Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Cotton

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.

Thanks again.

My Celia

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

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

Until my Celia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The summer passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I fuck her pussy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Around two or three, I kissed goodbye to my Celia. I had a 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.








Sunday, November 26, 2006

So Close to Heaven

This story is also told by Selina.

The brothel was clearing out. There was no one in the make-out room. Only a few bodies remained on display in the objectification room.

The orgy room was the place to be.

“I guess things wind up kind of early, huh?” I asked Lolita as I held open the door.

“Jefferson, it’s after three,” Lolita replied. “I mean, seriously, what do you want?”

In a far corner, a man massaged a woman’s feet. I exchanged waves with the Tantra instructors who fucked among the couples on the mattresses.

Selina had set up camp in the orgy room hours earlier. I checked on her throughout the night as I made my rounds and she worked through a retinue of her admirers. She kept busy despite having decided to forgo sex for the duration of the weekend—or rather, to forgo vaginal or anal penetration with “bio cock,” as male genitals were dubbed at sex camp.

Of course, genital intercourse is the first thing most people think of when referring to orgies, but, as Selina knew, fucking is merely scratching the surface of sex. While removing one item from the agenda, Selina retained many creative alternatives.

“Having fun?” I had asked her as man licked mud from her spiked heels.

“How’s it going?” I had asked her as she blew two men at once.

“Holler if you need anything,” I had offered as she spanked a bad boy.

Now, Lolita and I found Selina nude in the orgy room and talking with a well-dressed blonde. Her new friend was tarted up in black, from her high heels and hose to the dropped neckline of her short black dress.

“Jefferson!” Selina called. “Come here, I’d like for you to meet someone.” She smiled as she turned the girl to face me. “Lolita, Jefferson, may I introduce Windsorina?”

“Pleased to meet you,” Windsorina smiled, shaking strands of hair from her rouged cheeks.

Well, shut my mouth, I thought.

It was Windsor, the fellow who had followed Selina like an adoring puppy since she arrived at camp, now recreated as the fetching Windsorina. The previous evening, he had confessed to us his fantasy of being transformed into a girl. Now, it seemed that his fantasy had been realized.

“Pleased to meet you, Windsorina,” I said, taking her hand and kissing a cheek freshly shorn of its goatee. “It’s hard to believe I’ve missed such a pretty creature all evening.”

Windsorina looked down and blushed. “I’ve been here . . .” she began.

“When you took Marcus to the hospital, Viviane and I discovered Windsorina,” Selina explained. “She was hiding, but we uncovered her. All it took was some makeup, some clothes, a wig . . . and there she was.”

“Really? So Windsorina was dressed by two women? Why, if I recall correctly, that was precisely her fantasy.”

“Yes, well, that was half of her fantasy,” Selina grinned. “I need your assistance to fulfill the remainder.”

“What’s the fantasy?” Lolita asked. Selina raised a finger to her lips.

“I’m happy to do my part,” I said, chucking Windsorina’s chin. “I’ll do what I can to please this beautiful creature.”

Again, Windsorina turned her face. Her modesty was enchanting.

“Windsorina, turn around please,” Selina instructed. Windsorina complied, turning awkwardly on her heels. Selina reached around her charge’s waist, slightly raising her black skirt to reveal a buttock. “Isn’t that a lovely sight, Jefferson?”

“Indeed it is,” I agreed, raising my hand. “May I . . .?”

“Yes, please,” Selina offered.

I reached forward to caress Windsorina’s ass, feeling its curve in the palm of my hand. “So soft,” I admired. “And so smooth. May I spank her?”

“Yes, of course,” Selina said.

I gave Windsorina a few light slaps. Her flesh pinkened to a light rosy hue.

“She’s lovely,” I admired. “I think I would really enjoy some time with Windsorina, if that’s all right?”

“I think Windsorina would like that, wouldn’t you, Windsorina?” Selina asked. Despite the sweetness in her voice, Selina’s tone suggested that this was more a direction than an inquiry.

Windsorina looked to her mistress, then down to her heels. “Yes, please,” she nodded, her voice barely higher than a whisper.

“I’m delighted,” I smiled. “Let me help you to your knees, Windsorina. Let me see how well you suck cock.”

Windsorina looked in my eyes, and then averted her gaze as she took my hand. Gingerly, she lowered herself to her knees, her skirt rising slightly on her thighs.

I unzipped my shorts and dropped them to the floor. I stepped from them as I removed my shirt.

