feed me your cock, letting me happily suck your cock and lick your balls, nudging you with my nose so you’ll move up further so I can rim your ass.

This is heaven, being tied down and having your cock, balls and ass to suck and lick.

Not wanting to cum, you move away again and return to my pussy. This time you stay there, focusing on my clit and I feel you insert a couple fingers inside me, hitting my g-spot as you devour my clit until you feel me tense and then cum in shuddering waves, straining against my restraints, moaning with pleasure.

Your mouth moves and I feel your tongue on my ass, rimming me, with fingers still inside me and your thumb circling my clit. It doesn’t take long for me to cum again.

You stop and look up to see me smiling and I beg you again to fuck me. “Nope, time to eat. Then more play.” You release me from my bondage and we head to the kitchen.

You prepared a lovely salad, full of veggies, grilled tuna and some Romano cheese flakes. We put the salad into bowls together and move to the table.

As we eat, we talk about our initial go round of pleasure, laughing about my frustration, my “pouty girl” act when you won’t give me what I want. We decide that we have some business to finish after dinner.

We have more wine and bourbon as we chat and then I lose my resolve to sit and look at you without touching.

I move to my knees, pulling at your chair leg until you move so I can get to your beautiful cock. I slowly take you in my mouth, enjoying the feeling of you growing hard as I suck and lick you. You lean back in your chair, enjoying the wet warmth of my mouth, my earnest desire to please you.

After a bit, you push me off you and I immediately pout, looking like a kid who just had her lollipop taken away.

Laughing, you pull me up, kissing me.

Moving us toward the bedroom you say, “Come, my pet. We have business to finish . . .”

Monday, November 21, 2005


Last year, just before Thanksgiving, I had a lunch date with Celia. I had been thinking about her for months.

Our lunch lasted two days.

I wrote about that date to my pal Dacia. She encouraged me to tell that tale in a blog.

I didn’t know nothing about no blogs.

Dacia came over to show me the ropes, and thus, over bourbons, with Dacia as the midwife, my blog was born.

I saw Dacia yesterday, in the midst of a very different weekend. You’ll hear all about it, I’m sure, once Mitzi, Viviane, Nate, Meg and my new straight boyfriend Eleyson and I process our “Perverts’ Thanksgiving.”

Yesterday, as Meg and I sipped red wine, Dacia devoured sex party leftovers—washed down by sex party soda—and we commiserated about how our lives have been affected by our blogs.

Dacia talked about how her blog is now being affected by her life.

Only today did I realize that this conversation marked my blogoversary.

My first post was written a year ago tonight, as an email to Dacia. It was posted a week later, in my newborn blog, and thus “Jefferson” was born.

Meg and I met through Shelby, who met me through my blog. And here she was meeting Dacia, who created the blog that created Jefferson.

How fitting, I thought, sipping wine that Viviane brought to our perverts’ Thanksgiving.

Come to think of it, I wouldn’t know Viviane if not for the blog.

I’m finishing the wine tonight.

This is my three hundred and twelfth post in fewer than three hundred and sixty five days.

Here’s the one that started it all.

I am toasting Dacia as I hit the “publish” button.

My Celia

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

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

Until my Celia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The summer passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I fuck her pussy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, November 18, 2005

Everyone's Waiting

Did you catch the series finale of "Six Feet Under?"

Do you recall the final scene?

As Claire drove toward an uncertain future in New York, viewers were catapulted through decades to witness the final moments in the lives of each of the show’s central characters, ending with Claire’s own death at age one hundred and one.

(I hope I didn’t give anything away—I mean, everyone knows this already, right?)

Playing in the background was Sia’s haunting "Breathe Me."

Such an affecting song. So many endings.

Why, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

This scene is something of an in-joke with Mitzi and me.

She has replayed the conclusion so many times that she could act out the death scenes, one by one—a bravura tour-de-force for this up-and-coming actress—as she bewilders with trivia about minor scenic details.

(Like, did you notice that at Claire’s wedding, David was seated with his two stepsons, one of whom had a female partner, while the other had a male partner? I missed it, but not eagle-eyed Mitzi.)

One day, as we goofed about this via instant messages, Mitzi sent Sia’s song to me. I downloaded it, but never got around to playing it.

I neglect downloaded files too often, actually.

It’s a hazard of my life as a pervert.

When you run sex parties and cruise online as assiduously as I do, you are forever downloading photographs of aspiring partygoers and prospective fuck buddies.

My desktop can get a little messy with accumulated files that need to be saved or deleted.

The other day, I decided to procrastinate by getting my files in order. I opted to save photographs of people I had actually met, and to delete those that, for whatever reason, didn’t pan out.

In the process, I uncovered Sia’s song. I had forgotten all about that, I thought, as I clicked the play icon.

The familiar opening bars—keyboards, inhale, exhale—struck as I began to trash photographs.

Help, I have done it . . . again
I have been here many times before

Each file was opened, and in a glance I judged each image as trash or memento.

Hurt myself again today
And the worst part is there's no one else to blame

Cock shot followed cock shot into the void, followed by a steady stream of jpgs titled with variations of the word “me.”

Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up

I sorted and trashed absentmindedly, recalling the erotic frisson of the moment I first viewed these images. I relived the potential of each correspondent, and the tristesse of those wasted emails leading to nothing.

Unfold me, I am small and needy
Warm me up . . . and breathe me

The song brought me back to the closing moments of “Six Feet Under," as this unconventional family died off, one by one.

George cries, holding Ruth’s hand. Keith is shot. David gasps at Keith’s ghost as he collapses.

I found myself feeling sad.

Then I laughed.

Ouch, I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found

I realized that I was enacting my own sequence of endings, and fate had provided a loaded soundtrack.

Yeah, I think I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe

Goodbye, I said, to the bi-curious Columbia student whose curiosity did not get the better of him with me.

Rest in peace, submissive Brooklynite, who found my blog but never found time for the coffee she requested.

Fare thee well, handsome husband, whose wife seemed so intent on giving me to her bi-curious beloved as a birthday gift.

All will be missed. The unlogged hours of love left unmade, the friendships left stillborn, all abandoned, gone, gone, gone.

Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up

Still, long not for the departed, dear mourner, for there is cause to rejoice.

Saved, the handsome German tourist, with his smooth tender nipples, thick uncut cock and deep mouth that promised more on future visits to the city.

Redeemed, the cheating man and woman who found, in my home, a place more inviting than hotel rooms.

And sing choruses, angels, for the blonde tease who lights in a shared heaven of devil-may-care perversion.

Unfold me, I am small and needy
Warm me up . . . and breathe me

Our individual fates await.

Our shared futures as yet unknown.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Communication Breakdown

Mitzi stayed over after the party, but she couldn’t sleep late. She had a dog to walk, which meant leaving my bed by seven thirty or so.

She woke me after a few hours slumber.

“Jefferson? Jefferson?”


“You are so hard.”

I turned over, taking a pillow in my arms. “Sorry about that.”

She reached around to my cock. “No Jefferson, I like it.”

