Sunday, October 29, 2006

Fleshbot and Uppercase/Lowercase

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot focuses on Doms, the fellows who favor leather chaps and take their pronouns in All Caps.

I’m glad life has lead me down the pathways of BDSM and certainly, my own experience in domination has added plenty of arrows to my quiver. Learning a thing or two with ropes, canes and firm commands has made my sexual practices just that much more varied.

I enjoy reading blogs on BDSM, and I learn from them. I’ll let you in on a little secret, though:

I wince at the popular affectation of tinkering with proper capitalization.

Submissives write themselves into lowercase (“i served Sir dutifully”) whereas dominants take on the uppercase pronouns otherwise reserved for royalty and divinity (“I directed her to massage My feet, to which she replied, “Yes, Master, thank You.”)

Now, as a writer, I am very much in favor of permitting subcultures to develop their own styles and usages. It’s more evidence that language is a living entity, able to change and adapt to the needs of the people who use it. Were we to be inflexible about form, we would sacrifice the richness that slang brings to language.

I am also just fine with bloggers, such as my friends Meg and Marcus, who prefer to use all lowercase. That strikes me as an acceptable stylistic preference. If I took issue with it, I might have to face down e. e. cummings and bell hooks, and really, who has the energy for that?

But somehow, this little affectation gets under my skin. I can’t very well ask writers to stop doing something I consider foolish, nor would I. The problem is mine. I’m sure this irritation is related to my own coming-of-age in BDSM.

Perhaps it calls attention to aspects of BDSM that disinterest me, such as roleplay, or because it delves into relationship attitudes that I consider repellent, such as possessiveness or the placation of egos.

All I know is, every time I read that capitalized “Him,” I imagine a guy who played one too many rounds of “Dungeons and Dragons” and now assumes a dominant role by right of privilege. I’m slightly embarrassed to be associated with “Doms” so long as that attitude rests in my mind, because, clearly, that isn’t me.

So for now, as I meet submissives who are also writers, I make my request: if you write about our encounters, please use proper English. I’ll happily abuse your body, but please don’t abuse my language.

Monday, October 23, 2006

Fleshbot and Her Loss

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot acknowledges the greener grass we hear so much about with a look at blogs that tell tales of sex on the side.

Sometimes the grass is greener, sometimes it is a dried-out fire hazard.

Sorry for the bitter sounding non sequiter, I’m just remembering a note I recently received from May.

Remember May? She was the first woman I dated after the demise of my marriage, a college acquaintance who moved fast when she heard the news.

It was a good thing, for a while.

When she got a job offer in California, she gave me an ultimatum: either I commit to our future together, or we were finished.

I’m not generally one for ultimatums, and I certainly wasn’t ready for one before my divorce was final. I told May I couldn’t very well offer to spend our lives together on a deadline. When I declined to beg her stay with me, she left for the west coast furious and subsequently refused to speak with me.

I hated that things ended that way, but how else could it go? If her love was all or nothing—take me forever, now, or you are dead to me—then she was offering a brand of love that was without real meaning.

Since then, I’ve switched email accounts and changed my phone numbers, all in the course of moving on with my life. Anyone in touch with me got my updated contact information.

May hadn’t spoken to me in over a year. I had no reason to send her my new information.

I found her recent note by chance when, on a whim, I thought to clean out my old Friendster account. I never use it—does anyone still use Friendster now that MySpace is king?—but it was once useful. May and I had first reestablished contact via Friendster just after my marriage ended.

We had traded notes one fateful Sunday morning, about a month after my marriage ended. The next weekend, she drove to New York for a very heated reunion.

I had barely settled into my new apartment. I bought my first plant to impress her that my home was no bachelor’s dump.

This began a relationship that would absorb my every available weekend for the next year and a half. Our days apart began with instant messages and were punctuated with long phone calls.

She called me every night around midnight to say goodnight, leaving tearful messages if I didn’t answer. The messages were followed by more calls. If my answering machine picked up, she would hang up and call again. I might be out, she thought, but if I was home and fucking someone else, she was going to be sure I knew that she knew.

The next day, if I had been fucking someone else, I told her about it. I liked being honest. I neglected to mention that I figured out early in our relationship that I needed to unplug the phone on date nights.

These days, that’s all ancient history.

Not long after she moved, I chatted with her online. She used her webcam to give me a tour of her new apartment before reopening unhealed wounds. Why had I let her move? Why hadn’t I begged to stay with me? Why didn’t I love her?

I told her that I did love her as best I knew how, and we had been over this before. I was tired and not about to explain myself again. I said goodnight and signed out.

She answered no more emails from me. That was the end of it.

Until I received this note.

Dear Jefferson,
I know it's been some time now but I would like to speak to you about getting my things back. Jason Friedman has some time to collect them from you, so if you don't mind, would you please contact him as to a good time to do so? He's driving to California in the fall and has offered to bring it out to me.

Hope you are well.

Best wishes,
May M.

May had left some things at my apartment. I had left some things at her apartment. That’s what happens when you see someone for a long time and then end it abruptly.

I consider the loss of things to be a casualty of a failed relationship. When my marriage ended, I left behind fifteen years of things my ex and I had accumulated. I faced the world naked, without a corkscrew, alarm clock or towel to my name. I carried nothing that could be associated with our marriage, other than the three children we bore. The rest was just stuff, and I wanted none of it.

Although I still miss our copy of The New York Cookbook. I can’t seem to make Captain’s Chicken without it.

It galled me that May would establish contact in so casual a manner, as if she had just left the room and forgotten her umbrella.

I was sure she had read her note over many times before sending it to be sure it was so simple and beyond objection.

A mutual friend was driving from New York to California. How simple it would be for him to stop by my place, collect a few things, and drive them to her. No reasonable person could possibly object.

