Thursday, June 29, 2006

Candy Man

There is, I have learned, an ineffable sweetness to the air about me.

I first suspected this when I moved to New York years ago.

How else to explain why commuters pressed against me in an otherwise uncrowded bus?

How else to explain why my otherwise competent colleagues seemed unable to make a decision without me in the room?

How else to explain why my wife was so desperate for me to be home early from work, and never late—so desperate that any loss of those precious moments together plunged her into morose silence?

There must be something very special about being near me.

It’s as if, on the day that I was born, the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true.

Only they went too far. My hair of gold is lousy with moon dust. My eyes of blue sting from so much starlight.

I don’t say this from vanity, not at all. It’s just how things are. There is simply a je ne sais quois about my intoxicating presence. Being near me makes people giddy and drunk with pleasure.

Knowing this helps me to understand why those accustomed to my presence complain so rancorously of bitter hangovers when I am absent.

I am the dealer of a drug I don’t fully comprehend. In dispensing the goods, I run the risk of creating junkies.

For the week surrounding my birthday, I gave myself license to freely indulge in sexual gluttony. But as that week bleed into the next, and the next into the one following, I ignored expiration dates on that license, filing for renewals that I readily granted myself.

My friends and lovers took full advantage of my availability. They asked for more and I enjoyed providing it. The drug was never denied. My street-corner drug dealing evolved into a twenty-four hour pharmacy.

Very few had the resolve for moderation. Only a couple went cold turkey.

Most developed golden arms.

It has been over six months since my birthday. (The past group of posts refers to events that happened over the course of two weeks in January. The astute reader will note that I tend to develop stories over multiple installments, at the cost of immediate reportage.)

During those intervening months, it was not at all uncommon for me to have sex with three different women in a single day.

No, wait, strike that—it’s not right to say that it was “not at all uncommon.” In fact, it was very common. It happened several days each week.

I would wake with one woman, meet a second in the mid-afternoon, and drift to sleep that night with a third.

Those numbers might increase if a date happened to include a threesome or an orgy.

I did my best to keep up with the men as well, but the women always wanted more, and their want took priority over the simple horniness of men.

By mid-spring, I could barely keep track of the number of women who regarded me as a boyfriend, or, at least, as a regular lover. I hesitate to enumerate, but for sake of estimates, let’s just say it was slightly more than could be counted on two hands.

For some of these women, I was one of several gold stars in their black books. For others, I was the marquee attraction.

They all wanted that drug. I worked overtime to provide it.

Now, I appreciate that my life may be, as Mitzi put it, “every man’s fantasy.” And no question, I have lived my life this way because I chose to do so.

Yet, in allowing a period of wall-to-wall sex to extend from the annual indulgence of one modest week to a six-month free-for-all spree, I had raised expectations. And I strived to meet them.

I didn’t merely have sex with at least three lovers on several days of each week.

I offered top-shelf porn-star sex. I offered intimate heart-wrenching sex. I tailored my body to so many seams. I gave up the best sex ever, every single time.

Every single time.

No one would expect a date lacking the best sex I could muster.

There are few better satisfactions than knowing I have given a woman her first or best orgasm, or taken her to a place of full satiation, or simply lifted her spirits by desiring her.

But I have to say, my experience of late has left me with a new appreciation for down time.

It is relaxing when a lover offers me a drink and insists that I share her affection for a television program, even if that means we won’t have sex for an hour or so as we watch.

It is so pleasant to be held, nude and close, as I read with someone, with no immediate expectation of fucking.

I’ve especially come to a new appreciation of nights I reserve to sleeping alone—no kids slumbering in the next room, no lover talking on the next pillow.

Just me in my bed.

I’ll have a measure of that in coming weeks, even as my attentions are pulled in different directions.

School is out. I am going on vacation for most of July.

It begins today, when I take the kids to visit my family down south. As you may recall from my posts from last summer (which began here), I will have virtually no privacy back home.

I come from a very large family that will crowd a very small vacation home.

My dear mother stays close to the hearth. Mom is as nosey as they come.

I wish I could offer optimism to young people with intrusive mothers, but near as I can tell, mamas never seem to outgrow an apparent sense of entitlement that they are permitted to fully disregard the privacy of their offspring.

To this day, my mother—a grandmother with adult children—argues that parents must have unrestricted access to anything a child writes, says, watches or reads, if only to protect the child.

I suppose it is by this reasoning that my mother monitors my time online. It is no doubt for my own good.

If I sit at a computer, Mom will swoop to sit by my side, her eyes on the screen as she asks what I am writing, offering to show me her favorite websites on home shopping and Maltese dogs—subjects that she knows could not be of less interest to me.

As I tell my friends, crowding me when I am writing is far ruder than listening in on a phone conversation. Better you should barge into a bathroom to be sure I properly wipe my ass.

Suffice to say, my parents’ home is not the most conducive atmosphere for blogging smut.

It’s just as well. I could use the break. I need to spend time with my children and their cousins.

So for the month of July. you should expect no posts from me, other than my weekly Sex Blog Roundups for Fleshbot.

Yet even on vacation, I will write. Once my family is asleep, under cover of night, I will sneak bourbon into my bedroom and open my laptop to write filth for you.

When I return, I should have stories to tell. I’m sitting on a few.

I want to take you for walks in the fall foliage.

I want to relate the rise and fall of the Nubians.

And I should share the clippings of my most recent haircuts.

Dry out over the next few weeks. Meet me to binge soon.

Child Services

“Hey Dad, get a picture of me with the football!”

I raised the camera and aimed it at Collie.

He held back the football as if he were prepared to throw it to me. I crouched, bringing into the frame the backdrop of skyscrapers over the verdant tree line.

We were lucky. The annual fourth grade class picnic was blessed by a beautiful summer afternoon. It was hot, but breezy in the shade.

“Okay—smile, handsome man!”

Collie grinned.

“Ooh, nice one,” I admired. “Take a look; we can put this one on a bubble-gum card, dude.”

Collie giggled. “Hey, can I take some pictures of the soccer game?”

“Yes, if I can take a picture of you and your teacher.”

“No way,” he said. He had no reason to refuse me, really, other than his immaculate control over the use of his image.

“Fine,” I said, beginning to put away the camera.

“Oh, fine, you can do it,” Collie said, throwing back his shoulders. He turned on his heels and marched to the side of Mrs. Ferenzi.

“Oh, hello Collie, what’s up?” she asked.

“Just look at my Dad,” he replied, staring straight ahead.

“Your Dad . . . oh, hello, Jefferson.”

“Hey, mind if I take a picture of you two? Collie is only doing it to appease me—he says he doesn’t want a picture with you.”

“Oh, he doesn’t, does he?” she smiled. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

Mrs. Ferenzi bent forward, taking Collie into a hug.

He was giggling as the shutter snapped.

“Oh, that looks sweet,” Mrs. Ferenzi said as we reviewed the photograph.

“Whatever,” Collie said in his toughest roughest tone. “Now, give me the camera, old man.”

“’Old man, please,’” I corrected.

“Whatever,” he laughed, taking the camera and running off.

“I really deserve better children,” I sighed.

Mrs. Ferenzi laughed. “He’s too much. I’m going to miss him.”

“So keep him,” I offered. “He can lead your new baby astray. How many more weeks?”

She rested a hand on her belly. “She’s due in mid-July.”

We fell to talking about childbirth, and the way teachers plan to have babies in summer.

It makes for a memorable Thanksgiving, if you get my drift.

As we walked back to school, we passed a park worker watering flowers. He offered to mist the students.

The kids squealed as the water rained down over them, washing away the sweat and heat.

They were covered in dew as we returned to the school for dismissal.

In the yard, I found Lillie standing still in the sun. She didn’t run to me as usual.

As I approached, I could see she was crying. I picked up my pace.

“Sweetie, what’s wrong?” I asked.

“My head hurts,” she sobbed.

Her sob gave way to deep coughs. She gagged and vomited at my feet.

“Baby, you are burning up! Let’s get you in the shade.”

A nearby mother asked another, “Oh God, where is her teacher? Someone should get her teacher!”

I ignored the mother’s panic, and put aside my annoyance about the presumed ineptitude of fathers. I overhear this kind of thing fairly often, actually, as if a man alone with children were the most appalling aberration of social norms.

Thanks lady, but I can take care of my sick child without the assistance of a teacher.

In the school, I put a cold compress on Lillie’s forehead and gave her a water bottle from my picnic bag.

She cooled down and her stomach settled.

Collie carried her backpack as we left the school. We hailed a cab.

Once we got home, Lillie stripped to her panties and crawled into bed. I cranked the air conditioning and retrieved Children’s Tylenol to bring down her fever.

She soon felt much better. She told me that she had felt bad during gym, her last class of the day, then worse at dismissal.

“Must be the heat,” I said knowingly, exuding parental confidence in the diagnosis. “So you are going to drink water and take medicine. And no school tomorrow.”

Lillie giggled. “I have to get a sick day?”

I nodded. “That’s right. And I want you to watch a lot of television, young lady.”

A grin took over her face. “And we can play Uno?”

“Yes. And Sorry.”

Lillie was delighted to be sick.

That evening, her mother called to check on the kids. She wanted the details on Lillie’s illness, so she spoke at length with the co-parent she most trusts.

My twelve-year-old son Jason.

“Yeah, Mom, what’s up?” Jason spoke into his cell phone. His eyes watched the television as Collie battled against Obi Wan.

Collie generally prefers to play for the Dark Side.

“Uh yeah Mom, she threw up, but she’s fine now . . . watching television . . . yeah, Dad gave her something . . . no, I don’t guess she’s going to school tomorrow . . . I dunno, soup, I guess . . . no, Collie, behind the cantina, behind the cantina!