My eyes were closed. “Hmm, that’s nice.”

“Jefferson, I liked my spanking last night. Can Elena and Lyra spank me some more?”

“Mmm hmmm.” I was drifting back to sleep.

“Jefferson? Jeff-err-soooon?” she cooed. “Jefferson, I want you to fuck me.”

I cuddled the pillow close. “That’s nice . . . ”

Mitzi propped herself on an elbow. “If I suck you, will you fuck me?”

Her voice seemed distant, fading. “Yeah, that’s nice.”

The covers slid slowly from my torso. Her mouth found my cock.

I drifted away.

Mitzi unrolled a condom on me. “May I ride you, Jefferson?”


“Thank you,” she said, sweetly. Mitzi raised her hips over mine and slide me into her. Her familiar moan roused me from my sleep, but only slightly.

That afternoon, in an instant message, she thanked me for two orgasms.

I guess I slept through them.

My first sentient memory was waking in an empty bed to a dull headache.

I looked at my digital clock. It flashed 12:00. Midnight.

Shit, what time is it?

I am a heavy sleeper, so I keep several clocks. The analog clock on my nightstand told me it was just after eight.

I woke again, closer to nine.

I pulled the pillow from between my knees.

I staggered to the bathroom. I stood over the toilet and tugged the condom off my cock.

I combed my hair with my fingers as I relieved myself.

I washed my hands and brushed my teeth.

I put on a kettle for coffee.

I soaped a sponge to wash the dishes from the previous evening. Consuela had sweetly spearheaded the effort to gather them into the kitchen. Once I had filled the dish rack, I took my coffee to get started on work.

The computer was dead.

Oh, right; I recalled the clock in my bedroom. I turned on the computer and went on to fix the other snafus from previous night.

I reset the digital clock, turned on the answering machine, and restarted the fish tank.

At the orgy, someone had flipped my switches.

I live in a postwar apartment. Mitzi teases me that while it is a nice place, she would never choose it, as she is a whore for prewar.

The attraction of modern apartments, particularly for the original tenants, was that basic specifications could readily modified.

My long-lived predecessor in this apartment had a bright idea: as there were no overhead lights in the bedrooms, she had the outlets wired to wall switches. When she went to bed at night, she could turn off the console television in the living room, flip two switches and turn in, confident that all the lamps were out.

It was a very nice idea in nineteen fifty-five.

Since then, of course, many things have changed. I did a good deal of redecorating before moving in, but somehow I overlooked the wiring.

Nowadays, the wall outlets are dedicated not only to lamps, but also to power strips supporting things that didn’t exist fifty years ago.

This is generally not a problem. But it can be a hangover of sex parties.

As people prepare to head home after a party, they seek out clothes by flipping switches when they enter a candlelit room. It’s a natural reaction, though doing so at my place produces no lights—it just kills the electronics.

Elena’s family is new to my apartment, so presumably one of them made this understandable error. No biggie. I know how to fix it.

With my clock reset and my electronics up and running, I settled in to work.

I had a productive day, happily uninterrupted by telephone calls.

My aversion to telephones is well known among my friends and family. I regard them as nuisances, and generally let calls go to voice mail.

Ignoring telephones is a useful tactic if I want to get things done.

So it was that for a couple of days, I failed to notice that somehow, in the course of the most recent party, some unsuspecting soul had murdered my telephone.

The phone had served me well for over a decade. Apparently its time had come. By being detached and reattached, powered on and off, its final bell had rung.

Once I noticed its demise, I took steps to acquire a replacement. I picked up two phones, in fact, so that there would be a back up in another room.

My new phone rang not long after it was installed.


“TJ! Your phone works!”

“Hi Mom. Sure, it works. My old one died, so I have a new one. Still getting the hang of it . . .”

“Are you okay?”

“Sure, I’m fine. Why, what’s up?”

“Well, I’ll be darned. That bitch did it again.”

“What? Lucy? Why, what did she do?”

Mom explained that Lucy had called me and discovered that the voice mail did not pick up. She deduced that my phone was broken or out of service. She sent panicky emails to her parents and mine.

I asked Mom to forward these emails to me.

Lucy’s first missive read:

Hello everyone. I am very very sad to write that Jefferson does not have a phone. I have called and called and there’s just no answer.

I’m very concerned about this! I have to be able to talk to the kids when they are with him. There could be an emergency.

I know he wants to be left alone, but he needs to accept that he is a father. It’s not responsible to have no phone.

Can you help??

My mother was quick to express her alarm.

Lucy, I’m sorry to hear about Jefferson’s phone. I’m scared because his great aunt is very sick. How will I reach him if anything goes wrong?

Lucy replied:

I don’t know what to tell you. He is very irresponsible to have no phone. Anything can happen!

All I can say is that you can contact me if you need to reach him. I see Jefferson when we trade the kids. I can’t promise that he will contact you, but I can promise that I will deliver your message.

I hope you aunt gets better.

Mom was somewhat relieved.

Lucy, thank you for offering. Please tell Jefferson to call me when he can. Tell him we love him.

Lucy’s father sent a short note wondering if the children would be “secure” with me while my phone was out of service.

Lucy replied that she would hate to re-open the question of custody, but that was a real concern for her as well.

The emails went back and forth, fueled by Lucy’s anxiety and frustration.

Funny thing, though: at no point did any of these dimwits think to email me. Lucy did not cc me on the original email, and as they speculated about the possible fate of Jefferson and his phone, they continued to hit the “reply all” button.

I knew nothing about this until my mother called.

I took a breath and composed an email.

Hi all,

My mother has forwarded to me the emails generated since Lucy discovered my phone was out of order the other day. I had no idea that there was concern, as no one bothered to email me.

It’s true: my old phone is no more. That relic of the last century has been consigned to the toy bin.

My new phone is up and running. Everyone is secure. Feel free to call anytime.


Lucy’s father emailed to thank me for the clarification. I told him that in the future, he should let me know when she gets like this.

He knows his daughter is a little crazy where I am concerned.

One evening soon after, when the kids were with me, Lucy made a very unusual call to my parents. She rarely calls them for any reason.

This time, she was apparently stoned.

For over half an hour, she poured out her anxieties to my dad.

Jefferson is going to take the kids and leave, she said. He doesn’t have enough income to raise three kids in the city. He’s going to move down south to live near you, and I will never see the kids.

She teared now and then as she spoke.

Dad tried to calm her. Jefferson is not moving south, Lucy. We would love to see more of him and the kids, but his career is in New York, and anyway, he would never take your babies away.

He finally convinced her that there was no secret plan afoot.

Mom called to tell me about this. She asked why Lucy was going off the deep end.

The divorce is now final, I explained, and very fresh. I think it is sinking in that because she no longer controls me, she can’t always be in full control of the kids.

We wrote off Lucy’s call to drunk dialing.

Lucy subsequently arranged for Jason to have a cell phone.

Now she calls him when she wants to speak to the kids.

She never rings my phone.

Sunday, November 13, 2005

Family Night

Elena leaned against a bookcase, her arms wrapped around her girlfriend Lyra as they watched the rest of us undress.