Selina took Lolita aside to explain Windsorina’s fantasy. “She wanted to be dressed by two dommes, then made to service two men,” she said.

“Oh, a forced feminization scene. Goody!” Lolita grinned. “Then we’ll need Marcus for this. I’ll go find him.” She smiled at me before leaving.

I smiled back, then turned my attentions to the quiet blonde kneeling before me. I traced my cock along her lips, gently smearing her bright red lipstick.

“Part your lips for me, pretty Windsorina,” I directed. Windsorina looked at my belly, her face slightly panicked.

“Eyes on mine, pretty girl,” I said, taking her chin in hand. “Eye contact greatly enhances a blowjob.’

With her eyes on mine, my cock slid slowly into her mouth. I moved my hips slightly, gently fucking the top of her tongue.

“Now, move your tongue on me,” I directed. “Let me feel your mouth come alive.”

Windsorina’s tongue moved tentatively around the head of my cock.

I looked to Selina. “The girl’s obviously a neophyte, but she’s got some abilities. I think she’s worth the training.”

“By all means, please enjoy her,” Selina said. “Anything you can do to further her training would be great.”

I looked to Windsorina. Her eyes blinked as she twirled my cock in her mouth. “Your mistress is very gracious,” I smiled, petting her hair. “You are a very lucky girl indeed.”

A hum of assent murmured under her Adam’s apple.

I took her cheeks in my palm. “I think you should honor her by being a better cocksucker,” I said, easing myself deeper into her face. “You suck cock like a girl, and that really won’t do.”

She gagged as I reached the back of her throat. I held her face in place. Her eyes widened as she struggled for breath.

I pulled my cock from her mouth. I took one hand from a cheek and slapped her. “Like a girl,” I repeated. “That’s not good enough. Again.”

I parted her lips with my cock and slowly edged it into her mouth. “Relax,” I told her. Windsorina drew a breath through her nostrils and swallowed as my cock edged to her throat.

Again, I held her face in place. This time, she held her own.

“Good girl,” I commended. “Now, you can better service me.” I swayed my hips, moving myself back and forth into her throat.

Windsorina sputtered as she struggled against gagging.

“Just relax . . .,” I repeated, fucking her. “Let me do the work.”

Windsorina blinked and drew a deep breath. I held her face in place and fucked her mouth as softly as a lullaby.

“Hey Jefferson,” Marcus said. Lolita held the door as he hobbled into the room. “Selina, how’s it going?” He moved to lean against a post, taking the crutches from under his arms. He waved to the Tantra couple. “You two are too gorgeous,” he smiled.

Marcus began to undress. “Lolita says you might need a little help, Jefferson. Who’s the girl?”

I held her chin, turning her face slightly without removing my cock from her mouth. “This is Windsorina,” I said. “Windsorina, this is my friend Marcus.”

Windsorina gurgled.

“’Windsorina?’” Marcus asked, stepping from his pants. He turned to Selina. “Why not just ‘Wendy?’”

Selina moved her hair from one shoulder to another. “I think ‘Windsorina’ is a more feminine name,” she asserted.

“Well, she’s your project,” Marcus said. “I’d have gone with ‘Wendy,’ but whatever.” He looked to the Tantra instructors, bringing his hand to his hardening cock.

The man looked back at Marcus and smiled as he watched him stroke. He intensified his thrusts into the woman under him.

“So, is she much of a cocksucker, Jefferson?” Marcus asked, never looking away from the couple.

“Serviceable, at best,” I replied. “She needs a little guidance.”

“Ugh,” he complained, looking to us, then back to the man watching him. “I’d really rather get good head. This could be more trouble that it’s worth.”

“She’s not much, but she is on her knees,” I pointed out. “You want to give her a try?”

Marcus turned and watched my cock glide between red lips. “All right, whatever,” he said. “But move her over here—I need to lay back on this mattress.” He positioned himself so that he could see the Tantra instructors. “Be careful of my knee brace,” he told Windsorina, barely looking her way.

I took my cock from Windsorina and offered her my hand. “Stand up, pretty,” I said. “I want you to blow my boyfriend. Treat him as you have treated me.”

Windsorina stood cautiously on her heels. She moved to kneel before Marcus. He spread his legs and positioned himself at the edge of the mattress to accommodate her.

“Please, don’t fuck this up,” Marcus said, stroking his cock to its full length. “If this isn’t good, I’m kicking you off my dick.”

“I’ll do my best . . .” Windsorina began.