“Beast!” Collie shouted. “I’m a beast! Oh yeah, oh yeah.”

“Yeah Mom . . . so, you want to talk to Dad? Okay . . . one sec.” Jason came to the kitchen and handed over his cell phone.

“Mom,” he reported, then walked back to his game.


“Jefferson? How is Lillie?”

“She’s much better. I gave her Tylenol for the fever, so it may be back, but . . .”

“What was her temperature?”

“Well, unfortunately, we broke our thermometer, so I don’t know the exact temperature. She was warm to the touch, though—not broiling.”

“You don’t have a thermometer.”

I readied myself. “No, it’s broken. But as I said, her fever is down, and . . .”

“Jefferson, you have to have a thermometer. It’s important to know the exact temperature. You can get one delivered. Or call the pharmacy and have it put aside—maybe Jason can go pick it up. That’s faster. You can have it put aside, and give him the money. He can go get it and bring it back.”

“Uh huh.” I rested the phone against my shoulder and continued chopping mushrooms.

“Don’t get one of those digital ones, you know, like the one we used to have that goes in the ear? Those aren’t accurate. You want one of those that goes under the arm. You know the ones I mean?”

“Uh huh, under the arm.” I lowered the heat on the chicken stock.

“Jefferson, it’s very important to do this.”

“Okay. So anyway, I’m keeping her home tomorrow. I think she’s improving, but she can’t be in school if the fever returns.”

“Right.” Lucy sighed. “So can I talk to her?”

“Sure, one sec.” I put down the knife and took Jason’s cell to Lillie. I returned to the kitchen and dropped mushrooms into the soup.

Of course, I wasn’t calling the pharmacy.

When the kids are sick, Lucy’s anxiety disorder takes over her maternal instinct. She wants desperately to be in control of the situation, which forces her to go the extraordinary length of speaking directly to me.

In these moments of familial crisis, she most regrets that she is required to share parenting. As her father once said, Lucy forgets that she is not a single parent.

She’s a co-parent. Her children have a father.

Unfortunately, Lucy sees me not as a partner, but as a delinquent subordinate who can not be relied upon to do as instructed. If only I would follow her directions, she could be sure that responsible decisions are made and acted upon. Otherwise, she has no alternative but to trust me—and that is an untenable option.

I just don’t get it, she tells me. I will never understand how a mother worries.

Of course I won’t. How could I possibly understand a parent’s concerns?

Around midnight, Lillie woke up crying. She was burning up. I gave her more Tylenol and a glass of water. I rubbed her back as she returned to sleep, holding her blanket and sucking her thumb.

The next morning, she woke feeling fine. She wasn’t going to school at any rate, but she was in good spirits.

She felt very “big girl.” She wanted to stay home as I got the boys to school.

I knocked on the door of my neighbor, Trish. It was just after seven, but I knew she would be up: she has two young children as her alarm clock.

We put into action the plan we had devised the night before.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said, “But sure enough, Lillie wants to stay here while I’m gone. She’s okay, and I won’t be long . . .”

Trish waved her hand. “It’s fine, we’ll keep an ear out.”

“I’ll leave my door unlocked,” I said.

“Me too,” Trish said, “Now go!”

Lillie knew that she was staying in our apartment so she wouldn’t expose Trish’s kids to germs. But if she felt bad, or got scared, she should go to Trish immediately.

“I know, Dad,” she smiled.

I gave her the phone and made sure could call my cell.

“I know, Dad. But I won’t call unless I throw up.”

I tucked her in bed and turned on the television.

I made sure I had cab fare.

I did what one has to do with one sick child, two healthy children, and no other adult in the home.

I relied on my support network.

The boys were at school and I was on my way home when my cell rang. It was Lucy.

“Jefferson, where are you?”

“I’m in the park, heading home. So, Lillie woke up last night . . .”

“And where are the boys?”

“At school, Lucy.”

“Where’s Lillie?”

“At home. She woke up last night with a fever and . . .”

“You left her at home? Jefferson, she’s six years old. You can not leave her home alone!”

“Trish is across the hall and Lillie knows that . . .”

“Trish is home? You swear to God?”

“Yes, God knows, Trish is home. So, yeah, Lillie woke up around midnight . . . “

“So if I go to the apartment right now and bang on the door, Trish will be home?”

I sighed. “If you are going over there, want to swing by and pick me up?”

“This is serious, Jefferson. I swear to God, if you ever leave that little girl home alone, even for a minute, I swear to God I’m calling Child Services and hauling your ass to jail so fast, you won’t believe it. You have to be responsible, Jefferson, you just don’t get . . .”

I closed the phone and put it in my pocket.

If she wants to talk about Lillie’s fever, I’m here.

If her priority is to act on her anxieties by chewing me out, I have other concerns.

“Dad?” Lillie called as I closed the door. “You’re home!”

“Yes, dear.” I went to her room. She was watching Nick, Jr. “How are you feeling, big girl?”

“Fine. You were fast!”

I kissed her forehead. It was cool.

“Yeah baby, it just took a minute. You want some oatmeal?”

Lillie improved throughout the day.

That evening, I phoned her mother to give Lucy an update on her condition.

When Lucy answered, I could hear birds in the background. I assumed she was sitting on the wrought iron furniture in the backyard of the home we bought together, where she now lives.

I pictured the azaleas in full bloom. The grass probably needed its first cutting.

I told Lucy that Lillie was much better, and would be back at school the next morning.

“That’s good,” Lucy said. She sounded tired. “Hey, Jefferson, about this morning . . . I’m sorry. You know how I get.”

“I do,” I said, surprised that she had brought this up. “But you have to know, it doesn’t help. I didn’t make Lillie sick, so there’s no need to blame me.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

We paused.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You want to talk to Lillie?”

“Yes, please.”

I took the phone to Lillie. I stood at the door, listening as she told her mom that she was not sick any more. She didn’t even throwed up, not even once.

Imagine that, I thought.

Entirely of her own volition, Lucy had apologized.

Secret Project

Mitzi pulled on her dress to step outside for a smoke.

Emma was nude on the terrace, looking down on the traffic below. Her eyes drifted to watch, for about a mile to the north, as the lights went from red to green.

I turned to follow her eyes. Red to green. Below us, traffic started to move.

I leaned nude against cold plate glass as Emma and Mitzi talked. I was listening, but my mind was on my secret project.

“Do you need anything?” I interrupted, holding up my empty bourbon glass. “I’m going inside.”

“No, we’re fine, Jefferson,” Mitzi smiled, exhaling a plume. The smoke was swallowed by the cool air over my shoulder.

Mitzi’s brown eyes looked me over. I could feel her calculations. What was on my mind? I wasn’t off to fuck Emma—she was here with her. Shelby, maybe? And how many drinks had I had?

“Bring me a water later, okay?” she added.

“Sure,” I said. “See you inside.”

I found Mark in the kitchen, freshening his bourbon. We chatted as I took two cubes and three fingers to my own.

We conversed about this and that as we sipped our drinks, two naked men at an orgy. Mark and I are always ready for sex with one another, which creates a kind of comfort: we always know that we can fuck, or just hang out and maybe fuck later.

I suggested we investigate the goings on. After you, he insisted.

In the back room, Eric and his friends were crowded onto a twin bed.

The foursome had remained a tight clique all evening. This was their first party with us, and their first double date at a sex party.

If I had the back story correct, Charlie was Eric’s ex girlfriend, though they remained fuck buddies. Eric’s best friend Erik had picked up Deidre on Craig’s List. Deidre had never met any of us before, but she was no stranger to orgies. This was a first time experience for Erik and Charlie.

Eric’s prior orgy experience was limited to one other party with us.

Viviane usually plays her cards pretty close to her chest. So I was surprised when she asked if she could bring a colleague to a party. “You’re bringing someone from work?” I asked. “He knows your secret identity? He knows you go to orgies?”

“Well, Eric is pretty special,” she said. “He’s a straight boy, but I can tell him things.”

This was my introduction to one of the best-looking men I have ever seen.

Eric was tall, with a naturally muscled lean body, longish black hair, and an easy smile. He was pleasant and relaxed, though a little nervous about being at a sex party.

“You’ll do fine,” I said on the night we met, patting his shoulder. “Just watch or participate as you see fit. If you have questions, you can talk to me or Viviane. Just enjoy the experience.”

That night, Elena had taken Eric under wing. A mother hen by nature, Elena was drawn to Eric’s openness and innocence.

She ushered him into a bedroom as a few of us were fucking.

She encouraged him to undress.

I looked over my shoulder and saw him leaning against a corner, quietly nursing his erection.

At the time, I was fucking Consuela’s face.

At the time, Nate was plowing her ass.

“Come here,” I beckoned to Eric. “Get a closer look.”

Eric ambled over and stood an arm’s length from the bed. He watched as Consuela took my cock into her throat. I would pull out to give her air, then force it back deep. I knew that Consuela liked her cock rough.

“Come here,” I said, slapping my hip. “Let her see you.”

Eric moved closer. I put my arm around his waist, pulling him into our cluster.

He tugged his cock, jerking near her face as she sucked me. I could see that his cock was long and leaned to the left. I pondered God’s generosity to some people, that Eric should be not only handsome and good-natured, but also well endowed.

And smart, Viviane had told me.

“Here, let me handle that,” I said, reaching for Eric’s cock. I took it from his hand and stroked in rhythm to Consuela’s cock sucking.

She looked up to us.

Eric’s body flinched as I touched him. I later realized this was the first time another man had touched him.

At the moment, we were moving too fast to flag such landmarks.

“How about you feed her your cock?” I asked as I massaged Eric’s pole. “You up for that?”

“Uh, sure,” he said, flipping the hair from his eyes.

“Cool.” I took Consuela’s chin in hand, drawing her eyes to mine. “Change of talent, okay?”