We were gathered around a vacant bed, each of us unbuttoning our shirts, unfastening our pants, tugging at our underwear.

Mitzi laughed. I could sense her excitement and nervousness.

“Come here, pretty,” I said taking her hand and kissing her. “Over here.”

I sat on the bed and pushed back, propping myself on pillows.

She followed, her eyes on mine as she climbed my body to put her lips against mine.

As we kissed, Consuela and Nate tumbled onto the bed next to us.

Mitzi pulled up. Never releasing me from her gaze, she tongued her way down my body.

She licked my pubic hair, then my cock, watching my reaction as I responded to her mouth. I smiled, caressing her hair as she took me.

Elena’s ex husband, Jim, stood watching, stripped to his underwear. He came closer, lifting his hand to touch Mitzi’s ass. She moaned and lifted her body, encouraging him to continue.

Consuela lay beside me, kissing Nate as his fingers became acquainted with her soft skin. I allowed mine to join his explorations.

Jim’s erection strained his underwear as he touch Mitzi, surveying the scene.

I smiled at Elena.

Jim crouched, lowering himself from my sight, below Mitzi’s ass. She moaned—“Unh!”—and flashed her eyes at me. She turned her head to look back at Jim.

I took a fist full of her hair to guide her mouth back to my cock.

Her moans were stifled by the cock shoved deep into her esophagus. The head of my cock vibrated with each silenced utterance.

Jim’s face came back into view as he stood. His eyes were intent on Mitzi’s ass as he shifted his weight, removing his underwear to reveal a thick hard on.

I took a condom from the nightstand and held it aloft with a questioning look. Mitzi looked up and gagged her assent.

Jim took the condom.

I detached myself from Mitzi’s mouth and leaned forward to kiss her. “I think you and Jim are going to get very well acquainted.”

“Don’t go . . . ,” she began.

“I’m not going far,” I said. “But I am moving.”

I kissed her forehead and stood. Jim leaned forward and spoke into her ear. She lay back in my place, watching me as Jim adjusted his condom.

Mitzi’s eyes were locked on mine as I strolled around the bed to sit between Consuela’s open legs.

Mitzi turned her eyes to Jim as he entered her. She gasped.

Consuela ‘s head was turned as she sucked Nate; he stood beside the bed, feeding his cock to her.

Two of his fingers were working deep in her pussy.

I caressed her belly. My hand found its way to her abdomen, and pressed down against the fingers inside her.

“Mmm hmmm,” she hummed, matter of factly indicating that this was working nicely.

Nate is a tall boy, and she was enjoying her fill of his large cock and long fingers.

I thought she might enjoy more.

I picked up a condom and pushed her legs back slightly. Nate took note, and began to remove his fingers. I reached down and held his hand in place.

“You’re fine, baby,” I told him. “I’m just going to join you.”

Holding his hand, I pressed its palm into the spot that worked.

My cock made its way past his fingers into her.

“Mmm hmmm,” she repeated, bobbing her head with increased attention. Nate groaned.

I caressed Consuela as we fucked. I looked over to see Mitzi’s hands clutch Jim’s back, pulling his thrusts deeper into her.

Elena and Lyra were kissing, still dressed. I watched as Nate’s eyes moved from watching his cock vanish into Consuela’s mouth to observing the loving lesbians.

Thomas appeared at my left, peering over me and stroking his cock as he watched us fuck. I ran my hand down his smooth belly to touch the base of his shaft.

I leaned to him and whispered, my throat full of sex, “You want to fuck Consuela?”

“Well, yeah, sure . . .,” he said, with an air of affected cordiality. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” I said, thrusting deep and slow. “You cool with that, Consuela?”

“Mmmm hmm.”

As Thomas opened a condom, I recalled dining at the Rainbow Room one snowy night years ago. Continuous music was provided by two different bands who played in shifts, the musicians seamlessly replacing one another mid-song.

Most striking was the transfer of pianists: as the player moved to the right of the bench, his replacement sat at the left. As the outgoing ivory tickler stood to leave, he acknowledged the polite applause lifting over the unbroken melody.

I wondered if Thomas and I could be so fluid in our switch off. He had not seen those pianists, after all, and I wasn’t going to waste words to explain the choreography.

I held Consuela’s leg aloft. “Come here, right next to me,” I instructed. Thomas joined me between her legs.

“Is that cock ready to go?” I asked, glancing down.

“Yes sir, I got it right here,” he replied, holding it forward.

“Very good. On my count, then. One . . . two . . .” He sat forward as I gave my final thrusts.

“Three.” I carefully unsheathed and fell back. Thomas stepped his knee forward into my place and was in her, promptly thrusting at the same tempo.

“Mmm hmm!” Consuela hummed, acknowledging a job well done.

Not bad, I thought, but we did miss a few beats. That move needs rehearsals.

I sat back in a chair, watching. Thomas’s slender body was boyish by contrast to Consuela’s voluptuousness, his pale flesh warmed by her sienna tones.

I peered past to see Jim’s body over Mitzi. Elena and Lyra had vanished, presumably to seek an available horizontal place to continue necking.

Everything moving in concert.

Nate excused himself and stumbled back. Consuela winked at him, then turned to get a good luck at the boy she was fucking.

“Great party, man,” Nate said, leaning in to hug me. He planted a wet kiss on my lips. “You rock, man.”

“Why thanks, baby, you rock too,” I smiled, patting his furry thighs.

Nate ambled off, bourbon in hand.

I was in his vacated position, fucking Consuela’s face, when Jim came.

We took this as a cue to take a break. Consuela wanted water. Mitzi and I wanted to cool off on the terrace.

We ran into Elena in the living room. She was still in her pajamas. Nate and Lyra sat on the couch, engrossed in conversation.

“Jefferson, oh, it was so hot watching all that sex!” Elena exclaimed. “I’m just so horny now.”

“I know, wasn’t that hot? I said, grinning at Mitzi. “You put on some show.”

“Why, thank you sir,” Mitzi said, twirling her hair coquettishly.

“It’s just so hot to see so much cock,” Elena said, looking down. “You’ve got a very nice cock. Doesn’t he have a nice cock, Mitzi?”

“I think it’s a fine cock, indeed,” Mitzi said, raising an eyebrow my way.

Elena had not waited on her reply. She was bent over, sucking me into another erection.

I stroked her hair and took Mitzi’s hand as we watched my lesbian soul sister hungrily devour some dick.

“Ah!” she said, standing. She wiped her lips. “God, that’s good cock. But I just remembered, I was making Cosmos for Lyra and Nate.”

I kissed her. “Enjoy. Plenty more where that came from.”

Mitzi and I resumed our path to the terrace. Jim was there, sitting in his underwear and drinking a beer.

Mitzi, who doesn’t smoke, offered him a cigarette. She lit one for herself.

In the course of things, he said how much he had enjoyed sex with Mitzi. She thanked him and said she had really enjoyed it too.

It was, he said, the first time he had been laid in four years.