“Shut up, shit,” Marcus said, cutting her off. “Shut up and suck my dick.”

Windsorina lowered her mouth to take Marcus. Her blonde wig bobbed up and down as she gasped for air.

“Jesus, you’re a mess,” Marcus said. He put his hand on her head and held her down. “Just focus, okay? Just take it all and focus.”

I looked to Selina. “I think he’s having the same trouble I was,” I said. “The girl needs to work on her concentration and stamina.”

“I can see that,” Selina nodded. “Duly noted.”

I caressed Windsorina’s soft black dress. My hands took her hips firmly. “And she’s an ass virgin?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Selina said.

Windsorina gasped in the affirmative.

“Shut up,” Marcus said, taking her cheeks roughly. “No one’s talking to you.”

“Hmmm, well, I’d like to fuck her virgin ass,” I said, reaching for her panties. I pulled them gently over her ass and down to her knees. I lifted each leg to move them as far as her ankles.

I let the panties rest there, as they looked nice with her hose and heels.

I moved to the shelves near Lolita to find a condom and lube. She took my cock in her hand.

“This stuff really gets you hard,” she grinned.

“Shh, don’t tell anyone,” I smiled. I kissed her. “So this will be, what? The third person you’ve watched me fuck tonight?”

“Yeah, and it’s giving me ideas . . .” she said.

I nuzzled her leather motorcycle jacket. “Any ideas you get, I’m your man.”

We kissed again. She ran her grip along the shaft of my cock.

“Go,” she said. “You’ve got ass to fuck.”

“Oh, right.” I kissed her cheek and toyed with her hair. “You’re cute. Here, open this condom, would you?”

I rolled it on my cock as I walked back to Windsorina.

“Fuck, look out for my knee,” Marcus said, slapping the girl on his cock. She gurgled an apology. He slapped her again. “And shut up. Damn, you’re really starting to piss me off.”

“Hold her steady,” I said, lubing Windsorina’s hole. “We’re going to spit roast her—you sticking her top, me sticking her bottom.”

“Geez, Jefferson, you’ll fuck anything.”

“This is a favor for Selina,” I said. “And anyway, I’m a sucker for virgin ass.” I added more lube to my hand. I slathered my cock, slapping Windsorina’s ass to wipe away the excess. I spread her knees as far as her restrained ankles would allow.

I crouched behind her, my cock poised at the ready. “All right, pretty baby: I’m taking your ass.”

“This will hurt at first . . . “ Marcus said.

“ . . . but I will push ahead,” I added.

“That’s the best way,” Marcus finished.

I began to ease the head of my cock into her. My cock bent back.

I looked down and placed my thumb against her hole. I gently eased it in. Windsorina fell forward slightly.

“No, no,” I said, pulling back her hips. “You need to be brave and stay steady, darling girl. That will make this go much more smoothly.”

I repositioned myself to try again. I pushed forward only to feel my cock slide between her cheeks.

“Shit,” I muttered. I crouched a little higher and spread her ass. Again, her hole turned me away.

I looked at Selina. “I can’t get in there. She’s too tight.”

“Hmm, well, let me help. Maybe she’s tense.”

Windsorina gulped. Marcus sternly told her to focus. He caught my eye and raised an eyebrow. I shrugged.

Selina knelt beside her charge and lubed her hand. She massaged Windsorina’s hole with one hand and rubbed her back with the other, offering words of encouragement.

“I do love boy ass,” she whispered to me.

After a time, she took my cock and tried to guide it into Windsorina.

Once again, my cock was rebuffed.

Selina looked at me. “Wow, she really is tight.”

“This calls for serious action,” I said, standing.

I retrieved a glove and more lube. I knelt behind Windsorina, gloving my hand and covering it with lube.

“Here, try more lube,” Selina offered, holding out a bottle.

“Good idea,” I said, as she poured it onto my glove.

My hand dripped as my finger entered Windsorina’s ass. She flinched, but relaxed at the sound of Selina’s voice.

“Tight?” Marcus asked.

“If she sneezes, she might break my finger,” I said.

Soon, between the three of us, we opened Windsorina. I got two fingers into her, allowing the leverage and penetration needed to get deep into her while coaxing her prostate.

I wanted to try once more to get my cock into her, but I had my doubts. If I could get her to shift position, it might work. But that could require moving Marcus, which would be disruptive, given his carefully positioned leg. I could ask her to stand, but Windsor was taller than me, making it hard to get my dick to the height of his ass. Never mind Windsorina’s heels, which would raise my destination into the stratosphere.