“Mmmph,” she replied.

Nate turned up his fucking.

“Okay, people, here we go.” I pulled Eric’s cock close to her face, jerking it near her cheek. I pulled out, turning her chin in the same moment.

She swallowed Eric without missing a beat.

Eric gasped.

“Nice work,” I said, my arm still on Eric’s waist. He latched into Consuela’s rhythm, bouncing his hips back and forth.

Just like that, Eric became one of our gang.

Now, he was back with a group of new friends.

His friend Erik was stretched back as Deidre blew him.

Charlie rode Eric’s cock, facing the room in reverse cowgirl position. Eric’s hand loosely fondled her breasts as she bounced on his lap.

“Those girls are just damn hot,” I whispered to Mark.

“Do you think they are models, really?” he asked.

“Nah, too pretty,” I smiled.

Across the room, John and Verdad watched the foursome. They were each stripped to boxers.

I was reminded of my secret project for the evening.

I crossed to join them. I leaned to Verdad’s ear.

“You having fun, baby?” I whispered.

“This is fucking awesome,” he said, his eyes on the show.

“Yes, it is.” I scruffed his hair.

With no further warning, I leaned forward to kiss his lips.

Verdad’s mouth jumped at contact. He wasn’t expecting this kiss.

I rested my hand on the back of his neck. Give it, my hand told him.

His mouth relaxed into mine.

John turned his eyes to us.

My free hand grazed Verdad’s chest. He jumped slightly.

Give it, I thought to him.

As my hand lightly caressed his belly, Verdad’s body went limp.

I had remembered correctly. The boy surrendered easily.

Verdad had very little sexual experience. When we met at a sex party, I had become the second person to kiss him, to touch him, to fuck him.

Despite this lack of experience—or perhaps enhanced by it—his body was sensual and responsive.

I pushed him back.

Verdad reclined clumsily, resting his head on the futon’s arm.

I pulled back.

“Can you hand me a pillow?” I asked John, never taking my eyes from Verdad.

John passed a pillow to me. I lifted Verdad’s neck and put the pillow behind him.

“Thanks,” he replied.

“Sure,” I said.

I dropped my fingers to his body. His skin tingled at my touch. He sighed.

I could play this boy all night, I thought.

My fingers drifted over his boxers, touching his hard cock through the fabric.

I toyed with the waistband as I kissed him.

I went into his boxers to stroke him.

I pulled back to remove his underwear. He lifted his ass to accommodate me.

Such a sweet, natural submissive, I thought, caressing him.

I leaned forward to take his cock in my mouth.

A wave of pleasure jolted his body. I rested a hand on his chest. Relax, I thought. I’ll take care of this.

“Here’s a sight,” a voice said behind me. “Jefferson sucking cock. I didn’t know he knew how.”

I looked up to see Emma watching us.

“I’ll never be as good as I would like,” I said, holding the head of Verdad’s cock to my lips. “But I like to stay in the game.”

I stroked Verdad, looking up to his face. His eyes were squeezed tight.

I had everything in place for my secret project.


“Yes?” he opened his eyes suddenly, as if shaken from a nap.

“Verdad, do you see Emma watching us?”

He looked up.

“Yes.” His voice cracked.

I continued to stroke his cock as he looked at her.

“I think Emma is extraordinarily beautiful. Don’t you think Emma is a pretty girl?”

“Yes . . .”

I rested my free hand on her hip, drawing her a step closer. I kept my pulsing tugs on his cock.

“I really like to taste her pussy too,” I said. I looked up at Emma as I took my tongue to her slit.

She spread her thighs slightly.

Emma was wet as I buried my nose in her pubic hair.

Verdad’s cock throbbed in my hand.

I pulled back, leaving my finger in Emma. “You should taste her,” I said. I leaned forward and kissed Verdad, giving my tongue to his.

He moaned.

I pulled back to lick his cock, never removing my hand from him.

Verdad twitched in ecstasy.

“Now your mouth and cock know Emma, as they know my mouth,” I smiled. “But really, I’d like to try something. I want to lick Emma while I suck you.”

“Okay . . . “ Verdad whispered.

As if he had a choice in the matter.

I looked up to Emma. Her face beamed. She enjoyed teasing games. She liked that I had Verdad pinned like a butterfly to velvet.

“Emma, would you please sit over Verdad’s legs?” I asked.

“If you wouldn’t mind taking your finger from my pussy,” she said.

I complied with her request and she complied with mine, lowering herself over his thighs.

“A little higher on his body, please.”

Emma scooted forward on her knees. “Like this?”

“A little more.”

She pushed forward. Her pussy was just above the base of Verdad’s cock. His eyes were on her as I stroked him.

“Perfect, thanks,” I said. I turned to Verdad. “Such a beautiful girl.” My hand caressed her breasts. Verdad’s hands were limp by his side.

He was apparently unable to move.

A crowd was forming around us. John watched us, glancing back to see the foursome across the room. Mark and Mitzi stood nude behind Emma. Shelby was fully clothed, sitting behind John.

I glanced at Shelby and smiled.

“The beauty of this position,” I mused aloud. “Is that I can suck cock . . . “ I took Verdad into my mouth, then released him. “ . . . and lick pussy, all at the same time.” I leaned into Emma’s slit. She fingered herself open, allowing my tongue to reach her clit.

Verdad’s cock bobbed under my touch.

“But is it really all about you?” Emma asked. “Is this good for anyone else?”

I pulled back and looked to her. “Actually, this is a very good moment for Verdad to fuck you, if you would like.”

“That’s kind of what I was thinking,” she said.

“Mitzi, could you hand me a condom?” I asked. She unwrapped a condom and passed it to me. I looked at Verdad. “Sweet boy, I’m going to put your cock in the pretty girl. You ready?”

Verdad nodded, entirely at a loss for words.

I began to unroll the condom on his cock. He was going limp in my hand.


Stay with me, sweet boy, I thought. I took him into my mouth, my hand sparking the nerve endings of his chest.

He grew hard in me.

I pulled back to roll on the condom.

I licked a finger and massaged Emma’s clit. She had given me the secret combination; I knew how to pull her to a fast orgasm.

Verdad watched as she buckled over him.

“You can do this too,” I said. Emma raised her body.

I lifted Verdad’s cock.

She lowered herself onto him.

Verdad’s body jumped in response.

His mouth dropped open as he watched Emma take his virginity.

My secret project was complete.

Verdad had confessed his virginity to me on the night we met. He was bisexual, he said, but had only been with one man and no women.

I couldn’t just let that alone.

For my birthday, I had wanted to give back two things. I wanted to help Erin find her inner lesbian, and I wanted Verdad’s virginity.

Emma had helped me to accomplish both projects.

“Here,” I said, taking Verdad’s wrist in my hand. “You can touch her.”

I lead his hand over her shoulders and breasts. He quivered as she slowly rode him.

I took his index finger, leading it to her clit. I massaged her with it.

“Like this,” I said. He followed as we touched her.

I leaned to his ear.

“I’m going to go now. I need to put my cock in Emma’s mouth. You are in charge.”

“Okay . . .,” he managed.

I stood and smiled.

I kissed Emma.

Then I stood over Verdad and gave my cock to Emma’s mouth.

I looked to her eyes.

I noticed John watching.

“Verdad’s a good cocksucker too,” I said, nodding over my shoulder. “Try him out.”

“Thanks, I will,” John said, lowering his boxers. He gave his large cock to Verdad’s mouth.

Mitzi crawled across the bed slow and feline, and nudged against Emma’s face. The two of them passed my cock back and forth.

Shelby watched, smiling and impressed by it all. She had pretty much cashed in her chips on group sex, but she still loved to watch her man go at it.

“Baby, come here.” I leaned forward to kiss Shelby. “Please suck me,” I whispered.

Shelby joined Mitzi in blowing me.

Emma focused on the teenager she was riding.

I looked down at Verdad, his eyes squeezed shut, his hands on Emma’s hips, his mouth full of John’s cock, his virginity slipping back into his childhood.

I looked across the room. Mark was joining the frieze of sex transpiring on the twin bed.

Gabriel smiled at me. I smiled back.

This was unquestionably about as hot as it gets.

And yet my cock was flaccid and utterly unresponsive.

Two weeks of wall-to-wall sex had taken its toll.

I had lost my mojo.

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Fleshbot and Family

This week, my Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot pays homage to those who keep it simple—the reliable fuck buddies and casual pick ups who see us through.

Honestly, there should be a parade in their honor.

That march may have to wait for now, but in the meantime, parading perverts do have the happy coincidence of the annual pairing of the Mermaid Parade and the Gay Pride Parade, which took place this Saturday and Sunday, respectively.

You want public displays of affection, exhibitionistic antics and naked flesh? Why then, there’s no better time to be in the city!

However, if you are a pervert who happens to be a parent, it was also a good time to get the hell out of Dodge.

My kids have no interest in standing about gawking at painted tits or exposed hustler cock. Evidently, those acorns fell a little afield of the oak.

This weekend, Bridget and I loaded my progeny into a big-ass rented van and guzzled our gasses out New Jersey way for a respite down the shore.

It rained on us all.

Mother Nature makes no distinction between topless wanna-be sea urchins, hot mama dykes on bikes, gyrating go-go boys or our clique, a mild-mannered family seeking gaming diversions on the Boardwalk.

I can’t discount the weather to bad luck, though. If you want evidence of my family’s good fortune, you need look no further than the mountains of stuffed animals now scattered throughout my apartment—all won as prizes, and all freshly christened by Collie and Lillie.

The kids spent the evening hard at work on genealogies linking the new arrivals to old favorites in the blended family of their combined menagerie—just as they have come to see Bridget as “Dad’s cool friend” who belongs in our inner circle.