“Really?” Mitzi said. “Well, I’m honored, I suppose. Why so long?”

“Oh, you know, the divorce, the kid,” he said, taking a sip. “And I’ve been working.”

“I hope you won’t make us wait four years until the next time,” I said.

“No, I don’t think it will be so long again,” Jim laughed.

I reflected on that. Jim and Elena had split up, continuing their friendship and relationship as parents as they shared a home. Sex was not in the equation. A few years had passed before Elena had sex with another man—me, in my bed. A year later, Jim also ended his dry spell in my bed, with Mitzi.

Jim and Elena are packing a lot of family history into my bedroom.

Our conversation was interrupted by a shout from the street, many floors below.


Mark was standing across the street, his hands cupped to his face, a bag of beer at his feet.

I waved.

“Let me in!”

I waved again. Mitzi laughed. “Why is he shouting?”

“That’s weird, why didn’t he just ring up?” Visitors to my building normally announce themselves by telephoning from the lobby, not by shouting from the street.

I went to check the phone in the bedroom, thinking we had missed the call while sitting on the terrace.

I found Elena, Lyra and Nate entangled on the bed. My phone was unplugged on the nightstand.

“Did you guys unplug the phone?” I asked, attaching the line.

“Yes, we had to,” Elena said as Nate sucked her breast. “It just kept ringing.”

“Oh, that won’t do. I’ll turn down the volume, sweet.”

In the meantime, Mitzi had met Mark at the door and was making introductions.

Before long, we were back in the bedroom, where Mark and Consuela enjoyed their introductory fuck.

I watched with Lyra. In the course of the evening, she had only removed her t-shirt. She was still wearing a black bra and low slung blue jeans.

“Having fun?” I asked.

“Yeah.” Her voice was wary. “It’s certainly . . . different.”

“I suppose that’s a good word for it. It’s funny how every party is ‘different’ in it’s own way. This one has a very relaxed vibe.”

Her eyes moved from the pile of bodies to the television. At Thomas’s request, I had put on some porn. Knowing his penchant for transsexuals, I selected “Trannie Boy Toys.”

Lyra watched as a lovely Brazilian woman slid her cock into a cute boy’s ass.

Alas, Thomas missed the screening; Elena had him preoccupied in another room.

“That’s pretty wild,” Lyra said.

“I’ll say,” Mitzi chimed in.

“Wait a minute, what is that?” Consuela asked from under Mark. He pulled back to get a look.

We all stopped to watch the Brazilian woman pound ass.

“Okay, that’s fucking hot,” Consuela said.

We watched some more.

“You know what would be hot?” Mark interjected. “If one of you fine ladies would fuck me with a strap on.”

“That would be hot,” Consuela agreed.

We continued to watch.

“Yeah, you know what?” Mark said, a little later. “Getting fucked with a strap on would be pretty hot.”

“Uh huh,” Consuela nodded, her eyes on the porn.

I went in search of Elena. She was cuddled with Thomas. I whispered in her ear.

“Oh really?” she cooed. “Excuse me Thomas, I have to do something.”

I went back into the bedroom and found a bed full of naked people watching trannie porn.

It was time for a new activity.

Consuela was on her belly next to Mark, her feet in the air as he rubbed her calves. Her round ass inspired action.

I retrieved my riding crop.

Consuela felt a light sting on her cheek.

“Ow! That hurt,” she laughed. She arched her back. “Do it again.”

Another sting, followed by light pats.

“Nice,” she said. “Harder?”

I gave her a few more.

“Is that the best you got?” she asked.

“Maybe so,” I said. “Let’s see what Mark can do.” I passed the crop to Mark, who supplied a few swift whacks from his reclined position.

Consuela writhed with each blow.

Mitzi joined me near the bed. “Ooh, Jefferson, Consuela likes the riding crop.”


“Jefferson,” she whispered, taking my arm. She raised her eyes to me. “I also like the riding crop.”

“I know, baby.” I wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “All things in time. Now its Consuela’s turn.”

“Did I hear a . . . oh my!” Elena said, entering the room. She carried a black case, towing Lyra by the hand.

The couple stood near us, Elena conferring with Lyra.

I knew, from previous conversations, that Elena was eager to bring out Lyra’s dominant side.

Elena is, by nature, a sweet dominatrix; she never cajoles or humiliates. Rather, she converses and listens. In a warm maternal way, she relaxes submissives to a point of easy surrender.

She was curious to know what lurked in the heart of Lyra.

Elena leaned over Mark to examine Consuela’s ass. His lackluster spankings were adding up.

“Not bad,” she commended him. “Do you mind if I try?”

“Sure, knock yourself out.” Mark surrendered the crop.

“Thank you. Consuela, would you mind standing?”

“Ooh, not at all.” She sat up and climbed from the bed.

“Thank you. Now, turn around and bend slightly, please.” Consuela obeyed, dancing slightly as she turned. She presented her ass to Elena with a flourish of her hips.

Elena ran a hand softly down Consuela’s spine, gently caressing her buttocks. Her eyes were on Lyra.

The crop came down. The blow was slow, but firm.

Consuela danced forward.

Mitzi squeezed my arm.

Nate’s eyes gleamed.

“Now, I want you to be still,” Elena directed.

“Sorry, sorry,” Consuela laughed. She resumed the position. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Another blow.

Consuela jumped forward with a yelp.

“Really, now, you should be still. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Elena,” I interrupted. “May I suggest a substitution?” I looked at Mitzi. She smiled and brought her shoulders up in a gesture of shyness.

“I would very much enjoy a spanking, Elena,” Mitzi said.

“Is that all right with you, Consuela?” Elena asked.

“Sure, let’s share the fun.”

I took Mitzi’s hand from my arm and placed it in Elena hand. I kissed Mitzi’s cheek.

“I’ll be right here,” I said, moving to stand with Lyra.

Mitzi nodded, then closed her eyes. She took a few breaths, opened her eyes, and looked at Elena.

“I’m ready, Elena.”

“Good. Would you please turn and bend slightly?”

Mitzi nodded and followed instructions. She placed her feet apart and bent deep.

“She does yoga, you know,” I whispered to Lyra.

Elena’s caresses were followed by a low thwack.

Mitzi quietly moaned, quivering slightly. Otherwise, she was still.

A succession of pats was followed by more determined contact. The crop splintered the air before striking its target.

Mitzi braved each blow. Elena was clearly impressed.

Lyra watched intently as Elena touched the marks beginning to appear on Mitzi’s flesh.

“Lyra,” Elena said. “You try.” She turned the crop handle first to Lyra. “Be gentle.”

Lyra stepped forward. She studied the crop as Elena adjusted her wrist.

“Now,” Elena said, touching Mitzi. “Strike here, in this area, gently.”

Lyra did as instructed. Mitzi moaned.

All eyes were on her spanking.

“Damn,” Consuela admired.

“I like to get spanked too,” Nate murmured.

Elena guided Lyra through successively stronger volleys. Mitzi’s reactions told them when to get a little stronger, a little firmer.

