Today marks the second anniversary of One Life, Take Two.
Two years! Seven hundred and thirty days, marked by four hundred and fifty three posts. (I’ll leave it to others to calculate the number of times I’ve had sex in these pages; I’m no one’s accountant in the bedroom.) That works out to a post about every day and a half, though of course, my tales often come less frequently. That’s a great deal of writing for me, and a great deal of reading for you.
Thanks for staying with me.
Now, don’t feel like you need to send gifts to mark the event—your boundless love and admiration are all I need. Although it is sweet that cotton is the traditional gift for second anniversaries. That certainly goes over well back home.
Ah, cotton: how that word takes me to the downy fields of my Dixie childhood. Ah, Dixie: sultry afternoons, starry nights, mint julips on the veranda . . . mmmm. Bourbon.
Come to think of it, let me reconsider my refusal of anniversary gifts. Bourbon would go down right smooth, thank you kindly.
I started this blog at a friend’s suggestion, without much expectation that it would endure beyond the night I put up my first post. And now, two years later, I find that so many of the friends and lovers I have come to know since my divorce first encountered me as readers who decided, for one reason or another, to introduce themselves.
For someone who craves honesty and transparency, having readers as friends has been a happy reward for blogging. I can relax most readily with people who don’t require me to keep secrets. If someone knows about my bisexuality, my orgies, my many lovers and isn’t put off by all that, then heck, that’s someone who might be able to handle the easier parts of knowing me.
Who would have thought that blogging would be the foundation for such fine relationships?
I’ll be spending my blogoversary with people I wouldn’t have known had I not turned my life into smut for you. And part two of this one life would have been poorer for that. We’ll celebrate with bourbon, bacon and blowjobs.
Last year, my first blogoversary was commemorated by a reprinting of my first post. Let’s make it a tradition, shall we? Hopefully that will send a few readers back to read the archives.
It’s been over a year since the break up.
For most of that year, I have hosted sex parties in Manhattan. I suppose I will need to catch you up on how that transpired. I’ve made great friends and lovers at these parties, and yet I haven’t often had the feeling of falling head over heels for someone.
Until my Celia.
I met Celia at a party at my place last spring. She arrived late with a guy who comes sometimes. The regulars were already naked, well fucked and relaxed.
Celia sat on a bed and chatted with us. She was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, worn backwards so that the logo was illegible. As we talked, Jane removed Celia’s clothes, and had soon stripped her naked. Jane kissed her torso as Celia leaned back, opening her thighs; we heard her gasp as Jane’s mouth reached her clit.
Being gracious like she is, Jane soon turned and offered me Celia’s body. I set to licking Jane's drool from Celia's labia.
As we fucked, as we did almost immediately, I decided not to stop fucking her. This is not the best form at a sex party, particularly for the host; one really should offer new guests an opportunity to work the room.
I doubt that Celia cared much for etiquette. She had gorgeous hazel-green eyes, focused intently on mine. I kept her gaze, noticing details at the periphery. Celia had a lovely face: aquiline nose, pre-Raphaelite features, framed in long black hair.
I was soon very curious to know more about the woman I was fucking, and so thought maybe we could take a break to chat.
"I would really like to talk with you," I said, meaning "Maybe we can stop and talk."
"Sure . . . what do you want to talk about?" she replied, as if I meant we should have a conversation while fucking. I was willing.
"So, where did you grow up?," I asked. I learned that she grew up in New England, she is an art student, and she would be working on a farm all summer. Within those first few moments, I gleaned that we had art in common, the sex was great, and I wouldn't be able to see her again for months.
I finally let her have sex with some of the others. Later we kissed, as intently as we had gazed. As she left, she stood in the door, giving me long, hungry kisses, as her date waited for her.
As it happened, she had an art show up, and as it happened, I was in the neighborhood the very next day. I was glad to see her art was good.
The summer passed.
Two weeks ago, I got an email from her, saying she was back in town and wanted to return to the sex parties. Cool!
I suggested we get together, and proposed we go check out the new Museum of Modern Art on opening day, as I had special tickets. It turned out she did too.
Later, we learned that the opening day was free to the public. So much for special access.
We decided to meet at an exhibition by Barbara Nitke at Art@Large gallery, get lunch, and see the museum, which we knew would be hellishly crowded. Nitke’s photos have to do with sadomasochism (SM). While not into SM herself, Nitke has an empathic insight into the lives of those who are. There is a strong sense of intimacy and care in her photographs.
Celia was late for our date, which was fine with me. We saw Nitke's work together. Celia says she knew many of the images, having seen Nitke lecture at the Eulenspeigel Society, a New York based organization for those into SM.
(I catalogued those details—Celia already knew Nitke and the Eulenspeigel Society?)
We lunched, and talked about out first encounter. It was her first sex party, she said, and her moment with Jane was her first encounter with a woman. She liked it, but she was taking downers at the time, which she regretted.
I referred to this as a pretty unusual second date. She agreed: first sex, then a lunch date. We were doing it backwards. She says she is surprised that she feels so shy.