As I write, some fluffy fortunates among these adopted kin are already tucked in with their new mama and papa.

Ain’t life grand?

It’s Sunday night and the kids are in bed. I’m going to pour a bourbon, turn up The Big Broadcast, and write smut for you.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006


I kissed Mitzi at the door.

She looked past my shoulder.

“Jefferson,” she whispered. “Who are all these people?”

I looked back. “Yeah, it’s a big party tonight. See that really cute guy with the dark hair? The rock-star looking guy? That’s Eric, a friend of Viviane’s. He brought his friend, Erik, and they brought the two model-looking blondes—Charlie is on the left, and that’s Deidre leaning against the bar.” I leaned to whisper. “Her name really is Deidre Van Pelt. Like Linus and Lucy!”

“Two Erics?”

“One with a ‘k,’ one with a ‘c.’ Or, as they put it, ‘Good Eric’—that’s Viviane’s friend—and ‘Bad Erik,’ who is the curly-haired one.”

“Uh huh,” Mitzi eyes flashed. “And who is that child on the couch?”

“I take it you aren’t referring to Shelby.”

“No, I’m referring to that little boy sitting on your couch.”

I felt a little sheepish. “That would be Verdad.”

Mitzi looked at me. “You fucked that little boy? How old is he, twelve?”

“No, Mitzi, he’s nineteen. I fucked him just after his birthday.” I looked to the couch. “He does look very young, doesn’t he?”

“Jefferson, he is very young.” She shook her head, taking the bag from her shoulder. “You are definitely going to hell—you know that, don’t you?”

“Oh, that much seems certain,” I nodded. I tugged my ear. “So, you want some wine?”

I didn’t really expect Mitzi to approve of Verdad.

That’s why she wasn’t part of my secret project.

Mitzi and I poured glasses and moved to the living room. I introduced her to new faces in the group.

Mitzi sat on the floor next to Emma. They kissed hellos.

I returned to the couch to sit between Verdad and Shelby.

Seeing them side-by-side, I thought back on the odd transference when I first met Verdad. At that time, I had gone a while without Shelby, and I missed her pretty badly.

I realized that I missed her more than I knew when Verdad showed up at my all-male orgy. There he was, nude, and I thought how hot it was that he looked so much like Shelby.

Both were young, with pale smooth skin and hair that was naturally jet black (though Shelby kept hers streaked with magenta highlights).

So naturally, that night I had fucked Verdad for a couple of hours.

I mean, I wanted Shelby so I just had to fuck Verdad.

That makes sense, right?

Now that they sat as bookends at either side of me, I could see that the resemblance was entirely a product of my fevered imagination. They were each very cute, that’s all.

I noticed that Verdad was wearing a black Death Cab for Cutie t-shirt, backed with concert dates.

“Oh, hey, you saw Death Cab?” I asked. “I want to see them. They were great on ‘Saturday Night Live.’”

“Man, Death Cab is awesome live,” Verdad said. “You really have to see them.”

“Ew, emo kid!” Shelby scoffed, laughing.

“Excuse me?” Verdad asked.

“You like emo music, man.”

“Now, be nice,” I said, patting Shelby’s thigh. “I don’t think Death Cab is really all that emo anyway, do you?”

“It’s music for emo kids,” Shelby asserted.

Verdad looked down at the floor.

“There, there,” I said. “Shelby didn’t mean to be mean, she’s just a cruel music snob.” I looked at her. “And a pirate.”

“Arrrrr!” Shelby snarled.

Shelby has no patience for most people her own age.

I didn’t really expect Shelby to approve of Verdad.

That’s why she wasn’t part of my secret project.

This was the first sex party since my birthday two weeks before. That gathering had come at the top of my planned birthday week of wall-to-wall sex.

Now, it was two weeks later, and my birthday week showed no sign of giving up my calendar.

At this subsequent party, we had set the date aside to celebrate another birthday, that of my transsexual girlfriend Farahnaz. Alas, as the date approached, she was felled by food poisoning. And so we were left with a party lacking its birthday girl.

Still, we did have cause to celebrate.

I tinked my wine glass, speaking over the room’s conversations. “Excuse me, people? People? May I have your attention, please?”

Everyone went silent and turned to me.

“Thanks—sorry to interrupt, but I have an announcement. First of all, our sympathies go out to Farahnaz, who was too ill to join us tonight for her birthday . . .”

“To Farahnaz!” Mitzi raised her glass.

“Huzzah,” someone cheered.

“To Princess Farahnaz,” I echoed. “But fortunately, we are provided with a second cause for commemoration. For it was one year ago tonight that Mitzi and I first met.”

I smiled at Mitzi.

“Aww!” Emma patted Mitzi’s back. “How sweet—an anniversary!”

“That’s right,” I continued. “On this date last year, I hosted a male orgy. I fucked a few guys and then went over to Mitzi’s . . . where we had some very fine sex.”

“It’s also another anniversary,” Mitzi noted.

“This is true,” I nodded.

She turned to the guests. “It was one year ago tonight that you made me cum with your mouth, Jefferson, and . . . ,” she paused, “ . . . it was also the last time.”

Shelby gasped.

“It’s true,” I shrugged. “Once we discovered high schooling and such, well . . . I guess I don’t often linger south of the Mason-Dixon line.”

“Shame!” Mark laughed.

“So tonight, Mitzi and I have a little wager,” I said, rubbing my palms together. “If I give her an orgasm from oral sex, she will serve me a salad with fine shaved Romano cheese. And if I fail to do so . . .”

“The salad is mine!” Mitzi cheered.

“Well, not so fast, Miss Mitzi. I’m giving it my all.”

“Let’s hope you’ve got what it takes,” Emma teased.

“Oh, I’m ready,” I replied, full of confidence. “I’ve been practicing. I’m gung ho. In fact, let’s do this thing now.” I stood and reached to Mitzi. “Ready to lose a salad?”

Mitzi stood and took my hand. “I’d really rather lose than win this wager, Jefferson.”

“You just ready the salad spinner.” We headed to the hallway. “But wait,” I stopped. "I want a witness for this. Gabriel?”

Gabriel looked up from his quiet conversation with Charlie. “Yes, Jefferson?”

“Can you join us, please? I think we may need a judge on this contest.”

Gabriel looked back to the leggy blonde by his side. “Do you really need me?”


Gabriel stood and took Charlie’s hand in his. He leaned to kiss it, excusing himself.

“Suave motherfucker,” I whispered to Mitzi.

Gabriel stepped around the guests sitting on the floor to follow us down the hall.

My bedroom was dimly lit by candles placed throughout. I turned Mitzi in my arms and took her face in my hands.

“Look at my face, you cute brown-eyed thing.” She raised her gaze to mine. I took in her soft lids and long lashes. “Tonight,” I said. “You cum on my tongue.”

Mitzi shifted from one side to another, fidgeting with anticipation. “Yes, Jefferson.”

Gabriel sat in a chair as I began to undress Mitzi.

I unfastened the wrap of her smart, gauzy black dress.

Mitzi kept her eyes trained on me.

I kissed her, removing her bra.

I cupped her breasts and suckled a nipple.

Mitzi moaned as the sensation shot down her torso, connecting her breasts to her clit.

My fingers slid into her panties, lightly teasing her clit and labia as my other hand firmly grabbed her ass.

She was in my hands now, and my hands signaled their intentions: we can go about this gently or by force.

But you will give me what I want.

My hands led Mitzi to the bed.

She reclined.

My hands took her panties.

She spread her legs to my touch. My hands left her pussy to roam her legs, but my eyes never left hers.

Gabriel leaned forward.

I shed my shirt, and dropped my pants.

I smiled as I positioned my body over hers.

Slowly, I lowered myself to her. My flesh met hers lightly.

Mitzi’s eyes jumped as she moaned.

This is going to be one tasty salad, I thought.

I brushed my lips over Mitzi’s. She opened her mouth, expecting a kiss.

I wasn’t playing to expectations, though. I passed over her cheeks, taking my tongue to slowly trace the length of her neck. I breathed in the scent of her vanilla perfume.

Her flesh turned to goose skin under my tongue. I gave it to her wet and unwavering.

Focus on my tongue, I thought to her. It can do so many things.

My tongue ascended a breast, shivering with light breaths.

At her nipple, my tongue flicked. The touch was rapid, lighting on her like a hummingbird.

She arched under me, moaning again.

I lowered my lips to suckle, pinching her opposite nipple and tugging.

I remained in place, recalling that for some women, the better part of pussy licking can happen on the breasts.

Mitzi was definitely a tit woman.

My salad dreams imagined I might make her cum with my mouth before ever tasting pussy.

But as she writhed under me, my fingers could not resist knowing if she was wet. Discovering that she was, my fingers signaled my mouth.

My tongue was beckoned to join my wet fingers.

Why not, I thought, as I lazily traced my tongue along her belly.

I lingered to flick her naval ring, just to let her know where I was.

She twisted in response.

I could already taste shaved Romano.

I leaned forward, rubbing my hair against her soft skin. As I turned my head, I caught a glimpse of Gabriel, shifting in his seat.

I smiled at him. He smiled back.

My tongue fell directly to her clit. No notice, no warning—I dropped in with an immediate landing.

Mitzi gave a startled cry, as if this was the last thing on earth she expected.

I knew her body. I knew to tease her clit for a good while, circling it, occasionally drifting the full muscle of my tongue to her delicate fold of skin.

Each time I crossed her clitoral hood, she responded with a jolt.

I wondered if I would request bacon bits on my salad.

I went in for the kill.

I wrapped my lips around her clit. My tongue could feel that it was fully swollen. Flicking and sucking, I gave it to her full force.

Mitzi arched her back and moaned.

It was coming.

Come on, baby—give me the salad.

I dug in, relentless.

Mitzi’s legs quivered.