Lyra was fully warmed to her task. Her eyes were intent, the wiry muscles of her arm and torso clenched.

I recognized a tremor to Mitzi’s moaning.

“Mitzi wants it hard now, and fast. Is that right Mitzi?”

“Uh huh.”

“And then you are done.”

“Uh huh.”

I looked at Elena. “Lyra should wail.”

Elena looked at Lyra, and nodded towards Mitzi’s ass.


We learned that night that inside Lyra is a strong-armed spitfire. Elena was delighted by her performance.

I helped Mitzi up and took the hair from her face. Her face was red and in need of kisses. I gave her several.

“Let me see the damage,” I said. She turned as I sat to take a look.

“Oh, me too,” Consuela said, standing beside her.

I compared their asses.

Consuela’s dark flesh was rosy with a few smooth pink stripes.

Mitzi’s ass was crossed by marks of various hues. A few, presumably those delivered by Lyra, were beginning to welt.

I ran my fingers along her flesh.

“You’re okay?” I asked.

“Uh huh,” Mitzi said.

“You do good work, Elena,” I said. “You too, Lyra.”

“Thank you so much for beating me,” Mitzi said.

“Oh, it was a pleasure, really,” Elena beamed.

“Damn, you did a number on her,” Mark admired.

“Don’t think we’ve forgotten about you,” Elena said. “You are the one who wanted to be fucked?”

“Why yes, that would be me.”

“Can you imagine what I have in that case?”

“Is it a strap on, I hope?”

“It is. Do you want Lyra to fuck you?”

“That would be very nice.”

“Great. You get ready while she gears up.”

I handed the lube to Mark and watched Elena pull out her contraption. She untangled the straps and began to wrap them around Lyra’s waist.

“Do you want to remove your jeans?” I asked Lyra.

“No, she wants to keep them on,” Elena answered, working the straps. “Dammit . . . you know, I’ve never put this on another person before . . .”

“Need help?”

“Yes, can you get that side?”

We wrapped the straps around Lyra’s hips. Elena had chosen a mid-sized dildo with a ridge spiraling up from the base to the tip. She put a condom on her girlfriend’s cock and lubed it.

Lyra shook her body, watching her new dick sway. “That’s funny,” she said, looking down.

Nate’s eyes were riveted on the athletic woman’s body that had now sprouted a cock.

“Are you ready, Mark?” Elena asked.

He was on his back, his ass on the edge of the bed. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Good.” She guided Lyra to stand between Mark’s legs. I held one leg aloft, Elena held the other. “Jefferson, can you ber her guide? I think you have more experience with this than we do.”

“Sure.” Resting Mark’s leg on my shoulder, I placed a hand on the small of Lyra’s back, encouraging her to move closer. With my other hand, I guided her cock into him. “You okay, Mark?”

“Yes sir.”

“Okay, great.” I pressed gently on Lyra’s back. “Let’s push in, you won’t break him.”

Lyra’s cock was deep in Mark.

I moved my hand to Lyra’s hip. “Okay, so now you need to fuck him. Let’s go back, slowly—you okay, Mark?—and now forward again . . . and back . . . feel that rhythm?”

“Yes,” she said, looking down as her prosthetic moved in and out of Mark’s body. She moved her body fully back and forth.

“More hip action,” I recommended.

“You are doing such a good job!” Elena said, holding Mark’s leg.

“Yes, very good,” Mitzi added, watching from my side.

“Not bad, not bad,” Mark noted.

Elena kissed Lyra as she fucked. Mitzi and I began to kiss as well.

I guess I got distracted, because the next thing I knew, Lyra was kissing Elena at the foot of the bed. The dildo, detached from the strap on, was still in Mark.

“What’s going on here?” I asked. I got no answer from the necking lesbians, so I turned to Mark. “Did she leave you hanging?”

“Looks like.”

“That won’t do.” I took the base of the dildo in hand. I pulled it in and out of my friend’s ass, stroking my own cock. “Hang on, I’ll fuck you.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I thrust hard with the dildo, waiting for my cock to respond. I knew I needed a good hard on to take Mark.

“Wait, wait,” Mark said, grabbing my wrist. “Let’s take that out. That spiral thing is not so great on a man’s ass.”

We removed the dildo. He was worn out, and my cock was kaput.

We decided to take a break.

Elena suggested we order pizza.

She didn’t just want any pizza. She wanted specific pizzas from a specific place.

“Let’s order two large pies,” she began, reciting the order from memory. “One plan, one with pepperoni. And then get four small pies: one Mexican, one sausage and peppers, one . . .”

“Wait, wait,” I said, “I need to write this down.”

“. . . oh, and garlic soup.”

“Garlic soup? At a sex party?”

“Jefferson, it is the best garlic soup. You have to try this.”

I wrote down Elena’s order and called it in. The man on the phone found it very complicated. As I repeated the order, my phone went dead.

Fuck, I thought. Guess it needs to be recharged. I borrowed Elena’s cell and called again.

The order was so large, it required two delivery men.

Elena was making out with Lyra when it arrived. The order was on her credit card, so I peeled her off her girlfriend and sent her to the door in her pajamas.

“Pizza is on the way up,” I said to a bedroom full of naked bodies. “Stay put, okay?”

Mark was naked, standing at the dining table as he snacked. He hid from view of the door.

The delivery men took their time processing the payment of the disheveled woman at the door. Their eyes took in the dark empty living room. They heard the sensuous music playing, wondering about the solo pajama girl who wanted so many pizzas.

“Do you need a hand, Elena?” Consuela appeared at the door, wrapped in a towel.

“No, we’re fine. Jefferson is clearing a place to put the boxes.”

“Oh, okay.” Consuela turned to leave, then thought better of it.

She spun around and opened her towel, flashing the delivery men. She gave them a nice long look before scurrying back to the bedroom.

The men watched her leave.

Now, the processing of Elena’s payment grew even slower.

Elena became impatient. “Come on, I haven’t got all night,” she scolded.

I took the pizzas, and Elena sent the men away.

We had enough food for an army, but we did have an army to feed.

Elena was right; the garlic soup was creamy and good.

For dessert, I feasted on Elena’s pussy as Mitzi took a piece of my cock.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Family That Plays Together

“Elena?” I said, interrupting her conversation. “Elena, I’d like you to meet Consuela.”

“Pleased to meet you, Elena.”

“Nice to meet you, Consuela. This is my girlfriend, Lyra . . .”

“Hi Consuela,” Lyra nodded.

“ . . . and that’s my ex-husband, Jim.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jim said, rising to shake her hand.

“Nice,” Consuela smiled. “So, do you three often go to sex parties together?”

“First time,” Lyra nodded, with a nervous smile.

“Me too,” Jim added, sipping his beer.

“Yes, it’s the first time for each of them,” Elena added brightly. “But Jefferson and I go way back.”

“Way back,” I agreed. “She’s my lesbian soul sister.”

“We like to abuse straight men together.”

“That we do,” I concurred.

“He was the first man I had sex with after four years, since the divorce.”

“That’s right, I was,” I allowed.