All this required was that I make an appointment with our friend. All he had to do was drive into the city, find parking, and spend some time with me. We would pack her things and he would go home, repack his car for the trip, and then drive her stuff across the country, unloading it every time he stayed at a motel. After a week or so of driving, he would pull into her neighborhood, find parking, and spend some time with her. He would unpack her things and then drive on to his other plans in California.

It was so simple. Who could reasonably object?

I objected.

If you dump me and you’ve left stuff at my place, I probably have stuff at your place. We should make nice and be sure to return things.

But there is a statute of limitations on such civilities.

If you dump me and refuse to speak to me, then you torched some bridges. That’s stupid to do with me, as I am all about being friends even if we can’t be lovers. It takes a rare talent for poor behavior to beat that instinct out of me.

Ask me for your junk a year later, and I have bad news: that junk is no longer my responsibility. I don’t operate a storage facility, and our mutual friends are not obliged to act as messengers.

Unfortunately for May, her shit is now my shit, just some junk in the back of my drawers. She’s got my crap, I’ve got hers. That’s how it played out because that’s how she played it.

I closed out my Friendster account without responding to May.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Sun Bath

This story is also told by Selina.

“I can’t believe how well this bi male wrestling match thing is going over,” Marcus said, folding papers into his pocket. “Barry and I just signed up a bunch of guys—well, one or two are on the fence.”

“You know those bisexuals,” I said. “They love to sit on fences.”

“Yeah, right,” he grinned. “So what were you and Lolita talking about? She’s so into you, Jefferson.”

“I’m so into her, Marcus,” I said, stirring sugar into yet another cup of coffee. We were halfway into our first full day of sex camp, and, like many campers, I was operating on only a few hours sleep.

“So, what’s the deal?” Marcus persisted.

“Lolita’s going to tie me up. She’s going to suspend me in the air. We shook on it.” I sipped my coffee and lowered my voice. “Lolita says she’s going to make things happen.”

“Wow, I don’t even know what that means.”

“Me neither. It makes my nipples ache to contemplate,” I said. “Come on, the girls are waiting. We need to go outside and get naked.”

As lunch ended, Lolita returned to her overscheduled weekend as she plotted a way to make time to bind me. The four of us, mere tourists at sex camp, were off to the next session: ritual bathing.

Viviane and I walked ahead as Marcus and Selina talked behind us. The sky was overcast, as it had been since our arrival.

“Do you know where we can find the amphitheatre?” Viviane asked a passing Cupid.

“Sure!” Cupid replied. She pointed her wand down a path. “Pass the leather store, around the pool to the left, and there it is!”

“Thanks,” I said. “Any messages for Jefferson?”

“Nope!” she said brightly.

“Are you expecting something?” Viviane asked as we walked away.

“Not really,” I said, thinking of the artist with whom I had traded emails in the week before camp.

The pool was open but unused on such a cloudy afternoon. Viviane pointed to benches in a clearing.

“Tristan told me this camp was built as a retreat for Jewish girls,” she said. “The amphitheater was used for outdoor services.”

“Ha, I like that,” I said. “Do you think religious camps need to be decommissioned, like military bases? I don’t want our faces to melt if we trip over a Raiders of the Lost Ark sacrilege.”

“Oy gevalt,” Viviane laughed.

Up ahead, I saw a wooden stage at the base of a slopping hill. The lawn facing the stage was arrayed with even rows of rough-hewn benches.

On stage, a nude man tended to white plastic tubs of water. I recognized him as Switchme, the volunteer at that morning’s class on strap-ons. Three men sat in the first row, each alone on separate benches. There was no one else in sight.

Apparently, “ritual bathing” was going to involve us getting naked with these shlumps. The three men so lacked in the social graces that they weren’t even making conversation with one another.

As we approached, Marcus continued to fill in Selina on his plans for the evening’s wrestling match.

One of the shlumps looked up to shush us.

“Oh, we should be quiet,” Selina whispered. “It’s a sacred space.”

I bit my tongue. I had hoped that my concession to New Age hokum would at least involve some navels worth the gazing.

“Welcome,” Switchme smiled from the platform stage as he put a CD into a player. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. We’ll begin shortly.”

Marcus looked around as he began to undress. He understands the phrase “get comfortable” to mean “get naked.”

The rest of us followed suit. The shlumps stood and began to do likewise.

I took off my shirt, looking back toward the path we had followed. No sign of anyone joining us.

Viviane caught my eye as she unfastened her bra. I leaned forward to kiss her shoulder.

“Wonderful,” Switchme said as we stood naked in the grass. “Please, join me on the deck.”

We climbed a few stairs to the platform. Marcus nudged me to look to my right. One of the men had peeled off to piss. He faced away from us as he took a leak into a line of trees.

I smiled, unsure if Marcus had wanted me to notice that the man had a nice ass, or to share his amusement that someone would turn away to pee so modestly, given our mutual nudity.

“Welcome,” Switchme smiled, his voice serene and calm. “We might have hoped for a more beautiful day for this ritual, but we are here, and comfortable, and together in a unified group. They say the weather will improve this weekend. Perhaps we can inspire warmth in the environment around us.”

The dawdling pisser climbed the stairs to join us. Switchme looked over to smile at him in greeting.

“Now that we are all here, and together, let us join hands with the person to our left, and to our right. As you do so, step back to form a circle centered around the tubs you see on the deck. Be silent and focus on the air entering and exiting your lungs.”

I looked to my right and took Marcus’s hand in mine. I looked passed him to trade smiles with Selina. She was already breathing deeply, giving herself over to the moment. Nude among trees, grass and other nude people. Selina was in her element.

I caressed Viviane’s thick hair before taking her hand in mine. She kept her eyes on mine as her lips formed a tight grin. I smiled in assurance, knowing that public nudity is less to her taste. She closed her eyes as she took the hand to her left.

Switchme looked up from his CD player. I didn’t know the music, but I guessed its origins lay in the "India" section of the World Music bins.