I was ready.

She was ready.

I kept going.

She kept going.

But her orgasm proved elusive. It stubbornly refused to appear on cue, though we rehearsed every line flawlessly.

“Jefferson, Jefferson,” Mitzi sighed, taking my cheek in her hand. “I can’t do it right now. I’m sorry.”

I looked up. Her sad eyes floated above her breasts. “No, don’t be sorry, dear,” I said. “We’ll try again later.”

I moved to hold her.

Gabriel stood. “Hey, if you guys don’t need me, can I go? I was trying to make progress with that blonde goddess.”

“Sure, sure,” I waved. “Good luck.”

Mitzi pulled me close.

I nuzzled into her neck, letting the scent of vanilla chase away my craving for Romano.

I was discouraged, but not so much so that I gave up. I would not win my salad that night.

But I persevered. By the week’s end, I had accomplished my task. Mitzi gushed in my mouth, her moans calling in my ears as we ended a year of an overlooked orgasm.

As she relaxed in the afterglow, I took advantage of her content to gently request a stay on my lost wager. She granted it with satisfied nod.

At our next meal, we shared the task of making a fine salad.

But on the night of the sex party, I was disappointed that I had not fared well on my evening’s public project.

I hoped to do better on the secret project.

Monday, June 19, 2006

Odd Man Out

“Hey, Jefferson!” Erin greeted me at the door. She kissed my cheek and handed me a bottle of Merlot. “So, is that you, Shelby?”

Erin waved at the woman sitting the couch, hugging her knees to her chin. “Yeah, hey,” Shelby waved back. “I’d get up but . . . I think I want to sit for now.”

“No worries, I’d rather sit too,” Erin grinned. She kicked off her shoes and fairly bounded to Shelby’s side.

Erin was wound with nervous energy. Shelby and I were much more subdued, slightly dazed and still adjusting to the jarring coitus interruptus prompted by Erin’s arrival.

We had quickly dressed as Erin made her way upstairs from the lobby. As Shelby pulled on a pair of my pajama bottoms, she told me she didn’t intend to jerk off with the rest of us. “I’m just staying to watch, man.”

“Whatever you like, baby,” I nodded.

Erin took in Shelby’s wane smile and turned to me. She noticed that Shelby and I were in pajama bottoms and t-shirts. “So, what have you two been up to?,” she asked knowingly.

I shrugged. “Oh, the usual, I guess.” I held up the wine bottle. “You want I should open this? I’m having bourbon myself.”

“Oh, let’s go to bourbon, thanks,” Erin nodded. “You too, Shelby?”

Shelby looked up. “Uh, no, I’ll get it . . . ,” she began to stand.

“You just rest easy, sweet invalid,” I said. “I know what you want: vodka and ginger ale, with a stick?”

Shelby sat back and laughed. “You can handle it? ‘Cause, you know, I’ll let you.”

I kissed the part in Shelby’s hair, drawing her into my nostrils. I held her scent, savoring her.

From the kitchen, I listened as the girls got acquainted. Erin drove the conversation, recalling things she knew about Shelby from our blogs.

Shelby adjusted to the eager attention of the effusive woman who seemed to know a lot about her.

I returned with the drinks. We sipped to my toast, something about the night ahead and nights beyond.

I let the bourbon settle in the back of my throat as I camped at the stereo. I had no idea what to play.

Shelby laughed, warming to Erin. My laid-back jailbait girlfriend could be initially shy, especially around outgoing people.

But Shelby was equipped with a state-of-the-art bullshit detector. Her gut told her that Erin was one of the good people.

“God, I’m so relaxed right now,” I said. “I could go for Emmylou Harris, but is that too mellow? I mean, Radiohead is fine too.”

“Whatever you want, baby,” Shelby said. “Or I can get my iPod.”

“I like Radiohead,” Erin nodded.

“I frigging love Radiohead,” Shelby agreed, sitting up.

“We aren’t talking about Radiohead anymore,” I replied. “Because we are listening to this.” I closed the CD drawer and pushed play.

Strings, slow and easy. A repeated note on the piano.

A baritone, in no hurry.

Ooh . . . ev’ry time we say goodbye . . .
I die a little . . .
Ev’ry time . . . we say . . . goodbye . . .
I wonder why a little . . .

“Hey, Ray Charles,” Erin said.

“Ray Charles,” I said. “But wait.”

He sang on, slowly over the gentle arrangement. He drifted to the length of a pop song.

“That’s nice,” Erin said.

“Wait,” I said. I took another sip of bourbon and let it rest as the background singers swelled. And then:

Ev’ry ti-ii-ime . . . we say . . . goodbye . . .
I die . . . a little . . .
Ev’ry time . . . we sa-aa-ay . . . goodbye . . .
I wonder why-yy-yy a lit-tle . . .

“Whoa,” Erin said.

“Betty Carter,” I swallowed my bourbon. “Man, I grew up on Ray Charles. But I remember the first time I heard this moment, when his familiar soothing voice meet hers in your ears, and it was, just, so unsettling and strange and . . . I dunno, odd. Blew my mind. It’s like, Betty Carter . . . I don’t know how to say it, but she . . . her art was so strong that she could even change how you listened to Ray Charles. You know?”

“She’s a musician, man,” Shelby said.

“Never heard of her,” Erin said.

“She’s the shit,” I said, closing the stereo cabinet.

We talked as Ray Charles and Betty Carter tussled, giving and taking the lead over standards.

Erin and Shelby eased into one another, Shelby waking to Erin’s energy, Erin slowing to Shelby’s tempo. I let them go, sitting on the floor, following their lead, listing to their voices.

“I think I’m overdressed here,” Erin interjected. “You guys are in pajamas, and I’m still in street clothes.”

“You can be in pajamas too,” I smiled.

Shelby directed her to my drawer of pajamas.

Emma arrived to find the three of us laughing in sleepwear and listening to romantic music.

“Did I miss the party?” she asked, putting down her bag. “Or did I misread the invitation, and this is a girl's pajama party?”

“You are the party, dear,” I kissed her. I let slide the allusion to her recurring assertion that I am a girl. “Emma, this is Erin.”

“Hi Erin,” Emma shook her hand. “I think I’ve worn those pajama bottoms.”

“Do you sleep in them?” Erin asked.

“No, I sleep nude,” Emma smiled, kissing Shelby’s cheek. “Well, come to think of it, I do a lot of things nude here.”

“Yes,” I nodded, handing her a drink. “You look very uncharacteristic in all those clothes. May I relieve you of them?”

Emma shrugged as she sipped her bourbon. “If you want.”

I shrugged. “Whatever.” I took back Emma’s glass and set it aside as I began to remove her blouse.

Erin turned to Shelby. “She’s been here like, two minutes, and he’s undressing her?”

Shelby shrugged. “Whatever!”

“He likes to imagine he’s very persuasive,” Emma said as I struggled with her bra. “Do you need help with that, honey?”

“Nope, I want the practice . . . okay, that’s one clasp down . . .”

“You really are pathetic with that,” Emma teased.

“I have so little experience . . . okay, that’s two . . . and three.”

“Finally.” I removed Emma’s bra, exposing her large, smooth breasts.

I handed Emma her drink. She took another sip.

Erin had the look of someone trying not to look.

It seemed to be dawning on Erin that she was really here, in this moment, and would soon be touching a nude woman—maybe two—not to mention the man now unfastening the pants of a half-naked blonde.

I eased Emma’s pants down her thighs. She stepped from them gingerly, taking care to avoid spilling her drink.

“Let’s dispense with these as well.” I tugged at her slender panties.

“Be my guest.”

I slowly lowered Emma’s panties with an eye toward the audience on the couch.

I knew Shelby was hot for Emma.

I could see that Erin was growing flushed.

I stood and kissed Emma. She held her drink to one side, nonchalantly taking my kiss.

“Would you be more comfortable on the couch?” I asked.

“I’m very comfortable standing,” Emma smiled. “But I’ll sit on the couch if you like.”


Erin moved to one side, edging closer to Shelby.

Emma rested her drink on a side table and sat back on the couch. I sat on the coffee table facing her.

I leaned forward to kiss her legs.

My lips traveled up her body to her lips. My fingers moved around her nipples.

“Be careful, they’re sensitive,” Emma said.

“Yeah man, you have to warn him. He really fucked up my nipples before you got here.” Shelby leaned across Erin and tweaked my chest.

“Ouch!” I complained.

“He dishes it out, but he can’t take it,” Shelby taunted.

“He’s such a pussy,” Emma laughed.

“Yes, I’m a pussy, all right,” I agreed, running my fingers through the slight tuft of Emma’s blonde pubic hair.

Erin was quiet, taking in our banter.

I slipped a finger into Emma, pressing up.

Her head went back. Her eyes closed instinctively.

I lowered my lips to her clit and latched on.

Emma’s spine jumped. Her cheeks went red. She convulsed in two jolts, then came on my lips.

“Whoa,” Erin said.

“Yeah, she’s fast,” Shelby nodded.

Emma opened her eyes. She looked to me, and then turned to Erin.

She raised a hand to Erin’s cheek, drawing her into a kiss.

“She’s fast, all right,” I agreed. I sat back, my hands on my knees.

If Erin was taken aback, her surprise didn’t last long. Her hand followed the course charted by her eyes, drawn first to Emma’s breasts, then down to her wetness.

Emma tugged at Erin’s pajama bottoms. “Can we get rid of these?”

“I don’t know,” Erin said, between kisses. “I’m a little more shy than you.”

“Oh, we know all about shy girls,” Emma said, slipping her hand into the waistband of Erin’s pajamas.

Erin’s pajamas were soon on the floor.

Emma moved her lips over Erin’s face as she traced a finger over the shy girl’s clit. Erin slid two fingers into Emma, chasing the rapid-fire orgasm she had witnessed.

