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.

sex
sexblogs
bisexual
erotica