“Now that we are in a circle, close your eyes and feel the energy move between us.” I let my eyes rest on the man opposite me, the one who had pissed in the woods. I closed my lids to lock the image in place. He was lean, blonde, and Aryan.

A low hum filled the air, moving behind my ears.

“Let us tune our minds to this prayer bowl. Breath in and out as the prayer bowl takes our thoughts deep inside, to a place of peace, of ease, of comfort.

I meditated on the Aryan’s bone structure. I asked my memory to lock on that final glance, so I could gaze at him behind closed lids.

I willed my cock to remain at peace, at ease, at comfort.

The hum circled us once, twice, three times, before echoing into silence. I heard a gentle thud of brass against wood. The deck vibrated dully beneath my feet from Switchme’s gentle footfall.

I heard water splash to wood and cascade to the earth beneath.

The layers of sound faded, only to repeat. I heard Selina gasp.

“As this bath moves across your skin, let it wash away the discomforts and tensions of daily life. Feel your spirit elevate to a place of purity and inner strength.”

I didn’t recall having seen the Aryan before.

I squeezed Marcus’s hand. He squeezed mine in response. I imagined his mind was pretty much in the same place of repose as my own.

We had targeted the Aryan.

Water splashed from Marcus’s body onto mine. His hand tensed, then relaxed. I knew I was next. I braced for cold.

Instead, warm water displaced the cool breeze on my bare flesh. It was a taste of a shower, perfectly tuned, as the humid air turned liquid on my body.

I wanted more. I felt it in splashes as Viviane gasped.

My mind went blank, following the sounds of water around our circle.

I squeezed Viviane’s hand. She held mine tight.

The last of the water dripped to the earth below. A sitar floated above a pulsing rhythm.

“You may open your eyes and lower your arms. Let the feeling of warmth envelope you.”

I opened my eyes, letting them blink open on the man opposite me. My memory had effective kept him in my sight.

I turned to Marcus and Selina, then to Viviane. I put a hand on Viviane’s back and kissed her shoulder.

Switchme indicated a collection of bottles near the tubs. “These oils are soothing to the touch and will open your breathing. Please take some and warm it in your palms. We will each turn to massage the person at our left.”

I took a handful of oil and smelled eucalyptus. I passed the bottle to Viviane. She took it, turning her back to me.

I began to massage her shoulders and back. Viviane’s skin is soft and familiar to my touch. I traced my fingers down her spine to its base and began to rotate my thumb back to her skull.

Marcus’s hands enveloped my back, pulling me to erect posture as he pressed into my muscles.

I slowly rotated my head on its axis.

Viviane turned. I massaged her shoulders, her arms and her breasts. I kissed her. Marcus’s hands massaged my buttocks.

Viviane turned me around. I pressed my body against Marcus and wrapped my hands around him to massage his torso. He moved Selina’s long hair to expose her back to his hands.

Viviane’s palms were gentle after Marcus’s vigorous massage.

“Good, good,” Swtichme said in a low voice. “Feel the bubble of energy from our bodies.”

I was starting to feel energy, all right.

We were encouraged to move around the circle. I massaged the ample belly of one man before stroking his thick cock to hardness.

I wasn’t sure of the protocol of ritual bathing, but I did know how to oil a man. Maybe it was uncouth of me to be giving a handjob to this stranger, but I liked the feel of his cock in my hand and the response of his breathing as I twisted my palm back and forth.

We moved to another partner, as instructed, and I found myself with Marcus. He smiled at me.

I kissed him, pressing my body against his.

For all I knew, kissing might have been entirely the wrong thing to do, but fuck any ritual that keeps me from kissing my man.

I felt us growing hard against one another. I put my hands to his face, pulling myself deeper into his kiss. I felt light as he panted and his body responded to mine.

I felt Viviane’s hands on my back.

At that moment, as Viviane caressed me, as I kissed the man I love, for the first time in days, the sun shone through the clouds.

Selina was the first to notice.

“The sun!” she exclaimed. “We made the sun shine!”

“We have created a bubble of tremendous energy,” Switchme smiled. “And the erotic energy adds to that.”

Good, I thought, as we kissed. Because I’m not stopping now.

Viviane became distracted as Switchme massaged her.

Selina pressed close to Marcus and me. Marcus signaled for the Aryan to join us. We stood facing one another in a close square, our arms around one another. I had Marcus to one side, the Aryan to another.

“It was so beautiful watching you two kiss,” Selina smiled.

“Like this?” I said, giving my mouth to Marcus.

“Yeah, that’s very hot,” she nodded, She traced her hand down the Aryan’s back.

I looked over my shoulder. Switchme was faced the other way, intent on Viviane’s soft skin.

“I don’t want to get busted with the teach,” I whispered. “So cover me—I’m going down.”

I lowered myself to my knees slowly, allowing my hands to drop down the bodies of the two men at my side.

I looked up at Marcus as I took his cock in my mouth.

He gave a deep sigh. His mouth hung open as he watched me swallow him. Almost instinctively, he touched he Aryan’s face and leaned his head on Selina’s shoulder.

I moved my mouth slowly up and back, taking him to the back of my throat, flicking my tongue along his shaft. It was a teasing blowjob, one meant to get him hungry for more.

My hands caressed the two men’s asses.

I took his cock from my mouth and held it in my hand. I turned and looked up at the Aryan.

I took him in my mouth.

He was partially erect, and quickly grew hard in me. I stroked Marcus as my mouth became acquainted with this new cock.

“Take care,” Switchme said, putting a hand on Marcus’s shoulder as he passed. “Don’t burst the bubble.”

I was on my knees outdoors, blowing two hot men. Any bubble that can’t handle that can just go right ahead and pop.

I moved back and forth between the cocks, watching Selina’s nude hips sway. Marcus’s fingers found her clit. I looked up to see that they were kissing.

I surrendered his cock to her hand.