Shelby leaned forward, slipping two of her own fingers into Erin.

I stood and undressed. I smiled at Shelby, suddenly the most clothed of our group. She looked up and grinned, but her eyes drifted back to her fingers inside Erin.

I stroked my cock as I watched.

Erin pulled an orgasm from Emma very quickly.

“Fuck,” she whispered as Emma came in her hand.

Shelby ran her free hand over Erin’s belly, exposing her naval.

Erin turned quickly. “No, wait, I want to keep my shirt on,” she said.

I was reminded that this was all very new to Erin. She was diving into the deep end, but she really was nervous about having sex with women, much less three people she barely knew. She knew she was free to bail at any time, but she hoped to sally forth—so long as she didn’t freak out.

“Cool man,” Shelby smirked. “Keep your shirt, but I’m taking your pussy.”

“That, you can do.”

“Perhaps everyone would be more comfortable if we took our pussies into the bedroom,” I suggested.

Everyone agreed this was a fine suggestion. The women extracted their hands from one another’s bodies and stood to follow me.

Along the way, Shelby recovered her reticence. She settled into a chair to watch.

I smiled at her.

“If I may make another suggestion,” I began. “Emma, would you be a dear and sit on Erin’s face? She’s never eaten pussy, you know.”

Emma turned to Erin. “Never, ever?”

Erin laughed. “Never, ever.”

“Well then, I’m going take your virginity.” Emma kissed Erin, who was growing accustomed to the feel of soft lips on her own.

Emma stepped forward as she kissed her, edging Erin back onto the bed. Erin reclined as Emma crawled over her, bringing her kisses across flesh and back to lips.

Emma pulled up, whispering something to Erin. Erin nodded.

Emma stood on my bed, steadying herself with her hands on the wall. She smiled down to Erin as she slowly lowered herself to squat over Erin’s waiting mouth.

Erin held Emma’s pussy in her hands, raising her tongue to lick and swirl.

“That’s it . . . that’s really good,” Emma said, her hair falling in her face. She began to grind slowly over Erin’s face.

Erin’s legs twitched and flayed as her excitement grew.

I sat beside Erin, caressing her bare legs.

I coaxed my fingers into her pussy, already moist from Shelby’s attentions. I fluffed Erin’s pubic hair, which she kept full and luxuriant.

“No baby,” Emma said to her charge. “Don’t nibble it. No teeth.”

Erin mumbled an apology.

“It’s okay,” Emma said, her drawl soft and soothing, so encouraging.

Wanting to assist in Emma’s instruction, I began to lick Erin. Perhaps it would help, I thought, if I offered a good example.

My tongue divided Erin’s labia and slid up to her clit. I tried a few motions to see what appealed.

She went for a slow, lapping lick.

And that’s what I gave her.

My cock was throbbing from the taste of Erin as she tasted Emma, and the feel of Shelby’s eyes on us.

My own eyes were trained on Emma’s back and ass, watching Erin below her.

Instinct took over. I opened my drawer and pulled out a condom. I wanted to fuck Erin, resting my cheek on the cool flesh of Emma’s back, as my sweet Shelby watched.

I ripped open the condom package.

“Wait, wait,” Erin said, jumping at the sound of torn foil. There was an edge of panic in her voice, as if her body was exposed but she was trapped under Emma. “I don’t want to get fucked—okay, Jefferson?”

My hands stopped, the condom only slightly unrolled on my cock.

Of course she didn’t want to get fucked. We had talked about that.

“Sorry, Erin, my dick went into overdrive. I know, and it’s cool.” I leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “You enjoy your pussy—I think I’m going to take a little break.”

I tugged off the condom, tossing it into a trashcan.

I kissed Emma’s cheek.

I got up from the bed, and sat in a chair. I caught Shelby’s eye across the room. She blew me a kiss.

I raised my glass to her. The bourbon drifted to the back of my throat. I sat back to watch, my cock still jumping in my lap.

I could hear Ray Charles and Betty Carter drifting from the living room.

I listened for noise of traffic, punctuated by Emma’s sighs. I took comfort in familiar sounds. My city. My lover. My music.

In time, Erin’s legs began to twitch again.

Shelby raised an eyebrow.

I gestured magnanimously. Be my guest, I mouthed.

Shelby stood and lowered her pajama bottoms. She tugged the shirt over her head.

She kept her panties in place.

She lowered her face between Erin’s legs.

I took another slug and settled back to watch. I knew how to crunch the numbers.

One man and one woman: intense, fulfilling sex.

One man and two women: challenging, ambitious threesome.

One man and three women: uh, why’s that dude here?

Tonight, I would leave the sex to the women.

The next morning, I woke in bed with Emma. Shelby slept across the room.

Erin was out cold in my bed.

I smiled to see her, remembering how I had shooed away the girls when Erin began to nod off.

I was naked in the kitchen drinking orange juice when Erin appeared at the door.

She was in her t-shirt and blue panties.

“You gave me your bed last night,” she said.

“Of course, you’re company,” I smiled. I kissed her cheek. “Did you sleep well?”

“Dude, I slept like a fucking rock. They wore me out.”

“They are very good lesbians,” I smiled. “And now, so are you. How about some juice, carpet muncher?”

Erin laughed and kissed my cheek.

“Thanks for making me lezzie, Jefferson. Not every guy would do that, y’know.”

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Fleshbot and Father's Day

So yesterday, I was walking with a very-well fucked girl half my age.

We passed an office building. A security guard was standing in the door. He looked at us and smiled. “Happy Father’s Day,” he nodded.

I thanked him kindly.

“He thinks you are my father!,” she laughed, once we were out of earshot. “But really, you are just some old man I fuck.”

Ain’t life a kick in the pants?

The girl was sent packing and the afternoon was spent in the splendid company of the Perverts’ Saloon, the assembled sex bloggers of New York City. Selina and Viviane had the grand idea of organizing a tea party, and invited me to host it.

I’m glad for any opportunity to haul out my good silver.

Will you look at this spread?

Yes, those are scones.

Once the perverts had their fill, the evening was passed in the company two women, one needing a lesson in caning, the other needing to lose her girlginity.

I’d like to tell you more, but it’s Father’s Day and the children are doing housework as a gift to me.

So, um, I’d better supervise.

I’m just checking in to give you your weekly Sex Blog Roundup, as posted at Fleshbot.

By the by, thanks to everyone who has responded to the call for blogs in my previous post. Thanks also to those who have befriended me over at MySpace. Look at those profiles in my Friend Space—do I not have the hottest readers?

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Fleshbot and Reading

I’m gay.

It’s official.

I’m gay because last night, I was in the audience cheering as Rufus Wainwright recreated Judy Garland’s legendary 1961 concert at Carnegie Hall.

I’m gay, but I’m not alone. The house was packed by about three thousand of us friends of Dorothy, including Mitzi and Viviane.

Now they, too, are certifiably "bachelors of a certain age."

And tonight, Rufus is doing it again. Even as I write, he is singing of the zing-zing-zing of his (or Judy’s?) heartstrings.

If heaven is not a lot like offering homage to Judy Garland in the company of a few thousand ecstatic queens, well then, Saint Peter can give up my reservations.

Not to rub salt in the wounds of those aching for great live music, but on the last night before we became gay men, Mitzi and I were in the sold-out crowd buzzing our brains to Radiohead.




Some week!

So my apologies for the delay in giving you my weekly Sex Blog Roundup. You know, you can always look for it at Fleshbot each weekend.

So what else is new? Well, when I have not been having enviable sex and attending enviable concerts, I’ve been catching up on reading.

I polished off At Canaan’s Edge, the final volume of Taylor Branch’s trilogy on Martin Luther King, Jr. and America in his years. (Not to give away the ending, but it doesn’t turn out well for the Reverend Doctor.)

I’ve read the series as it was published over the past two decades. Branch did a masterly job of compiling stories from primary and secondary sources, weaving it all into a compelling narrative that avoids hagiography and muckracking in favor of a deeply engaging human story.

I also gave in and became the last person alive to read The Da Vinci Code.

I think I might have liked it better as the comic book it aches to be.

It’s unfair to compare such different authors as Branch and Dan Brown. But I will say this: at one point in Branch’s book, I ran across a particularly graceful turn of a phrase in describing Bayard Rustin, a central figure in King’s life. It was simple and perfect. As I reread it, I thought it rather impressive that in writing on Rustin for twenty years, Branch had never used those particular words in that particular combination. And nowhere else in this thousand-page volume did that phrase recur. If you blinked, you missed it.

Whereas Dan Brown would probably find his brain hurting if he were forbidden to use the word “astounding” more than twice in a three-page chapter.

Now, my nightstand is fitful, as it will be after finishing so time-consuming a book as At Canaan’s Edge. I flit between Estelle Freedman’s history of feminism, No Turning Back, a disappointing biography of J. D. Salinger, and starting Ross King’s promising The Judgment of Paris.

(Please note that big bad dom Jefferson is well-read on nonviolence and feminism. If you ask me, anyone in BDSM who is ignorant of these topics should pack up his Lord of the Rings action figures and go home.)

And of course, in the midst of it all, I’m reading sex blogs.

Which brings me to my point: I want to read mo’ better sex blogs.

I offer my current reading list by way of suggesting that I am a fairly catholic reader. I enjoy meaty social history and I enjoy—or rather, will read—popular fiction. I am equally content to read about a broad range of subjects in sex blogs.

Mo’ better sex blogs will help me to fulfill my charge in rounding up a good selection each week.

My friends kid me that I spend time reading about sex and calling it “work.” But you know, it ain’t as easy as it looks.

As I compile my Roundup, I am faced with a few constraints—some imposed by myself, some by Fleshbot, others by circumstances.