“We met from a Craig’s List ad I put up,” Elena went on, “It said I wanted to meet bi men, but made it clear that since I’m lesbian, there would be no sex.”

“Right,” Consuela said, leaning on a door. “And then you fucked him?”

“Of course. I mean, its Jefferson we’re talking about.”

I shrugged.

“Right!” Consuela laughed.

Mitzi followed this exchange, doing her best to put it together. She’d heard it once before, yet it was still a little muddy.

I would explain it to her again later.

See, Elena and Jim were married. They have a son, and so after the divorce, they decided to continue living together. They get along fine, and the child has both parents at home.

Elena has been seeing Lyra for a while, and she is accustomed to that arrangement.

Elena and I met via her Craig’s List ad, and planned to amuse our selves by sharing submissive straight boys. We enjoyed that, and as it turned out, we enjoyed each other as friends.

We had some sex. She came to some parties.

But she lives outside the city, and what with the family and the new girlfriend, she rarely had time for our games.

Then one day she contacted me to ask if she could come to a party and bring her girlfriend. They had just had their first threesome with another man, and they were game for more adventure.

“Of course,” I said. “It will be great to see you and to meet her.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Oh, and can I bring my ex husband?”

“Elena,” I began. “Isn’t Jim straight?”

“Yes, he’s straight, but he’s no trouble at all . . .”

“Elena . . .”

“And he can help me carry things.”

“Elena, you know how I feel about straight boys at the party . . .”

“I want to bring some food, and that can be too heavy for me to handle alone. Oh! And vodka to make Cosmopolitans. Of course, I’ll bring bourbon for you.”

By this time, I am resigned to the inevitable: for every cool lesbian or bisexual woman you meet, there’s a straight boy lurking in the shadows.

“Okay,” I sighed. “Elena, you can bring Jim.”

“Thanks! I won’t let him fuck girls unless you say its okay.”

“No, I won’t set rules. But he is your responsibility.”

“Fine. I’ll clean up after him.”

Elena and Jim arrived early for the next party. She looked great, dressed in black with her long black hair newly shorn. Her wide eyes seemed even larger.

“I brought silk pajamas for the party,” she said. “Jim says I will arrive looking like a whore and leave looking like a slut.”

She introduced Jim, who carried a large box brimming with bottles. Lyra would be coming later, after a class.

Jim was tall and good-looking in a straight kind of way. He set down the box and we shook hands, exchanging pleasantries. He offered me a beer. I declined; he took one for himself.

“He’s very nervous to meet you,” Elena said, nudging Jim. “You’re so daunting!”

“No, I’m a pussycat, really,” I said, resting a hand on Jim’s cheek. “Seriously, though, I’m here for you. We’ll take all this at your pace.”

“Good,” Jim said. “That will likely be very, very slow.”

“Oh!” Elena chimed. “Is Thomas coming?”

“I haven’t heard from him. He doesn’t come so much lately.”

“You have to call him and say I’m here. He adores me.”

“Okay, I’ll call him.”

“And here, put these candles out. They’re scented, very sexy.”


“You want a Cosmo? I’m mixing.”

A few phone calls, some candle lighting and a Cosmo later, the guests began to arrive.

By the time Lyra appeared at my door, Mitzi and Nate were on hand, and Thomas had answered Elena’s summons.

Elena put down her Cosmo and kissed her girlfriend hello.

“Nice pajamas,” Lyra grinned.

Elena beamed and made introductions. She was right to be proud of her new girl—Lyra was awfully hot. Her olive skin and short dark hair complemented her tight, athletic body, decked in tough-girl jeans and a small t-shirt.

Nate’s eyes followed Lyra as she shook hands.

Elena had told me to keep an eye on her, for Lyra was shy to begin with, much less meeting a room full of people who were about to have sex.

I kissed her cheek in greeting. “I’ve heard so much about you,” I said. “Mind removing your boots?”

I had also invited Consuela to join my bisexual group, as I so enjoyed meeting her among the Nubians.

Consuela seemed impressed by our little gang. After getting names in order, she opened a bottle of water and took a long sip.

“So,” she said, screwing the bottle cap back in place. “Anybody want to fuck?”

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Hot Dog Man

Each year, the PTA sponsors many fundraisers. First up on the academic calendar is Oktoberfest. Parents are expected to volunteer for the event. There are numerous jobs—barkers, coordinators, vendors, clean up.

I pride myself in being a skilled face painter.

Alas, that task had been taken when I arrived for my shift. I was assigned to another.

I was the hot dog man.

I stood a booth offering hot dogs for the price of two tickets, with bottled water and Capri Sun going for one ticket each. I offered a full complement of condiments, offering to fix them anyway you like, or to allow you to fix them yourself.

My ex Lucy was tending another booth near the entrance. The kids begged us for tickets and busied themselves with the attractions.

As I prepared for my shift, I restocked an ice chest with drinks. I was bent over the chest when Lucy walked by with our daughter, on their way to the restroom.

“Ugh, there’s a pleasant sight,” Lucy sniffed as she passed me.

I looked up. "Hi, Dad!" our daughter smiled and waved.

God, I thought, that woman really can’t stand the sight of me. Here was a moment where she might have said something pleasant (“Hey, Hot Dog Man!”), or neutral (“Nice day”), or nothing at all.

Instead she has to be nasty. She just can’t control it.

There was nothing unusual in her invective, and anyway, I didn’t have much time to ponder it. Hot dogs were a popular item, being cheaper than pizza (four tickets) and subs (a bargain at six tickets).

I was soon tending a steady stream of customers.

I was putting ketchup on a fourth grader’s hot dog when someone called my name.

“Jefferson? What are you doing here?”

I looked over and saw a woman I had not seen in about a year.

Not since the time we fucked.

“Oh hey,” I smiled, putting down the ketchup and wiping my hands. “What brings you here?”

“I have a booth with a friend of mine,” she said, gesturing toward an adjacent street fair. “We make puppets.”

“Well, cool. I’ve got kids in this school, so I’m serving as the hot dog man. You want one?”

“No, no, I just need two waters . . .”

“I can set you up. That will be two tickets, please.”

“Oh,” she said, looking at her palm. “I only have one . . .”

“That’s fine,” I said, winking as I took her ticket. “On the house.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, no problem.”

Kids were clamoring for hot dogs.

“Looks like you are busy,” she said. “Come by our booth when you are done. I want to see what you think of our puppets!”

“Will do! Nice to see you!”

“Yes,” she held up the water and mouthed, “thanks.”

I smiled and returned to the hot dogs.

Gosh, I had not thought of her in a while.

We met through a personals ad she placed on Craig’s List. In the course of a very pleasant exchange, she revealed that she had formerly been a peep show girl in a Times Square grinder. Back in those days, she was a junky living with a dealer, trading ass for horse.

She had been sober for years now, she reported, but remained fascinated by that life. She was interested in compiling oral histories of sex workers who knew Times Square.

She certainly got my attention. Sex work, oral histories, local color—she was driving right to my hot spots.