I turned to focus on the Aryan.

I placed my fingers gently on his still hips, pulsing him as I took his dick deep. My own cock was curled hard between my thighs.

Selina and Marcus left our sides.

I was content to suck this boy’s cock for as long as he could take it. I held back on moves I knew would make him cum, anticipating the moment. We had never exchanged words, and I didn’t know his name. But I was prepared to take his orgasm if only to satisfy my own selfish desire to have it.

I felt him growing close. He pulled back to stop me. I pulled him back and sucked him more, greedily daring him to leave my mouth.

He began to thrust, finally, and to fill my face as I wanted. He was getting close.

I stopped.

I raised myself slowly on my legs, licking and nibbing his body as I rose.

When I reached his neck, I wrapped myself close to him. My touch was as intimate as it had been with Marcus, the man I have loved longer than any other.

The Aryan stood still. He avoided my eyes, looking ahead as our hands touched one another’s bodies. Freed from his gaze, I let myself take in his body as I wanted.

I wondered if he was straight. I wondered if he had ever felt a man’s touch before today.

I wondered if he was gay. Maybe one of these other men was his lover.

I kept my body close as I moved behind him. I placed my cock between his legs so that it jutted under his own. I pressed close to him, pushing into his ass. I stroked our cocks together with one hand, tracing his ribcage with the other.

Looking over his shoulder, I could see what he saw.

Marcus was reclining on a blanket as Selina crouched to suck his cock. Switchme was poised over Marcus, lowering his cock into my boyfriend’s throat.

I also saw that we were not alone.

The sun had brought out three groundskeepers. They sat fully clothed and smoking on a bench, their backs to us. Weedwhackers rested nearby as they waited for us to wrap up and leave them to their lawn care.

I nibbled the Aryan’s back.

Viviane approached me and rested a hand on my shoulder.

I turned to kiss her. My mouth was hot and wet. I was incredibly aroused.

I squeezed the Aryan’s shoulders as I turned my attention to Viviane. He moved forward, dreamily, to crouch behind Selina. He began to touch her ass.

Viviane and I found another towel and spread it next to Marcus’s.

I saw that one of the other men was dressing to leave, only to replaced by a new arrival. The two men were touching one another.

A groundskeeper turned to check on us, then looked away.

Viviane lay back on the towel. I hovered over her, kissing her as my hand took a breast. I pinched a nipple and listened for her breath to grow rapid.

My mouth moved down her body, determined to taste cum. Viviane was already liquid when my tongue found her.

“You have the wettest pussy, ever,” I said, taking her clit. She yelped, aroused by my excitement at her arousal. I savored her taste by spoonfuls.

I sat back on my haunches, slipping two fingers into her. Viviane looked up at me, her eyes glazing. She was outdoors, her legs spread in the sun, feeling my touch as people made love around her.

Viviane has always been a good girl. When she finds herself letting go of that, she is only more intently sexual.

She was poised to orgasm.

I heard Marcus ask Selina to torture his balls. That’s right, I thought: she’s never been with him. She’s going to enjoy this.

Selina twisted Marcus’s balls as he furiously pulled his cock, groaning.

The Aryan fingered Selina, stroking himself.

I pulsed on Viviane’s g-spot, waiting for the moment.

It wasn’t long coming.

“Oh God, I’m going to cum,” Marcus said.

I pressed into Viviane. She panted and moaned.

“Fuck!” Marcus shot cream across Selina’s tits and the wooden deck.

“Unh, unh, unh!” Viviane melted into my palm.

We had one hell of a resilient bubble.

We were in high spirits as we gathered around the wash tubs. I washed my hands, then rinsed Marcus from Selina’s body.

I shook hands with the Aryan. “I’m Jefferson,” I said.

“Anton,” he said. “Thanks, that was really nice. I liked the way you pressed against me. That was really hot.”

I wrapped him in my arms. “You know where to find it when you want more,” I said, kissing his neck.

We were winding down, but the two men were just getting into it. One of them had put a condom on the other to blow him.

Marcus was soaping his groin and torso when he noticed the blowjob underway. He crouched next to the men as he washed.

“Say, that looks pretty hot,” he said. “So who’s idea was the condom?”

The man being blown pointed to the man blowing him.

“Do you like condoms, especially? Or are you concerned about disease?” Marcus asked the cocksucker. He shrugged in response, never taking the dick from his mouth.

“Well, unless you happen to like the taste of condoms, it really isn’t necessary for oral sex,” Marcus said, washing his thighs. “The risk of HIV transmission is negligible, and as for other STIs . . .”

“Come on,” I whispered to Viviane. “I’ve heard that lecture.”

“He’s a born sex educator,” she said.

“Boy knows his shit.” I picked up my clothes as we walked away, nude.

The arrival of the sun had transformed sex camp. The pool and decks were now filled with nude people. A couple fucked openly on a reclining lounge chair.

I was suddenly aware of how many young women were at camp, many likely drawn by Tristan’s reputation.

I saw the artist stretched out on her back. Her eyes were closed. She was even lovelier nude. I wondered if I would muster the courage to say hello.

“Come on, let’s swim,” I said.

Selina was first in. I waved for Marcus to join us, and then jumped into the pool. Viviane waded to me.

Marcus arrived and surveyed the bodies laying in the sun. He took a chair next to the artist and immediately engaged her in conversation. She sat up to talk with him.

I hadn’t mentioned my interest in her. Somehow, surrounded by dozens of attractive nude women, he had singled her out.

I turned back to Viviane. She smiled at me.

I held an imaginary bowl in my hand and circled it with my finger. “This is my prayer bowl,” I intoned. “I use it to make people get naked and have sex with me . . .”

She laughed. I held her close and we kissed, standing in waist-high water, our bodies gleaming in the sun.

Weedwhackers whirred nearby.