For starters, I don’t include my co-editor Chelsea Girl in my Roundup, just as she doesn’t include me in hers. Mind you, I think her blog is almost as brilliant as the woman who writes it (I say “almost” only because she really is that brilliant). But it’s only right to omit one another, as we each get a regular turn at putting our names before the Fleshbot readership. We use that opportunity to put others in the spotlight.

Furthermore, if Chelsea Girl includes a blog in her Roundup, it is off the list for mine, and vice versa.

We are that pure.

This is not a problem for my esteemed colleague, but as for me, I’m not inclined to include blog entries that feature me having sex. That just seems, I don’t know . . . unseemly. People may think that I was trading sex for influence when, in fact, I just happen to be having hot sex with some of the hottest sex writers in the blogosphere.

So I will largely leave it to you to keep track of Madeline, Marcus, Rose and Meg.

Chelsea Girl may add these fine writers to her Roundup as she chooses.

(If you want to have sex with me and still appear in the Roundup, be advised that you shouldn’t also sleep with Chelsea Girl. Career-minded authors will refrain from threesomes with us.)

Fleshbot readers want diversity, and so I can’t return to featured blogs as often as I might like. So while I am a very enthusiastic follower of many blogs—including, among others, Sexy UK Girl, Naked Loft Party, Fallen Girl Falling, The Holiday Life, Sugar Baby Weekly, The Glengarry Leads, Sex and the Second City, and newcomer Black Geisha—there are only so many times they can be highlighted by either Chelsea Girl or myself.

This leaves me with the rest of you. If you would like your blog included in the Roundup, may I ask a few favors?

Make yourself known. I can’t read blogs I haven’t uncovered. Please introduce yourself by dropping me a line at

Take care in your writing. At the very least, run a spell check before you post. I would prefer not to feature blogs replete with typos. Also, be sure your page layout is legible. I won’t strain my eyes reading tiny fonts over busy wallpaper.

Make it sexy. It doesn’t matter to me one whit if you write fantasy or fact, straight or queer, monogamous or slutty. Just remember that your readers want steamy, juicy sex. Go for the libido.

Make it smart. Smart is sexy, so maybe this is redundant. But when you write smut, ask yourself: what makes this interesting to other people? Can you convey something other than how awesome it is to get some? Go for the brain.

Develop characters. Tell us more about the people behind the bodies in motion. Your readers will respond when they recognize a human being in your personal porn stars.

All of this talk about writing has me itching to return to my own narrative. And so we turn back to our tale, in which Erin’s arrival finds Jefferson and Shelby in a rather compromised position . . .

Sunday, June 11, 2006


I looked back and smiled as Shelby took my fingers.

We had made this walk to my bedroom so many times.

We made a practice of being together before others arrived to join us.

To share us.

We touched this time alone as our home base, establishing that our bond was secure and not to be undone by what may come.

Never entirely sure of what may come.

She kissed me as we stood next to the bed. My cock grew into her as my fingers lighted across her body, already nude, like mine, and equally attuned to the lightness of the air surrounding us.

The air between us vanished as we fell back onto the bed.

Shelby’s kisses told me she was excited by the prospect of being with me and two women in short order. She was making love to me, of course, and in love with me. But my body was shifting in her mind, transposed to become those she would soon touch.

I was glad to be the vehicle to her desire for others, the man in the place of the women she anticipated.

Her hand tugged the cock pressing her smooth slit.

“You really have to fuck me now,” she said.

We each sighed as I entered her, feeling that familiar rush of warmth as our minds surrendered to our bodies. Blood shifted course midstream, enlarging me within her, grasping me into her.

I buried my face to her neck. My hips drove into her.

She clutched my back.

I listened to the quickening of her breath. My eyes were nuzzled to her hair, but I would envision her face as she pushed to her orgasm. I could match the closing of her eyes to the tightening on my cock. I held deep in her, prepared to resist the expulsion of her muscles, an involuntary response that came with the high wail of her moan.

“Oh God, oh God . . .”

I clutched her body and held firm as she roared.

“Unnh . . . arrr-unnh!” she screamed.

I kept at her as the first orgasm subsided.

I pulled up and looked at her face, her eyes still closed. “You were so pent up, baby, like you were ready to explode,” I smiled.

“Just . . . fuck me,” she complained.

She was in no mood for conversation.

I sat back on my haunches, keeping myself in her. I pulled her legs back, taking her thighs in my grip. This had me deep in her, pressing up into her.

I began to move slowly within her. Her eyes were closed as she pushed down against me.

She was blind to the causes of the sensations in her body.

I pressed against her pushes. I was the designated driver this time around; she was going too far too fast to keep track of the mile markers.

I pinched her pale areola. She arched her back, just slightly more.

I wanted still more.

I leaned over her body to open a drawer. I fumbled through a collection of electronic remotes, pushing past plastic as I searched for wood.

I pulled out one clothespin, then another. Finally four.

I sat back, fucking her slowly, rocking her against the bed.

I released her breast from my pinch. She exhaled as the tension quieted within her.

I gave her a moment. Just feel my cock in you, I thought. I touched her face with the back of my hand.

I tugged the flesh around her nipple. A clothespin took her in its bite.

A breath. Another clothespin on her nipple.

A breath. I slapped her other tit, then cupped it in my palm. It was so small and vulnerable—I resisted an urge to squeeze.

A breath. A clothespin on another breast, where faint pink met pale, pale cyan skin.

A breath. Another nipple taken.

I reached forward, taking her wrists in my hands. Shelby’s arms were limp.

How easily her slender wrists fit into the grip of one of my hands.

I raised my thighs to pin her beneath me. My feet pushed down on hers as my hands tugged gently upward. My imagination wanted her stretched long and tender.

I held my chest above hers so as not to disturb the pinchers on her flesh.

She was bitten, stretched, and restrained, breathing shallow and eyes tight.

Now she was ready to get fucked.

I revved my hips, keeping my cock deep, pressing forward to graze her cervix, pulling back to adjust my pubis against her clit. My forehead balanced on her turned cheek.

These are the advantages of being with someone over time. You learn their bodies. You learn how they are wired.

And Shelby, who once never came from penetration, came. As she regularly came from penetration now.

And again.

“I love you, baby,” I whispered into the slip of ear that escaped the strands of her hair.

I can’t say whether she heard me or not. I said it as much for my benefit as hers.

The phone rang, signaling a guest in the lobby.

I released Shelby’s wrists to retrieve the receiver.

My cock pressed into her as I reached.

“Yes?” My voice was hoarse from lack of use.

“Jefferson? It’s Erin.”

I cleared my throat. “Hey Erin, we were just thinking of you. Come up.”

I buzzed her in. The phone was returned to the nightstand.

“Shelby?” I gently shook her shoulder. “Shelby?”

She turned and opened her eyes, almost surprised to see me.

My lips lightly touched hers.

“Company coming, baby,” I whispered into her mouth.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Kissing Bandit

Erin was bored to distraction.

The afternoon was wearing on. The week had barely begun and was already at a standstill.

She sat at her desk, bleary from a hangover.

Once more, she found herself struggling to keep the appropriate partitions of her brain focused on a stupefying routine task—organizing cards in alphabetical order in advance of refiling—so that the remains of her overactive mind could filter through other concerns.

Impending deadlines for graduate school application essays.

Foggy memories of the previous night at Hogs and Heffers.

Mixed feelings about going through with the night’s plans.

An instant message popped up on her screen.

Jefferson: Are you making the world safe for real estate agents?

Erin: Thank God. A sane voice.

Jefferson: That bad?

Erin: I can’t spend my life trying to remember the alphabet.

Jefferson: Once you master the basics, anything is possible. Now, about tonight . . .

Erin: You aren’t canceling on me.

Jefferson: No ma’am. It’s just that . . . well, Shelby is here, and she wants to join us. Do you object?

Erin: Are you kidding?! I’d love to meet her!

Jefferson: She’s eager to meet you as well. So . . . great! See you tonight. Are you bringing wine?

Erin: You need to ask? I don’t do anything sober.

Jefferson: Good. I like you best when you are pliable. See you about seven.

Erin: Shh, I’m thinking . . . De Salles . . . Delancey . .

Jefferson: I’ll leave you to your job, Brainiac.

I closed the message window and turned to Shelby.

“Okay, cute girl, you are officially invited to stay for this evening.”

Shelby looked up from the laptop balanced on her bare thighs and smiled. “Nice. Thanks hon.” She puckered and kissed the air before returning to her typing.

I leaned forward to kiss her nipple.

Shelby and I were nude and relaxed after our weekly sleepover. As the day had worn on, she regretted that she had to return home to be at work the next afternoon. She offered to stay another night and take an early train home the next morning, unless I objected.

It would be great to have you stay over, I kissed her. But I had a date with Erin.

Who’s Erin? Shelby asked.

I explained that Erin was a reader of my blog who kept me amused with funny notes about her dead-end job, prodigious drinking and reckless kisses, all of which conspired against her out-sized ambitions as an intellectual and aspiring comedy writer.

Uh huh, Shelby nodded. You sure like them complicated.

Nah, she’s salt of the earth, I replied. She’s interested in our parties, actually, though she doesn’t really have sex sober or with people she likes.

Shelby raised an eyebrow. I gave her the full background.

After months of trading notes, Erin had recently expressed an interest in pursuing our conversations in person. But she wanted to meet me in the company of her best friend—just in case I happened to be an ax murderer.

“Axes are passé,” I said, “But I’m always game for more victims. By all means, bring your friend along.”

“Okay, but two things. She’s hot, but she’s not going to want to fuck you. She only likes older men.”

“Isn’t she your age, like, twenty three or so? I think I qualify as an older man.”

“No dude, she likes her guys in their sixties.”