At any rate, there was no need to shuffle this configuration of bodies at the risk of losing this moment. Windsorina was finally in a proper frame of mind. Her cocksucking grew more intent; Marcus was now able to “kick back,” as he says, and enjoy his blowjob without issuing reprimands.

“You are doing so well, Windsorina, so well,” Selina softly intoned. “Such a good, good girl.” Selina reached under the girl’s spread legs to massage her cock.

We soon felt Windsorina’s body melt in orgasm.

“Yeah, give it,” I barked.

“Cum, damn it,” Marcus ordered, wedging his cock in her throat.

“Such a good girl, a good, good girl,” Selina cooed.

We helped Windsorina to her feet. Her makeup was smeared and her eyes glazed with pleasure. Selina embraced her, telling her what a good, brave job she had done.

Marcus kissed her cheek. “It wasn’t the worst blowjob I’ve ever had. It got much better as you progressed. You just need to keep practicing.”

“Thanks,” Windsorina beamed.

“I have to confess, I was skeptical,” I said. “When you first told us you had a fantasy that would take all four of us to fulfill, I thought you were dreaming. But now, thanks to Selina, your dream came true. You were feminized by two women and forced to serve two men. You did it!” I kissed Selina. “You must be very proud.”

“I am,” Selina nodded earnestly, rubbing Windsorina’s back. “She did very well. I am honestly very impressed.”

“I was a little afraid,” Windsorina said. “I really felt scared when you started to, you know, fuck me. But then it felt so good, I had to let go.”

“Oh, I didn’t fuck you,” I corrected. “That was my hand.”

Windsorina’s smile fell.

“But you did a great job,” I hastened to add. “You took practically the whole thing. And I’ve got huge hands—see?” I held out a hand. “Huge.”

She looked crestfallen. I regretted having said anything; it just slipped out, as the truth so often will.

“You did a fine job,” Selina repeated.

“You sure did,” I nodded. “Just think: you were so close to heaven.”

Windsorina looked at Selina and smiled at that thought.










Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Santa's Lap

Here’s one to ponder as you head over the river and through the woods.

No sooner did I put up a post requesting holiday-themed photographs than a friend of mine sent this photo of himself as a jolly elf—complete with a North Pole, no less.



And since you’re wondering: Her? Had her.

Be nice to your loved ones. Enjoy your stuffing.





Tuesday, November 21, 2006

Lesbian Book Club

Anyone who takes a peek at the friends clustered at my MySpace profile must be immediately impressed, as I am, that this blog has the hottest readers anywhere.

So perhaps it comes as no surprise that so many enjoy sending nude photographs my way. I don’t mind that at all, so long as the nudist has the good manners to ask before hitting the send button.

Every now and then, I’m pleased to share a photograph here.

Li’l Bit of Li’l Bit on the Side wrote to tell me that she and some of the girls were enjoying a nice evening in a hot tub when conversation turned to Marcus and me, and our respective blogs.

Soon, feet were swirling under the bubbles. And the next thing you know . . . well . . .



How about that? I guess women really do have sex with one another without my telling them to do so. So much for my theory to the contrary.

Although, Li’l Bit tells me that Marcus and I were there in spirit, so perhaps we shouldn’t be too hasty in discarding a thesis so well grounded in observation.

After all, I, for one, have never personally witnessed lesbian sex that I did not personally witness.

L’il Bit was happy to let me post this photograph, pointing out that she is only visible from the eyebrows up and the calves down. Truth is, this is not at all unusual in photographs she sends to me.

Maybe these are her finest features?

By the way, it seems that every time I mention my MySpace profile, I get laid because of it. So may I remind everyone that I have a MySpace profile?

Just to keep those cameras buzzing, I’d like to make a special request. For the next month or so, in keeping with the season, I would like to see more holiday-themed nude photographs of my readers.

Heck, I may even post a few here.





Monday, November 20, 2006

Toilet

“Jefferson?”

“Yeah, Viviane, what’s up?” I shifted where I stood, leaning against a cabin exterior with a foot propped behind me.

“I think I’m going to walk over to the pool. I hear the lesbians have organized an event exclusively for women.”

“Oh that sounds nice. Want me to come? You know my theory about lesbians: they only have sex when I tell them to.”

Viviane smiled. “No, I think I’ll be fine.” She looked over my shoulder. “Is that a friend of yours?”