Monday, October 16, 2006

Fleshbot and Dancin', Dancin'

This week, my Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot visits the market for those who prefer their meat fresh. Seems like a lot of the sex bloggers are getting lucky.

But really, how can we not feel lucky, having survived another Friday the thirteenth without calamity?

True, the Yankees crashed—at least one, literally—but it’s autumn, the sun is shining, and damned if the Scissor Sisters didn’t pop out a new album coincident with the release of James Cameron Mitchell’s Shortbus.

I’ve got the video for "I Don’t Feel Like Dancin’" at my MySpace profile. Try not to feel like dancin’ when you’re listenin’.

I’ve got the kids moving to it—well, not so much with my youngest son. He dances the Hustle, as I taught him, but somehow, the Scissor Sisters don’t remove the lead from his Heelies.

“Come on!” I hector him. “Dance with me, son!”

My daughter and I sing as we muster up a little soft shoe gentle sway:

Cities come and cities go just like the old empires
When all you do is change your clothes and call that versatile

“Collie’s not dancing!” Lillie laughs.

“It’s fun!” I say, picking her up and twirling.

I’ll just pretend that I know which way to bend
I’m going to tell the whole world that you’re mine

“Now!” I say, as Lillie sings along.

I don’t feel like dancin’ dancin’
Doo doo doo doo doo doo poop
Don’t feel like dancin’ dancin’
Doo doo doo doo doo doo poop
Don’t feel like dancin’ dancin’
Doo doo doo doo doo doo poo-oo-ooop

Collie looks at us, deadpan. “You’re weird,” he says, walking away.

Remember that I related the tale of how I wound up on a dream date with Jake Shears, singer for the band, on the night I signed my divorce papers? The same day that Viviane started having sex again?

It was a portentous time.

But did I tell you how I was almost in a Scissor Sisters’ video? All because I fuck so good?

(Though, evidently not well enough to make the final edit.)

See, at the time, I was fucking a very cute guy now and then. One day, he told me he was working on a video for the Scissor Sisters, and asked if I wanted to be an extra.

“Heck yeah!” I said, though I had never heard a song by the group. I agreed because I liked the guy, and because he mentioned that the video’s director was John Cameron Mitchell.

That’s all I needed to know. I thought Mitchell’s Hedwig and the Angry Inch was all that.

“Great,” my friend told me. “You just have to wear a suit and look sleazy. You’ll be a john in a trannie bar.”

I nodded, because that’s what one does when so instructed. I’m no actor, but I can totally pull off a sleazy john in a trannie bar.

As instructed, I showed up at a west side theatre early one Sunday morning in my best black suit, my hair greased back, and proceeded to wait for the shoot to commence.

Hours passed.

I hung out with my friend as he introduced me to his friends—the hard-working drag king Murray Hill, the much-too-gorgeous World Famous BOB, and the gyrating wonder Dirty Martini.

I was hanging out with legends, and sugar, could these tramps vamp. I sat in awe of their banter, trying not to giggle too terribly as they passed the time by dishing the dirt.

Mitchell would come to us now and then, explaining the sequence of shots and introducing us to the band.

As we sat, we heard occasional bursts of “Filthy/Gorgeous” as Mitchell organized his takes. It was the first I had heard the band’s music.

“Oh, I like this,” I said.

“Just wait until midnight, honey,” World Famous BOB smirked. “A day of this and we’re never going to want to hear this song again.”

This is my new life after divorce, I thought. Man, is it fabulous.

Finally, we were called to the set. Dry ice and colored lights provided what further atmosphere was needed in a room full of drag queens, trannies, and half-naked hustlers.

We were put in places, only to wait a bit longer as Mitchell waited on someone. I stood at a bar with a flue of ginger ale and a nineteen-year-old hottie named Harry. She was famed among the downtown set as a club dancer moving along the surgical transformation from boy to girl.

I got to know her a bit as we killed time waiting for the shoot to commence. She stood next to me, bored as I kept up a one-sided conversation. Harry was a head taller than me and wore a sheer black nightie and a string thong.

Her perfect tits were perfectly visible and her skin so smooth. Her long, luxurious blonde hair was pulled up and back in a style that has not existed on this planet since Dusty Springfield and Nancy Sinatra retired their coifs.

Harry was drop-dead gorgeous. As we passed the time, I began to wonder if maybe I had been too hasty in thinking I might never marry again. I silently calculated how much income I would need to keep Harry in the style to which she aspired. I could never earn enough, I decided, but surely the difficulty of robbing banks has been greatly exaggerated.

The “someone” that Mitchell awaited happened to be Charlotte Rae, Mrs. Garrett from Diff’rent Strokes and The Facts of Life.

Don’t you know she was received like royalty. That television mother hen had practically raised half the club kids in the room.

Charlotte Rae was placed on a divan and given ginger-ale champagne and six hustlers as props. With his star in place, Mitchell was ready to shoot.

I stood with Harry just to Rae’s right. As Mitchell surveyed the scene, he glanced at Harry. “You need to be over here,” he told her, moving my glamorous companion to recline on a stool at Rae’s feet.

“Hey,” I whispered to a production assistant. “I lost my trannie.”

“Let’s get you a new one,” he said. He tugged another extra to stand at my side. She wore goth make up, teased jet black hair, and a corset on her flat chest.

“Hi,” I said, offering my hand. “I’m Jefferson. I’m a john.”

“Tori Suppository,” she said in a rich baritone. “I’m a whore. Just in from San Francisco.”

I laughed. “Welcome to the city.”

“It’s practically my home,” she said wearily. “Can I kiss you?”

“Now?” I nearly blushed.

“No, dear, during the shoot. I’ll plant lipstick kisses all over your cute face.”

“Oh, I’d like that.”

“Good,” she smiled. “Let’s rehearse.”

I closed my eyes as the San Francisco trannie mapped my face with her lips.

We would repeat this choreography again and again as Mitchell tracked a camera through the set in take after take, following the beckoning finger of Ana Matronic. The song played over and over.