I proposed meeting for drinks. She was shy about sending her photo, but said I would know her by her long curly hair and her black leather jacket.

I had to adjust my pants as I walked to our date. That night, I was sure to fuck this woman, and that expectation had me rock hard.

That plan changed somewhat when I spotted her at a table. She had told me a good deal about herself, but omitted one detail:

She was not that attractive.

My pants required no further alterations.

I introduced myself and kissed her check. I sat and smiled. We ordered margaritas and chatted.

She was certainly a talker.

I listened to her talk about her long deceased grandmother, her home improvements, her job, her cat. I nodded and interjected clucks of sympathy or chuckles of amusement as appropriate.

Some people talk a lot when they are nervous, and first dates can fray anyone’s nerves. I was willing to wait for her to relax a bit.

As she talked, I watched her face, looking for things I might find attractive.

She had nice skin.

Her teeth were nice.

She had a Hobbit quality that was sort of endearing.

It was happy hour. A second margarita followed the first.

She discussed her interest in science fiction. I gamely led her back to our subjects of common interest. She talked about those as I listened.

I drank down my margarita.

The waitress returned and asked if we’d care to stay for dinner.

She looked at me and shrugged.

“Uh, sure,” I said, smiling. “That would be nice.”

During dinner, she talked about baseball, shopping and returned again to the subject of her dead grandmother.

We split the bill.

As we left the restaurant, she asked if I was in the mood for something sweet. No really, I replied, but I rarely eat desserts.

Oh, she said, disappointed.

But, I offered, I will be glad to join you, if you want one.

She said that would be great. She knew a super place near her office.

We began to walk north. Midtown was largely abandoned by this hour. I’ve always enjoyed that sense of having the city to myself.

Or, in this moment, to share the city with my new friend, the monologist.

We walked about ten blocks to discover that the place she had in mind was not open. She suggested we try another place. I agreed.

We walked five more blocks to a deli. After some searching, she found a muffin she liked.

“I wonder if I should eat it here,” she said, “or on the train home.”

I detected an exit. “We’re near the station. I’m happy to walk you over.”

“Oh thanks, that’s nice.”

We walked four blocks to Grand Central.

When we reached the door, I stopped and turned to her. I listened as she concluded a story about her boss.

“That is a pretty funny place to put a copier,” I agreed. “Well, I guess I should say goodnight.”

“Yes, here we are. I had a very nice time.”

“Me too,” I lied. I kissed her cheek.

She continued to talk for twenty more minutes. It was a chilly evening. I swayed to and fro for warmth.

Finally, she said she really did have to go. I leaned over and kissed her cheek again. This time, as I pulled back, I turned and walked away.

“Nice to meet you,” I waved. “Keep in touch!”

“I will, thanks!” she waved.

I walked around the corner to another entrance.

I checked to see the coast was clear. It was, so I entered the station and hopped the subway home.

Now, I was still pretty new to dating then, but I knew enough to know that when you aren’t interested in someone, it’s really just best to say so. No hard feelings, one should say, but I think I would prefer to leave things as they are. Best of luck. See you in the funny pages.

It’s really not that hard.

But yes, it can be hard.

So instead off being direct, I found myself being too nice, keeping up an email exchange with her, albeit a correspondence of considerably less ardor.

One day, she wrote and asked me, point blank, to fuck her.

She told me I was the only decent fellow she had met lately, and she was just insanely horny. It had been over a year since she had been laid. Could I please do her this favor?

Well, what could I say?

I invited her over.

She arrived after work, and quickly changed into an oversized open necked t-shirt. “I always sleep in one of these,” she said.

It was just after five in the evening. Surely she wasn’t planning to sleep over? I needed to develop an exit strategy.

“Let me show you what I sleep in,” I said, undressing. “Because we only have a while before I need to leave.”

“Oh, you have to go somewhere?”

“Yes, but we have plenty of time.” I stepped out of my pants. “And by the way, I sleep in the nude."

The sex was fine, but did nothing to dissuade me of my original assessment. She was easy to orgasm, which was fun, but it took stamina to fuck past my general disinterest.

We lay back afterwards, allowing our bodies to cool.

“Hey, want to watch TV?” she asked.

“Um, sure,” I agreed, handing her the remote. “What’s on?”

“They do a great lineup on Sci Fi,” she said, clicking on the set.

We watched a made-for-television movie about a homely man who managed to steal the physical appearance of his handsome friend.

Another feature began. The room grew dark as evening settled.

“Well,” I stretched, “thanks for coming over. This was nice.”

“Sure, I liked it too,” she said, her eyes on the movie.

I stood and began to dress. “I guess I should get going,” I said.

“Oh,” she sat up. “Then I guess I should get going, too.”

Good—I was well served by the Obi Wan Kenobi powers of persuasion.

“Want to walk with me to the subway?” she asked.

“No, thanks, I need to make a call before heading out.”

“Okay, well thanks again.”

“Oh, thank you.” I kissed her, and then opened the door.

“See you,” she said.

“Later!” I smiled. I closed the door and locked it.

I went back to my room and ditched my street clothes.

I settled in to write for the rest of the evening.

We continued to trade emails. Gradually, she got the idea that I wasn’t all that interested, and we let it go.

Then she showed up at my hot dog stand.

Oktoberfest was blessed by perfect weather at the end of eight straight days of rain. The clouds rolled back in as the event drew to a close.

Everyone scurried off to beat the storm. I shut down my stand and put away the condiments, buns, unsold drinks and folding table.

I gathered my kids and hurried toward the bus stop.

My eyes made a cursory scan of the street fair, but I saw no sign of her. Most of the vendors were hurriedly dismantling their booths.

Saved by the storm, I thought. At least I was spared the awkwardness of introducing my kids to her.

That would have been embarrassing.

For the life of me, I couldn’t recall her name.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Celibacy in the City

You’ve had no sex lately.

At least, not from me.

Thank you for indulging me the past few posts about family and the divorce. I am sometimes asked for more background on all that, so now those who want it, have it.

And for the rest of you, never fear: there’s more fine sex a-coming, just as fast as I can make it for you.

I mean, now that my divorce is final, I can really cut loose, right?

Speaking of no sex, remember my friend Marla Jo?

Remember how we met at a sex party?

Remember the night we did two back-to-back threesomes?

Remember how she taught me to wring her neck in order to squeeze the very last drop from every shuddering orgasm?

Well, pretty Marla Jo ain’t getting none—by design.

She’s trying celibacy until New Year’s Day, in order to give herself a chance to think over her sexuality and her relationships.

Lucky for us, she types as she thinks. Plus, she tends to write about the sex she is thinking about.

Celibacy in the City

Tell I said howdy.

Oh, and please tell her that Jefferson will be on hand to wish her a very happy New Year.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Dead Letter

School began not long after we returned from the South.

The children’s lives are divided between their mother’s house in the suburbs—formerly, our shared marital domicile—and our apartment in the city.

The schools in the city are preferable to those in the suburbs, so the kids are registered in my local school district. This means all school related mailings come to my address.

This makes my ex Lucy anxious for two reasons.