“This thing? No. That’s just something to cushion my back from the wood shingles.” I pressed back into soft flesh. “I wouldn’t want to get a splinter.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Splinters can really hurt.” Viviane leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “I’ll try to find you later. Be good.”

“I’ll try! Kiss the lesbians for me.”

Viviane made her way through the crowd around us on the porch. She looked very cute in her black dress, I thought.

“Sir?” A muffled voice spoke into my shoulder. “Sir, do I make you comfortable?”

I ignored the voice. I wasn’t really in a mood to talk. I was enjoying myself, just watching people.

Out on the lawn, I could see Femcar with her face buried between a woman’s spread legs. Two guys were taking turns fucking Femcar from behind. I recognized Barry, stroking as he waited his turn.

“Hey, Barry,” I called.

“Hey, Jefferson. Want to come fuck Femcar?”

“Maybe later, pal. I’m just taking it easy now.”

“That’s cool.” Barry turned back to Femcar. He slapped her ass hard. “Fuck her like you mean it, man. Make that shit jiggle.”

It was nice to see everyone getting along so well.

“Sir? Do I make you comfortable, sir?”

“Yes,” I sighed. “You make me very comfortable.” I shifted my weight, pressing hard to squeeze her between my body and the rough wall behind her.

“Thank you, sir,” she breathed, struggling to inhale. “I am here for you to use.”

“Of course you are. Please remain silent unless addressed.”

“Yes, sir.”

I pulled out my flask and enjoyed a few long draughts of bourbon. I chatted for a few moments with the Aussie who had wrestled Barry during the match. He introduced me to the two women he was taking to the orgy room. One of them was wearing thigh-high laced boots with spike heels. I wanted to hear all about them.

I didn’t introduce my cushion. They didn’t acknowledge her presence.

They made their way into the orgy room. I looked and saw Lolita and Selina heading there as well. I caught Lolita’s eye. She waved. I waved back.

It looked like the orgy room was the new happening spot. That might be fun, I thought. But first, I should make good use of my cushion.

I stood forward. She drew a deep breath—her first in quite some time—and lowered herself from her toes. I had pinned her so that she had to lift herself in order to breathe at all.

She was nude but for a black-lace blindfold and a folded piece of poster board that hung from her neck. The outside of the handmade card read:

I am permitted to be used by any MAN (or MEN).

This was how I found her, standing in this spot. That was why I decided to make her my cushion.

She couldn’t see me, or anything else. She only knew me by the sound of my voice and the pressure of my body.

“So you are permitted to be used, are you?” I asked, holding the poster board.

“Yes, sir.”

I opened the card. The interior was blank.

“What is this? Some kind of dance card?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So men can sign it when they have used you? Or if they plan to use you? That kind of thing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Interesting. Do you have a pen?”

“No, sir.”

“’No, sir?’ You have a card to sign but nothing with which to sign it?" I took a piece of her long, curly hair and twisted in my hand. “You’re not very bright, are you?”

“No, sir, I’m sorry. I am only good for a few things.”

“Such as?”

“Please, sir, let me use my mouth to please you.”

“I won’t allow you to waste my time. Are you too stupid to suck cock?”

“No, sir . . . I mean, yes sir, I can please you with my mouth, if you will permit me, sir.”

I put my face close to hers and took her jaw in my hand. I wrenched her mouth open and spoke into it. She jumped, startled to have me so close and so forceful.

“I have to warn you,” I said, my voice low and deep. “I am very accustomed to getting my cock sucked just the way I like it. If you fail, I’ll walk away, leaving you here to ponder your shitty cocksucking.”

“Yes, sir,” she began. “I will do my best to please . . . oh!”

I yanked the hair wrapped around my hand, forcing her down. She struggled to maintain balance as she was forcibly bent forward.

She regained her composure as she situated herself on her knees. Blind, she raised her head in the direction of the fist that held her hair. She parted her lips expectantly.

I parted her teeth with a finger. I gently stroked her teeth, moving from the canines to the molars. Another finger joined to press down on her tongue. She opened wider, taking four fingers. I pressed, edging my hand into her. As my knuckles passed her lips, she began to gag.

I pulled back. “Tsk,” I said. “I’m not optimistic about this.”

She heard the sound of my zipper and the thud of my wallet as my shorts hit the wooden porch.

A cluster of campers were standing an arm’s length away, leaning against a railing and sipping white wine from plastic cups. I didn’t know them. Perhaps one of them was the person who had given this woman permission to be used. Perhaps they were strangers to her as well.