When Tori Suppository saw the camera coming, she began to kiss me like a long-lost uncle. When the shoot ended, we shook hands and said good-bye.

That’s theatre, you know.

I hung out well past midnight, as World Famous BOB had predicted. I hadn’t grown weary of “Filthy/Gorgeous,” but I did tire of waiting for the last shot that required extras, so I headed home.

My friend sent me a link to the final edit. “Thanks for joining us that day,” he said. “It was really fun to hang out with you. He didn’t use you in the video, but that happens. Wanna fuck this week?”

My cute friend soon went monogamous with another man, but that happens.

“Filthy/Gorgeous” remains a favorite song, not least because of the video and my memory of a day as a fabulous creature.

I just wish I could show it to the grandkids one day as evidence of how Gramps spent the years after Granny dumped him. I know I will show them Hedwig and Shortbus as optimistic films about the origin of love.

Shortbus follow a few people, primarily two couples—one gay, one straight—as they sort out problems in their relationships. A sex therapist (she prefers “couples counselor”) is unable to orgasm with her husband, or even alone. A former hustler realizes he has never been happy, not even with his adoring partner.

They all find what they seek at a private sex party where all manner of proclivities are welcome. I suppose such things really do exist in New York.

Where you might find me as host at my parties—or Frank N. Furter or Joel Grey at theirs—here we find “Justin Bond,” aka Justin Bond, aka Kiki of Kiki and Herb, as an orgy-wise, nurturing and camp-as-fuck den mother of perversity.

Search the faces at the sex party, and you’ll recognize a few "sextras" from “Filthy/Gorgeous”: Murray Hill reprising Evelyn Nesbit on a swing, Dirty Martini reprising Sally Rand in a fan dance, and World Famous BOB smiling prettily in group therapy with a closeted former mayor. Why, even Tristan Taormino bends over at the orgy.

Apparently, I failed to impress Mitchell during my brief stint among the fabulous. Alas, your humble sex blogger was never summoned to board the Shortbus.

I guess I’ll just have to forge ahead on my own.

Movie star fame may elude me, but here’s what you can do to keep me in good cheer. A friend has been making mix CDs for me, and this makes me very happy. Take a moment to send me your favorite songs; I’ll listen to them on iTunes as I work on upcoming posts.

Because now and then, I feel like dancin’, dancin'.

Now, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, sex camp!

Sunday, October 08, 2006

Strap-On 101

“I think the sex magic class sounds intriguing,” Selina said, pointing to the schedule in her hands.

“I’m not into the New Age stuff,” I said, reading over her shoulder. “But I’m down for the ritual baths. You can keep your spirituality off my body, thank you very much, but being outside with naked people is awesome.”

“You are rather predictable, aren’t you, Jefferson?” Viviane said. She looked at Selina. “Put me down for ritual baths, too.”

We had arrived too late to take advantage of the Friday schedule of classes. On Saturday morning, after Tristan’s orientation, Selina, Viviane and I set off to learn about strap-ons. Nina Hartley was the instructor.

Marcus had no use for strap–ons. He headed off for a class designed for people with libidos that didn’t match those of their partners. I could see why this topic might be of interest to Marcus; no one could possibly keep up with his insatiability.

“Have fun with fake dicks,” he said, a little derisively. “I’m taking my real one with me.”

Marcus could scoff, but I needed to learn more about strap-ons. They are all the rage with the crowd at my sex parties. I sometimes josh that they are going to make cock superfluous. And it’s not entirely a joke: when my friend Linda acquired her strap-on, she immediately bypassed me as the most popular blonde top. When she’s around, I’m lucky to get sloppy seconds.

As we crossed the lawn to the barn, where the strap-on class was to be conducted, I saw Lolita walking toward us. She was fresh from teaching a session on flogging, and carried a bag of flogs and other implements.

It was the first time I had seen her since our spontaneous roll in the grass. We had parted company near dawn, just a few hours earlier. Lolita had just spent nearly two of those hours on her feet conducting an introduction to beating.

She looked up and saw us. She slumped forward, her body giving over to weariness.

I skipped ahead to her side.

“Lolita, you poor thing,” I kissed her cheek. “You look like death. Did you get any sleep at all?”

“I don’t remember,” she frowned. “If I did, I must have slept through it.”

“Oh, ma pauvre. I’m sorry I kept you from your bed. You must have been so late for your cuddle date.”

“Yeah, well, she was asleep, so . . .”

I put my hands on her cheeks and interrupted her with a kiss. My tongue parted her lips. I felt giddy as my cock woke to the sensation.

“I think this answers Marcus’s question about where Jefferson was last night,” Selina teased, catching up to us.

“Of course, we knew,” Viviane responded.

I pulled back, putting a finger to my lips. “Busted,” I shrugged to Lolita.

She shrugged and smiled. I grinned at her smile. We were behaving so coyly with one another, enjoying the flush of puppy love at camp.

“Are you coming to strap-on class?” Viviane asked. “Nina Hartley is supposed to be amazing!”

“She’s really great, but I can’t,” Lolita said. “I have a play date before lunch.”

“Don’t wear yourself out,” I said quietly, rubbing my toe into the grass. “It might be nice if you had some energy left . . . you know, later, if, you know, you needed it.”

Viviane slapped my arm lightly. “Don’t be mean to her.”

“I don’t have a mean bone in my body,” I smiled. I leaned close to rub against Lolita. “My warm, soft, electric body . . .”

Lolita laughed and pushed me away. “Go play with dildos. I have a girl to carve up, and I’m late already.”

“Okay, okay, later,” I waved. We both looked back at one another as we walked away. She began to run, a lightness in her step.

“You two are too cute,” Selina said. “When did all that transpire?”

“Oh, it’s been transpiring,” I said, patting her back. “Do try to keep up.”

On the way to the barn, I was distracted by something going on at the basketball court. Selina and Viviane went ahead to class.