She talked about her gaggle of girlfriends, and how she makes nude films of them, but can't imagine sex with them--though she really wants to be bisexual, as it's hip (it is?) and of course, there are more options for sex if you are bi.
She opines that the MoMA is going to be crazy crowded, and maybe we shouldn't go. This leaves her with two hours to kill before her yoga class . . . what can we do? Well, I suggest, we can go to my place and kiss. She looks at me like she can't believe I suggested this. I can't believe it myself--I am really getting bold.
"Okay," she says, "but I really am feeling shy about this. Is it too early to drink? Do you have any bourbon?"
"A girl after my own heart." I actually said that out loud.
Soon, we are at my place, on my couch, sipping bourbon. Soon, we are kissing. Fully clothed. For a long, sweet time.
Soon we are nude, in my bed, kissing. Touching. For a long, sweet time. She is so into gazing, touching, kissing, and I am melting, melting, melting. As the time passes, and her yoga class approaches, I think it will be wise not to start fucking. But I do go down on her. And she cums. And she cums again as I kiss her and hold her very close.
I should mention that she does intense yoga five times a week. And she is a semi-pro athlete. She has a strong, lean body. When she held me firmly, she knocked the breath out of me. Mind you, I was pretty breathless.
I tell her to go, it's time. She declines to leave. We fuck. Like all the foreplay, it's slow, and intense. At one point, I'm on top of her, holding myself up with my arms at full length. She is about to cum. She sits up, putting her arms around my shoulders. She lifts her ass from the bed. She is clinging to me, hanging from my body in air, pushing herself down on me. She cums. I can scarcely believe she made my body work that way.
We are back to kissing, touching . . . she discovered my sensitive nipples, and slowly tortured them. Exquisitely.
I am laying on top of her, tracing a finger along her nose, her lips, her cheeks. I take a breath. "You are really beautiful," I say. "You don't have to be. I would be nice to you anyway. But it helps that you are."
She looks down at me. "Are you bi?" she asks. I say I am. "I do well with the bi guys," she says. Why is that, you think? "Must be my physique," she says, flexing a bicep that would give pause to Charles Atlas.
She said she was hungry. I went to the kitchen and produced Spanish rice, steamed shrimp, and fresh calamari sauteed in garlic. We eat nude.
As we eat, we talk about the Nitke photos. She mentions liking one in which a man is fully bound to a flotation board, adrift in a pool. I say that there was such a sense of risk in that position. She says she likes the feeling of being bound.
I recall how she came when I was holding her, on top of her, as she pulled me closer to crush her.
"I can bind you," I offer. She produces rope and ankle bracelets from her bag, saying they were intended for a possible film shoot later that night. I dig up handcuffs and other stuff. She is soon strapped to my bed on all fours.
I torture her nipples. I tell her I am going to verbally abuse her. "Yes," she murmurs. I ask her why, with all that we've been doing, she has not sucked my cock? "Are you bad at it or something?" I ask. She opens her mouth, wide. I feed her my cock, and fuck her face hard. She can take it very well, so I commend her. Then I slap her for making me wait for that.
We had already established that she is an ass virgin, and so I take her to task for this. How can I let her fuck my friends if she can't even do anal? So I move around and give her a hard spanking. I lick her hole, and blow air in her. She moans. She can't help but fart. I spank her for this, and do it again. "This will burn, but only for a second," I warn. I take a sip of bourbon, and blow it up her ass. I plug it with my thumb, and then a butt plug.
I fuck her pussy.
"Can you take candle wax?," I ask. Never tried it, she mumbles. I drip wax on her back and ass for a very long time. She squirms until I tell her to be still. (Later she asked: was I making too much noise? I can try to be less responsive. Oh no, I say. You did very well.)
In time, I release her and take her to the shower. I wash her body, and flake off the wax. We go back to bed and it's tender again. She falls asleep. I read.
We woke up entangled, touching . . . her fingers are never still when they can be caressing. We spend the morning in bed. There was a joy in this, so palpable, for me at least, that I had to take care lest blurting out, "I am so in love with you."
I had to remind myself, I really don’t know Celia so well. Not yet.
I make her breakfast—bacon, eggs, and her first helping of grits. We were both very sated. We talk about how she just broke up with her boyfriend, and she had broken with her other two lovers in the last month. I say I am hers, when she wants me. Her eyes fix on mine. “That’s right,” she smiles.
My friend Todd calls. He reminds me that we are going to fuck this woman from Texas that night. I had offered to host, and said I would line up some others to join us. I had invited Thomas, that was easy, but I was so busy with Celia all weekend, I didn’t do much more.
I asked Celia if she wanted to do a group thing that night. She pondered it but declined. She was already well sexed. So was I, really.
Around two or three, I kissed goodbye to my Celia. I had a gangbang in a few hours. I would spend that time in the thrall of my Celia, picking up flecks of candle wax, and writing to my friend Dacia about her.