They didn’t say anything to me, though, so I let them be. I was glad to have this little bit of anonymity—and commiserate privacy—as I used this object.

She took my cock in her mouth, gently lolling the head with her tongue. She pulsed and wavered her tongue under my shaft, moaning quietly in the back of her throat. She rested a hand gingerly on my hip.

It was a perfectly sweet and adoring blowjob, just what one might hope to have after a splendidly romantic prom date.

But I was not her prom date.

She had some nerve trying to make this sweet.

I slapped her hand from my hip and grabbed another fistful of hair.

I forced my cock to the back of her throat and held it there. Her head pulled away, instinctively, but my hands held her firm.

Surrender, I thought. I know when to release you. I won’t choke you—much.

She relaxed, holding me in her throat. Her tongue came back to life, licking the base of my shaft.

I released my grip slightly and pulled away, leaving the head of my cock on her tongue.

I listened as she caught her breath deeply though her nose. When it slowed to a more measured rate, I took her hair tightly once more and pushed my cock back to her esophagus.

Don’t fight me, I thought. I’ll let you have what you want, but you are going to do what I want so you appreciate the difference.

Her body went limp as I parked my cock in her.

“Good girl,” I said. I held her hair firmly and began to use her throat. I moved her head back and forth on me, pushing deep and holding my cock full in her. I widened my stance to push even deeper.

I pulled her back and forth rapidly, roughly using her skull to “please” my cock, as she had so wanted to do.

When she was nearing exhaustion from lack of oxygen, I let up.

“Keep my cock in your mouth,” I ordered. “But now you can suck it the way you want.”

Once again, my cock lolled between her cheeks. Once she seemed rested and content, I took up her hair and fucked her face again.

We traded this rhythm. She sucked my cock gently, I fucked her face roughly, back and forth. Never once did I remove myself from her mouth.

People walking along the porch would stop to watch, or press passed us. Sometimes they spoke to us. I ignored them.

Drool pooled in my pubic hair and soaked my balls, running in trails down my legs.

I was deep in her throat when she retched.

I pulled back, removing my cock from her mouth for the first time since she had landed on her knees.

She bent forward, coughing.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” she managed.

“Then why aren’t you sucking cock?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she gasped. “I gagged on you. I thought I might vomit, sir.”

“Why is that of any concern to me?”

“I’m afraid, sir,” she panted, swallowing hard. “I fear I will displease you if I vomit on you, sir.”

“You have pleased me very well,” I said, placing a palm gently on her cheek.

“Thank you, sir. Would you care to use my pussy, sir? Or my ass, sir?”

“Suck my cock while I think it over,” I said. I took up her hair and held my cock to her lips. I shoved it into her throat and held her head firmly in place. I thought over my options.

She had done a very nice job. She deserved to get fucked as she wanted.

I could fuck her right there on the porch, but there was so little space and so much traffic.

I could drag her down into the grass, but the nearest staircase from the porch to the lawn was not convenient. Besides, I’d done the whole grass thing the night before.

I could take her into the orgy room. But my friends were there. They would be curious about her, and I was in no mood to talk. Besides, the orgy room was so pleasant—that was no place to use some object I had found loitering outside.

Then I saw the right place to go.

I pulled my cock from her throat and yanked up my pants. “Get up,” I said, grabbing her hair. “Come with me.” She was still standing when I yanked her hair. “God damn it, move your ass.”

“Yes, sir.” She stumbled to follow, walking backwards and bent over as I led her by the hair in my grip.

I pulled her slowly past clusters of people in conversation. Her arms flailed at the air as she struggled to keep from falling.

“In here,” I said, pushing open a screen door. “Be careful of the door,” I said, making no effort to stop it as it closed on her shoulder. “The door—please be careful.”

“I’m s-s-sorry, sir,” she stammered.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. I opened another door. “Okay, inside,” I said, pushing her ahead. She tripped and fell slightly, landing on a low object. She reached below her nude hip to feel it.

“A toilet, sir? Are we in a bathroom?”

“That’s right. Now stop asking questions. Bend over and hold the tank while I use your pussy.” I took something from my pocket and unzipped my shorts. I let them fall, stepping free once they hit the tile floor.

“The tank, sir?” she asked, turning. “Like this?” She bent over the bowl and hugged the tank behind it.

“That’s right. Now, don’t fuck this up and I won’t flush your pretty long hair.”