A wooden frame had been erected at one end of the asphalt. A nude man was bound to the frame, his legs and arms spread apart so that his body was splayed wide. He was surrounded by a small group of young women in pigtails and schoolgirl uniforms.

One of the girls was beating his back with a flogger as another used his torso as a chalkboard.

The man howled with each blow.

“Why is he being punished?” I asked a schoolgirl sitting in the grass.

“Because is a bad teacher,” she replied, her eyes wide. She looked back at the teacher and narrowed her gaze to slits. “Bad, bad, bad!” she spat.

“Bad, bad, bad teacher!” echoed the girl with the flogger, accentuating each use of the word “bad” with a descending blow.

The teacher squirmed and cried out with each impact.

“Huh,” I said. “He must have been very bad indeed.”

“Yes,” the schoolgirl nodded. “Bad, bad, bad!” she shouted.

“Bad, bad, bad!” echoed the flogger.

The teacher screamed in agony.

I figured it was best for me to keep my mouth shut.

I watched for a moment before saying goodbye to the schoolgirl. I was late for class.

The barn door was open when I arrived.

“Look, as far as I’m concerned, anything bigger than six inches is just showboating. Okay?”

Everyone nodded, riveted as the naked porn star explained dildos.

I don’t know why I was surprised to discover Nina Hartley nude.

She sat on her haunches on a long wooden table behind an array of silicone phalluses. She held one in each hand.

“Now, you see the curve to this one?” she said, holding her left hand aloft. “This is great for hitting the g-spot if you curve it up. But,” she flipped the dildo, “turn it down if you doing it doggy style, or to hit the prostate on a man. That’s one advantage dildos have over bio cocks—you can adjust the size and position to suit your needs.”

Selina sat in a folding chair close to the front, bent over to take notes. Viviane waved from the risers, where she had saved a place for me.

“Thanks for the seat,” I whispered. “Uh, Nina Hartley is kinda hot, all naked and shit.”

“’Kinda?’” Viviane said. “She’s fucking gorgeous.”

Of course, like everyone else in the room, I had seen Nina nude many times. She’s been in over six hundred porn films since her debut in the mid-eighties, and she appears nude in her books and website. Even so, I hadn’t expected her to conduct the class in the all together.

I was still new to sex camp.

Nina stepped from the table to demonstrate a few different harnesses and attachment rings. She fitted the straps over her hips and smooth pussy.

I was attentive, if distracted by her luminous skin, glowing under the contrast between indoor spotlights and the gray morning light from the windows. I wasn’t sure which was stronger, the desire for oil paints or a palm of spit.

All those porn videos crowding my eyes, and I had never noticed the translucence of Nina Hartley’s creamy smooth skin.

Eventually, I was able to focus on her instructions. She was, as it happened, an engaging and funny speaker. Nina was in her element before an audience of admirers who all felt that she was already an intimate friend.

“Okay, so, lube: there are all kinds of lube, and you will find the one you like. My advice, though, is to use lots and lots of it. And of course, no silicone lube on silicone toys. The toys will melt in your mouth and your hands, and that’s only fun with M&Ms.”

Barry arrived and sat beside me. I barely recognized him in clothes.

“Man, she’s hot!” he whispered to me.

“Yeah, we already covered that. I didn’t see you at breakfast.”

“I slept in,” he said. “I was up late fucking that girl for two hours.”

“Nice work.”

“Yeah, you should’ve been there.”

“Next time, you should invite me.” I had missed a second threesome in the wee hours, in addition to the one my so-called boyfriend had cockblocked.

As Nina tried on different harnesses and dildos, I noticed a couple sitting to my left. He was burly fellow in his mid-fifties, with a ring of close-cropped white hair circling his round skull. He held a long chain attached to the neck of a tall curly-haired woman in her mid-twenties. She smiled blankly as she watched the class.

Her torso was encased in a straight jacket.

Now, that must be nice, I thought. When I grow up, I might also like to keep a pretty girl on a leash.

Nina called on a volunteer to assist with her demonstration. I recognized her as the woman who had flashed us the day before, the one who reminded me of Susan Sarandon.

She was wearing only boots and a corset.

“You just couldn’t be hotter,” Nina admired, absentmindedly stroking her cock. “Though, I don’t know—should you keep the corset or show your tits?”

“Tits!” someone called from the audience.

“I think so, too,” Nina agreed. The volunteer turned so that Nina could untie the corset. Her breasts were exposed as it slid forward.

The audience murmured its approval. Nina turned to face her. “That is even hotter. You have amazing tits.”

“And they are real!” someone shouted. The audience laughed.

“Hey, if you are born with them, that’s great,” Nina replied. She cupped her own breasts and pressed them up. “Mine may not be natural, but they are sure enough real. And they are paid for.”

She bowed as her breasts were applauded.

“Okay, now,” Nina clapped her hand. “Let’s get you on the table so I can fuck you. Lay on your back while I put a condom on this cock.”

The volunteer hopped onto the table and lay back as instructed.

“What, is she really going to fuck her?” Viviane asked.

“Sure looks that way,” I nodded.

“Damn,” Barry said.

“Now, for my money, you can get by with six dildos, max,” Nina said, taking her position between the volunteer’s spread legs. “I don’t even know how many I own, maybe a few dozen, but I always rely on the same ones.” She eased her cock into the woman’s body. “I keep a big one, of course, but I never use it, except on size queens.” She looked down at the volunteer. “How does that feel?”

“Oh, very good,” she laughed. Titters erupted across the audience.

“Good,” Nina smiled. “And see, this is only six inches, but that’s all you need—just like bio cock. If I sit back a bit, and pull up her legs, like this, I can hit her g-spot very well.”

“Oh yeah, very well!” the volunteer moaned.