First, she dislikes any factor of the children’s lives that is not completely under her control. To get the information contained in a school mailing, she needs to deal with me.

Second, I get an outrageous volume of mail. I have to confess that sorting it is not always my highest priority. I make sure to separate anything requiring immediate attention, and allow the rest to pile until I just can’t stand to look at the heap.

One evening, Lucy called.

“Jefferson, we are expecting a mailing from Jason’s school. It’s important because it includes his new class assignment.”

“Right, I have my eyes out for that.”

“Did you receive it?”

“No, not yet.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Jefferson, this is very important . . .”

“I realize that.”

“Can you please go through your mail to look for it?”

“It’s not here, Lucy.”

“Can you please look?”

“I will look, but as I said, it’s not here.”

“Fine. Call when you find it.” Click.

I sorted my mail. No letter from the school. I called.

“Jefferson, how could you have lost this letter? Can’t you focus at all on the children’s education? Don’t you know that that this is a critical year for Jason?”

She began to pace her words, as she broke down a crucial fact so that even I could understand its import: “Your son Jason. Needs to get. Good grades. In order to get. Into a good high school.”

“I recognize the value of a good education. And I’m aware of the correlation between grades and high school admissions. I am just reporting that the letter did not arrive.”

“Fine. I’ll have to call the school. Thanks a lot.” Click.

Lucy sent an email to say that the school gave her the assignment, so the letter was no longer needed. She had taken care of it.

She also reminded me that I had agreed that her brother Richard could see the kids for dinner on Saturday, during my weekend with the kids. I replied that it was great news about the school information, and of course, I looked forward to seeing Richard.

Richard is a fine fellow. He’s very smart—he would be on my short list of people to call as a contestant on “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?”—and he keeps above the fray of our divorce even as he provides a sympathetic ear to his sister.

On Saturday, I took the kids swimming at a friend’s pool. It was a lovely warm day, as summer drifted into autumn.

I periodically reminded the kids that we were having dinner that night with Uncle Richard. They were excited.

As five o’clock rolled around, I toweled the kids and we dressed to return home, where we would meet Lucy and Richard.

“Hey Richard, welcome back!” I kissed him on the lips, as we do.

“Nice to see you Jefferson, you look great.”

“Uncle Richard, Uncle Richard!”

“You look great too, Lillie. So big! I can barely lift you!”

“I want to show you my video,” Collie tugged. “We did a play last year. I was a star!”

“I heard all about it! Let’s watch it in a minute, after I talk with the grown ups.”

“Boring!” Collie teased.

“I know, I’m a dull uncle.”

“Do you have any beer?” Lucy asked.

“I was just about to offer,” I replied. I went to the kitchen and brought out three glasses of Kingfisher.

Richard was sitting on the couch. I place the beer on the coffee table.

“Lucy, here’s your beer.”

“Thanks, just a minute.” She was sorting through my mail.

Richard and I sat, talking.

“Jesus Christ, Jefferson!” Lucy held up a letter.

“Don’t tell me you found the school letter?” I asked.

“No, but look at this. It’s a newsletter from my union, dated last month. You have to get my mail to me!” She looked at me, her face contorted into scowl that read “This is so fucking obvious, moron.”

She took the newsletter to the kitchen and tossed it in the trash, unread.

“Maybe you want to save that, and let them know to correct the address,” I suggested.

“That’s not the point,” she said from the kitchen.

I shrugged to Richard. We picked up the conversation.

I could hear Lucy opening cabinets.

“Jefferson, why do you buy Capri Sun?

“I’m sorry, what?”

She emerged from the kitchen. “Capri Sun. It’s not one hundred percent juice. You shouldn’t buy it for the kids.”


She sat down and took her beer. She noticed a book on the table.

“T. C. Boyle? Since when do you read T. C. Boyle?”

“That’s a bestseller, Lucy. I’m not the only person to read it.” I heard the undertone: T. C. Boyle, like Paul Auster, was her author. I had no business reading her authors.

“Oh, I know that book,” Richard said. He began to discuss it. I was glad to let him handle the conversation.

Collie came out to remind Richard about the video. Richard took his beer to watch in the other room. Lucy returned to sorting my mail.

Jason came out to join me on the couch. “I’ve seen that video like a hundred times,” he said.

“Me too. So where should we go for dinner?”

“I dunno. Sushi?”

“I’d like sushi. Anything but pizza, really.”

Lucy overheard our discussion. “You are not invited,” she said, her back to us.

“Excuse me?”

“You are not invited to dinner.”

Jason rolled his eyes.

I was surprised. “Are you saying that you are taking the kids on my night, and I am not invited?”

“That’s right.”

“Huh. Well, how about that?” I shrugged to Jason and went to the other room.

I was not going to get into it with her in front of the kids.

As they prepared to go, Jason said he would see me later.

“You’re not joining us?” Richard asked.

“No, he isn’t,” Lucy answered, tying Lillie’s shoes.

“But dad,” Collie asked, “What will you eat?”

“I’ll eat something here, don’t worry. I’ll see you afterwards.”

Jason looked at Collie, holding a finger to his lips.

At the door, I told Richard it was great to see him again. I took his face in my hands and kissed his lips. As we do.

Lillie watched. She laughed. “You kissed a man! That is so gay.”

Richard feigned shock. He took Lillie’s hand. “Let’s just begin to discuss all the ways that is an inappropriate thing to say,” he said, leading her down the hall.

I closed the door.

I was famished. I ate a simple dinner.

I emailed Lucy.

Lucy, I spent the day telling the kids we were having dinner with you and Richard. It came as a shock that this was not the case. It came as a greater shock that you chose to tell me this in front of Jason. Can we please do better?

Also, you need to respect that when you are at the apartment, you are in my home. You are not invited to go through my belongings. If you need to see something, just ask.

I was hurt and angry, and took great care in choosing my words. I recognize that Lucy is not entirely to blame for her moods. There is something about me that makes her furious. I regard her outbursts as akin to those sparked by Tourette Syndrome: unpleasant, and not entirely within her control.

I try not to let it get to me.

Still, I am resolved to point out when she crosses a line. Being rude to me in front of the children is not acceptable behavior.

The email was deleted the next day, unread.

“What did you eat for dinner?” Lillie asked when they returned.

“Some pasta. How was the Chinese?”

“It was so good! Why didn’t Mom let you come?”

“Um, I don’t know, honey.”

“Yeah, that sucked,” Jason said.

“I’m glad you ate,” Collie said. “I was worried. I brought you a fortune cookie, you want it?”

The kids went back to their mom the following day. I left town on a short trip.

When I returned, I found an email from Lucy.

The judge signed our agreement. I guess that’s it.

A few days later, I received an envelope from my lawyer.

Dear Jefferson,

Enclosed please find an executed Findings of Fact and Conclusion of Law and a Judgment of Divorce. Congratulations, you are divorced!

I remain,

Yours truly,

Elizabeth Weiner, Esq.


Also enclosed was a bill for seven thousand three hundred and forty-five dollars.