“Thank you, sir.” She spread her legs and raised her ass as she found her position. “You will use a condom, won’t you sir?”

“Jesus Hosanna,” I sighed, exasperated. “Sometimes I marvel at what I endure.” I pulled back my right hand.

“Yes.” I lowered my palm hard.

“Of.” Spank.

“Course.” Spank.

“I.” Spank.

“Will.” Spank.

“Use.” Spank.

“A.” Spank.

“Condom.” Spank.

Her ass reddened as I tore the package in my left hand. She had not cried out at all. Her stoicism was impressive.

“Satisfied?”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” She wriggled her hips, expectantly.

I had pushed her into the first stall of a rather large restroom. It was shared by a long row of cabins and, as the camp was originally built for girls, used by everyone, there being no separate facilities for men and women.

Anyone squeamish about shared accommodations may have been more so to discover me fucking a woman bent over the toilet nearest the door.

If so, no one said anything. People came in, took care of their business, and left.

I fucked her roughly, keeping pace with the way I had treated her face.

Eliza, my fetish model sweetheart, appeared at my side.

“Oh, Jefferson, even in the toilet?”

I smiled at her. “Yes, my darling Eliza, even in the toilet.”

Eliza noticed the woman’s pink ass and gave a few whacks of her own. I moved aside as I fucked to give her room. The sound of flesh on flesh echoed against the tile.

Once again, the woman did not cry out.

Eliza looked up at me and smiled before excusing herself to another stall.

I busied myself with fucking until I realized someone else was watching.

Lolita leaned against the open stall door.

“Hey, Lolita,” I smiled. I leaned over to kiss her. She took my mouth into hers, meeting my tongue with her own.

The woman I was fucking sighed with the renewed vigor of my thrusts.

Lolita pulled back and grinned. She waved a hand toward the toilet. “Having fun?”

“Just fucking something I found,” I smiled. “Hey, are you busy?”

“Nah, just hanging around. Why?”

“Mind if I hang around with you?”

“Of course not,” she smiled. “I told you I would hang out with you tonight. Duh.”

“Awesome. Just give me a minute, okay?” I turned to the silent woman over the toilet. I grabbed her hips and fucked her until I collected a groan.

“All right,” I said, pulling out. I tugged the condom from my cock and threw it on her back. “Count backwards from one hundred, out loud,” I said, reaching for my shorts. “And then you can resume your position by the wall.”

“Thank you, sir. One hundred, ninety nine, ninety eight . . .”

I washed my hands as I chatted with Lolita.

“ . . . eighty seven, eighty six, eight five . . .”

I spanked the woman once more as we passed. “Tell your friends Jefferson did this to you.”

“ . . . unh, thank you, Jefferson, sir . . . eighty four, eighty three, eighty two . . .”

I took Lolita’s arm. “What do you want to do?” I asked.

“I want to make things happen,” she said.










Sunday, November 19, 2006

Object Lesson

This event was also described by Tristan.

Discretion seemed to have informed the d├ęcor of the brothel.

The lights were limited to candles and strands of single bulbs. A low wall of shelves divided the space, which was further segmented by drapes and netting separating beds from one another. The resulting cubicles were intimate, yet each was also a stage to be observed by passers by.

I held Viviane’s hand as we surveyed the goings on. We ran into the fellow who had been wrestling Marcus when he fell.

“Oh, hi!” he said in low voice. “It’s good to see you. Is Marcus okay? I feel terrible about what happened.”

“I think he’ll be okay,” I whispered. Our voices were quiet and reverential among the dim lights and copulation. “They sent him back with a brace and crutches. He’ll have to get an MRI and more tests.”

“Crutches? MRI? Oh, that is awful. I was just too rough.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” I said. “It was an accident.” I turned to look at the bed beside him. A man in a black t-shirt was fucking a woman with deep, rough thrusts. His pants remained around his ankles. His boots were firmly planted on the floor.

“Are you in line to be next?” Viviane asked.

“Hmm? Oh, no,” he said, looking over. “That’s my wife. I’m selling her tonight.”

“How much to fuck her?” I asked.

“Four hundred.”

I fingered the wad in my pocket. “Cool, maybe I’ll come back later and fuck your wife.”

“Please do,” he nodded. “Oh, and tell Marcus he can have it on the house. I feel just awful.”

“Will do.” We watched for a bit longer before leaving our new friend to continue pimping his wife for play money.