“Good! Now, obviously, if this was a real session, we would have had foreplay, and I would have played with her tits more, like this.” Nina began to massage her volunteer’s breasts. “Just like any sex, fucking with strap-ons is hotter with foreplay. Then I would be more likely to make her cum.”

“Actually, you’re getting close,” her volunteer said.

“Oh really?” Nina smiled. “Well, let’s focus on that a bit.” Nina continued thrusting, her posture erect as her ass pivoted back and forth.

“Okay, that’s it . . . that’s it . . . ,” her volunteer sighed, before issuing a loud moan.

“Good, go with it, go with it,” Nina encouraged. When her orgasm subsided, the volunteer went limp. We applauded.

“Nice,” Nina said, pulling out. “That’s what we like to see. Thank you so much for helping out.” Nina stepped off the table, and gave her hand to the woman. We applauded again as she returned to her seat.

“Smoking,” I said to Viviane.

“That was lovely,” she said. “She couldn’t have done it better with a bio cock.”

A new phrase hand entered our shared vocabulary. Henceforth, I would no longer have a penis. I would have a “bio cock.”

The next volunteer was also fitted with a bio cock, a bisexual man I recognized as Switchme, one of the camp instructors. He was nude, and had brought a dildo he wanted Nina to use on him.

“Now, with guys, or with anal sex with women, you want to have them clean out first,” Nina said. “So I’ve asked my male volunteers to use an enema before class. Did you do that, Switchme?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Now, how do you want me? On the table? Face up or down?”

“Let’s have you face up, just to be consistent,” Nina said.

Switchme lay back on the table and lubed his ass as Nina attached his condom to her harness. It was much larger than the one she had previously used. She twisted her hips to watch it wriggle.

“So Switchme is obviously something of a size queen,” she teased.

“Dead to rights,” Switchme nodded.

Nina rolled a condom on her cock and covered it in lube. She crouched between Switchme’s legs and began to ease it into his hole.

“Ouch, wait a second,” Switchme complained. He fingered himself, applying more lube. “Okay, try again.”

Nina began to enter him. Again, he stopped her.

“This is just not working,” Switchme said.

“Maybe if you turned over,” Nina suggested. “You may be tensing up in front of an audience.”

“That’s never been much of an issue before,” he said, flipping over. He raised his ass to Nina. She tried again, and once again, he stopped her.

Nina slapped his ass. “I think we have to accept that this isn’t working,” she said. She turned to the class. “Again, in a real session, we’d have more time for foreplay, to relax him and prepare him for anal play. We don’t have time for that now, but it’s important to remember that—with strap-ons, just like bio cocks, you really need foreplay with anal sex.”

Selina scribbled, nodding.

Switchme demonstrated a strap-on harness he uses, explaining that it was useful for men who wanted to try sex with a larger penis.

“You can also use that for double penetration,” Nina added. “So you can use your dildo for one hole, and your bio cock for another.”

“We should try that,” Viviane whispered.

I smiled. “I know, we usually have more bio cock around than dildos.”

Nina called forward another volunteer, another beautiful woman who wore only knee-high leather boots.

“Now, we’re going to try doing it doggy style,” Nina said as she picked out a new dildo.

Nina instructed the volunteer to arch her ass high. She talked to the class as she entered the woman’s pussy, discussing various positions as she demonstrated them.

“And this,” she said, “Is the best way I know to stimulate the g-spot.” She poised herself high over the volunteer’s ass and aimed her thrusts down. Nina’s body barely touched that of the volunteer as she fucked her. She held herself aloft on her toes.

The audience was hushed in awe. The only sounds were the volunteer breathing through her moans, and the cries of the bad teacher outside, still enduring his beating.

I have never seen anyone use that position to better visual effect. I applauded. The audience joined me.

“She is in amazing shape,” Viviane marveled.

I nodded as I clapped.

A sudden movement in my periphery caught my attention. The young woman in the straightjacket had bent forward as she stood, her hair falling into her face. The man had jerked the chain leash, which was positioned between her legs. Evidently, the metal rubbed her clit under her short skirt. With a few swift tugs, he brought her to orgasm. She buckled and twitched silently.

The man noticed me watching and winked. I smiled. He seemed like a nice guy. I wondered if he would let me fuck his charge.

I was kind of turned on by her bruised thighs.

Nina had time for one more volunteer. She had selected another man, a submissive who seemed well known to the other campers. She positioned him on his elbows and knees so that he could look at his mistress as she fucked him.

This time, it worked well. She gave him a good, solid fucking.

Afterwards, class was dismissed.

“That was incredible,” Selina said, closing her notebook. “I was so glad to see that the problems I’ve had with strap-ons can happen to anyone. I learned a lot.”

“I even learned a few tricks to try with my natural endowment,” I said.

“Yeah, but bio cocks are pretty passé,” Viviane teased. “You need to get with the program.”

Friday, October 06, 2006

Fleshbot and Babes

This week at Fleshbot, my Sex Blog Roundup digs up the revelatory moments—those times when you realize you just aren’t that young anymore (even at nineteen), or you can no longer deny that you are a bonafide swinger, or you wonder if everyone can see just what a slut or closet case you are.

I also bid farewell to the couple who gave us Tea and Oranges, grateful that they touched our perfect bodies with their minds.

Wave goodbye, then hello to a new affiliate: our good friends at Babeland!

You’ve read about my friends and I making forays to their two New York locations for classes and sex toys, so I guess I don’t need to go on about their knowledgeable staff, or tell you about their dreamy staff, or mention the super-smart-sexy-cool staff who staffs Babeland with their awesome . . . staff.

I’m sorry, I meant to focus on stuff, not staff. For even if you can’t make it to the New York stores—or those in Seattle or Los Angeles—you can still take advantage of their amazing selection and top-rated customer service with your online orders. And when you do so through the link at left, you also support One Life, Take Two. Tell ‘em Jefferson sent you.

Now, what was I talking about? Oh yeah: back to sex camp!