“Oh, well, that is older. I suppose she can hang on to my number for a few decades. Meanwhile, I understand that she is unlikely to fuck a kid like me. What else?”

“The other thing is, she doesn’t live in New York. It may be a while before she’s in town.”

“So we’ll wait,” I said. “With luck, I’ll qualify as an older man when we finally meet.”

Months passed. Eventually, Erin’s friend came to town. True to her word, Erin contacted me to arrange meeting for drinks.

Unfortunately, the only time I could offer during her friend's visit was a couple of hours just before an orgy.

“Let’s meet about six,” I suggested. “We can kill a bottle of Merlot before I have to have sex with other people.”

“Sounds perfect,” Erin agreed. “See you then.”

On the appointed evening, Erin came in the door talking. As she kicked off her shoes and removed her coat, I introduced myself to her friend.

“I’m Jefferson. So nice to meet you.” I kissed her cheek.

“Amanda. Nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much”

“May I take your coat?”

“Yes, please.” Amanda turned as I slipped her blue wool coat from her shoulders. Underneath, she wore a trim well-tailored jacket and pants.

“Hey, Jefferson, can you open this—like, now?” Erin pushed a bottle my way. “I totally need a drink.”

“Of course, Erin. Amanda, may I offer you wine? Or would you prefer something else?”

“Wine would be perfect, thank you, Jefferson,” Amanda smiled.

“Wonderful.” I extended a hand, indicating an entryway. “Please, take a seat in the living room. I’ll be right out.”

“Thank you.” Amanda crossed to sit on the couch, her legs primly to one side as her eyes drifted across books on the coffee table. Erin plopped next to her, tucking her legs under her body.

I decanted the wine in the kitchen. The two women appeared so different from one another, I thought, yet I knew them to be best friends.

Erin was much as I imagined. She was just as colorful and brash as her writing. Her straight hair was worn in a no-nonsense cut, hanging loose around a face devoid of makeup. Even in jeans, she had the air of someone who would rather be in sweats.

She seemed to have a lackadaisical confidence in her appearance, as if there was no need to do anything special about it.

Amanda, by contrast, appeared to be fresh from the salon. Her hair was neatly cut and full, with tasteful light streaks. Her skin was burnished to a soft hue. She was a head turner—the sort of lady who prefers to be well put together before she faces the world beyond her mirror.

I placed Amanda’s wine on the table before her.

“Thank you, Jefferson,” she smiled, reaching forward.

“Of course,” I nodded, offering a glass to Erin.

“Thanks.” Erin took her glass and swallowed a gulp. “So—if you plan to kill us, now’s the time.”

“How about a toast instead?” I sat and raised my glass. “To friends, old and new.”

Amanda smiled. She sipped her wine. She returned it to the table, a lipstick stain the only indication that the glass had been touched.

“So Jefferson, come on. Tell Amanda about how you fuck so many people.” Erin turned to Amanda. “Did you read that link to his blog I sent you?”

“Yes, a little,” Amanda began. “You certainly seem to have an . . . adventurous life, Jefferson.”

“Well, it’s not really so much as it seems . . . ,” I began.

“Not so much!” Erin laughed. “He’s got an orgy tonight. And who did you fuck today?”

“Well . . . , ” I hesitated, then shrugged to Amanda. “Okay, you got me. Dead to rights.”

Amanda smiled.

“Come on, come on,” Erin said, reaching for her glass. “Tell her how you started the blog and all that.”

Erin had prepared me to be interviewed. And so I began to introduce Amanda to my life and writing. I would often skip past things Erin already knew, in the interest of brevity. Erin would interrupt to fill in the gaps.

Amanda watched the ebb and flow of conversation between Erin and me.

She sipped more wine. Her shoulders relaxed.

She could see that Erin and I are cut from similar cloth.

“Isn’t Amanda gorgeous?” Erin asked suddenly.

“Yes,” I nodded, nearly spilling the wine at my lips. “Amanda, you are as lovely as Erin said you would be.”

“Oh thanks,” Amanda looked away, not sure what to say. “You are very handsome too,” she managed.

“Yeah, but I already told him he’s too young for you,” Erin said, waving her hand dismissively. “So Jefferson, what’s wrong with me that I don’t want to fuck Amanda? We sleep together naked all the time, but, I’m sorry, I just don’t get it up for her.”

I looked to Amanda. She was clearly accustomed to Erin’s blunt talk.

“Well, Erin,” I ventured. “There’s always the sad possibility that you are straight.”

“No,” she shook her head violently. “No way. Please don’t say that. Anyway, lesbians love me. I am always getting hit on by lesbians. That must mean something.”

“But you don’t have sex with them . . . ,” Amanda began.

“Only because I’m too drunk by the time they get me home!” Erin laughed. “I wake up naked with girls, but, you know, never get to . . .”

“You never get any muff diving,” I finished. Like Amanda, I knew Erin’s tale of bisexual woe.

For all her drunken tumbles with wasted lesbians, Erin had never tasted girl.

And, like Amanda, I knew why Erin couldn’t consider her best friend as a contender for her premiere pussy licking.

Erin doesn’t have sex with people she likes.

She allowed her sex life to be guided by the choices she made after one too many.

Erin had a reputation among her friends as a kissing bandit. She would go out to bars with one boy only to wind up kissing another. She was unlikely to go home with either.

If she did get laid, she would pull herself together afterwards to get back to her own place, no matter the hour, no matter how trashed.

She was not one to endure the awkward moments of a morning after.

“It’s my heritage,” Erin sighed. “I’m half Jewish and half Catholic. I spend half my time expressing myself, and the other half atoning for it.”

After a few glasses of wine, I announced that the bottle was no more. “I could open another Merlot,” I offered. “But if I did, you would soon find an orgy taking shape around you . . . and I think that might be a bit much for our first date.”

“Yes, I think you are right, Jefferson.” Amanda stood. “It was really a pleasure to meet you.”

“I agree,” I said, taking her shoulders lightly and leaning to kiss her. “I’m so pleased we finally met.”

Amanda looked in my eyes, then turned to Erin. “You can be friends with Jefferson. I approve.”

“Oh good!” Erin jumped up and embraced me. I kissed her lightly on the mouth. Our tongues met for the first time.

I felt I had been given her hand.

Now—what to do with it?

My thoughts drifted to Erin throughout the orgy. I knew she would enjoy meeting my friends, as I had enjoyed meeting Amanda. My friends would get a kick out of Erin’s snap-sharp wit and comedic timing. She might even enjoy being a part of the gang that tangles in my bedroom.

But would the kissing bandit ever be at home in an orgy?

We had a long way to go before we addressed that question.

Now that our burgeoning friendship had passed muster with Amanda, Erin and I compared notes on how to proceed with sex.

Erin and I confessed to a mutual sexual attraction. Yet it wasn’t as simple as all that.

Erin liked me and wanted to keep me as a friend. Therefore, intercourse was out of the question. She refused to fuck anyone she liked.

Erin was interested in being schooled as a dominitrix. I liked the thought of beating submissives with her as my pupil. But it would be frustrating to do so if Erin and I were unresolved about being together in erotic situations.

I was at a loss on how to proceed.

Then one afternoon, as I walked through the park, it came to me. I raced home to instant message Erin.

Jefferson: Are you busy?

Erin: Saint Nicholas Avenue . . . Saint Nicholas Place . . . Saint Nicholas Terrace . . . Yeah, I’m kinda busy. What’s up?

Jefferson: I’ve got it.

Erin: Finally! What?

Jefferson: We can be jerk off buddies.

Erin: Come again?

Jefferson: We can masturbate together!

Erin: Oh, that’s a great idea!

Jefferson: I know! We can get naked and jerk off together. We can touch one another if you want . . .

Erin: Definitely, I want to touch.

Jefferson: . . . and kiss . . .

Erin: Yes!

Jefferson: . . . and even cuddle. But no penetration. What do you think?

Erin: I think you are brilliant.

Jefferson: I am! So let’s do it next week. It can be a part of my birthday week of wall-to-wall sex.

Erin: Perfect. But wait—have you seen “Crash?”

Jefferson: No.

Erin: Oh, you have to see it. Anyone who cares about pop culture and American society should see “Crash.”

Jefferson: I care about those things. Can you bring it to our date to masturbate?

Erin: Sure!

Jefferson: Okay. I’ll pick up bourbon. We’ll get drunk, jerk off, and watch a movie about a car wreck.

Erin: Sounds about right.

It was a fine plan. And now, that plan included Shelby.

As I cleared this adjustment to the evening’s itinerary with Erin, I got an instant message from Emma.

Emma: How was your date with Shelby?

Jefferson: Lovely, very restful. She’s still here, actually.

Emma: I know, she just instant messaged me. You two have a date with another girl, Erin?

Jefferson: Yes. Doesn’t that sound nifty?

Emma: Yes, it does.

Jefferson: Yes, I think so too.

Emma: Well?

Jefferson: Well, what?

Emma: What time should I be there?

Jefferson: Hang on, let me invite you first.

Emma: Go ahead, mind your manners.

Jefferson: Emma?

Emma: Yes?

Jefferson: Would you care to come to my place and masturbate with us?

Emma: I’ll be there after seven.

Jefferson: Very good. I look forward to seeing you.

Emma: Likewise.

I looked up to see Shelby peering at me over her glasses.

“Baby, Emma wants to come over tonight too,” I said.

“I know,” she smirked. “She just told me.”

“Do you mind?” I rubbed a toe on her calf.

She leaned back on the couch cushion. “I don’t mind, man. Two girls? That’s frigging hot. But you know what?”

“What’s that, baby?” I smiled.

“I need to fuck you now.” She dropped a hand to caress my shin.

I closed my laptop and moved it aside. My cock jumped forward. “My sentiments exactly,” I nodded.