It would be nice, I thought, to finally fuck someone at sex camp. Here we were, two days into Dark Odyssey, and other than Lolita’s swift, deep blowjob during our roll in the grass the night before, my boner remained bone dry.

The orgy room was much better lit than the brothel, with a soft diaphanous fabric covering the ambient ceiling lights. Stacks of mattresses formed orderly mounds in the middle of the room. Shelves lined two walls, offering condoms, latex gloves, lube and fresh bedding.

One couple talked in the corner. Otherwise, the space was empty.

“No orgy tonight?” Viviane asked.

“No orgy yet, I bet,” I said. “I hope that changes. After all that’s gone on, it would be nice to see something so familiar as a good old-fashioned orgy.”

The objectification room, by contrast, was the happening place to be. Viviane spotted Marcus, Selina and Lolita across the room. We pressed through the crowd to join them.

Lolita and Selina were being updated on Marcus’s knee. Selina changed the subject to tell us how the Sex Idol Contest had gone in our absence.

I took a hit on my flask and passed it to Viviane.

“Too bad we missed seeing your act, Marcus,” Lolita said.

“Yeah well, nobody’s seeing nothing much from me tonight,” he said morosely. “I’m useless.”

Our conversation moved on to other topics, never addressing the five bodies on display nearby.

Marcus grew distracted and decided that maybe the bodies might be worth examining. I offered to join him.

The lower extremities of five nude women were laid out on cots. Their upper bodies were hidden behind a black scrim. As the room was brightly lit, it was possible that the women could see us faintly through the scrim. But from our vantage, they were invisible above the waist.

Above each woman hung a paper describing what could and could not be done to her body. Only one of the bodies was currently being “used,” in the parlance we had learned from Femcar in that afternoon’s lesson. Two men and a woman were crouched over one body, turning a variety of toys onto her genitals.

Marcus had selected a pair of legs shackled to a cot. A Sharpie marker was balanced between her toes. He rested his crutches against a nearby post and leaned forward.

“What do we have here?” he asked, reading the paper over the legs of this woman—or rather, this object. “’Do: talk about me, toys, penis, fingers, write on me. Don’t: talk to me, play with clit piercing, ass, pain.’” He turned to me. “What the fuck does ‘don’t pain’ mean?”

“Maybe it means ‘don’t pain my sensibilities with incomplete sentences,’” I suggested.

“Maybe I should ‘don’t pain’ this thing when I ‘don’t ass’ it,” Marcus said derisively.

The legs squirmed.

I slapped a thigh. “Those shackles are useless if this thing can’t keep still.”

“Cheap shackles, too,” Marcus said, lubbing its pussy. “Real bargain rate product here.”

“You know the good stuff.” I took the Sharpie marker and scribbled a moustache over the shaved slit. “I tell you, this whole ‘bare beaver’ thing is played. It would be nice to see some pubic hair now and then, just for fucking variety.”

“Do you need a glove?” Viviane asked, suddenly at Marcus’s side.

“I’m covered,” he said, a little annoyed at the interruption. He pulled a latex glove from his pocket and put it on his right hand. He slipped three fingers easily into the object.

“What do you think?” I asked.

Marcus shook his head. “Nothing special.”

The legs shivered as a quiet moan issued from behind the scrim.

“God, who can fucking hear a thing with all this racket?” Marcus complained. He retrieved his fingers and pulled off the glove. He threw it on the object’s thigh. “This is boring. I’m going to look for something worth doing.”

“I’ll join you in a minute,” I said, unzipping my shorts. “I’m just going to fuck this hole real quick.”

“Whatever,” Marcus said, reaching for his crutches. “I wouldn’t go near that thing for free.” He hobbled off, leaving me alone with the object.

“I won’t waste breath talking to you,” I told the scrim as I rolled a condom on my cock. “Please do me the courtesy of being still while I enjoy some pussy.”

The legs relaxed in their shackles.

I stepped from my shorts and climbed onto the cot. I poised my cock to enter the object, but found the shackles positioned its legs in an inconvenient position.

I tried to adjust the legs to better vantage, to no avail.

“This won’t last long,” I said, entering it. “Unless someone brings me a saw to get these fucking legs out of my way.” I began to pump roughly. “No ‘don’t saw’ on your God damned list, is there?”

A moan gave assent.

I slapped a thigh. “Shut the fuck up, hole.”

I grabbed the object’s hips and moved the hole to a better position. With this adjustment, I could fuck with gravity on my side.

I looked over my shoulder. I looked back to face the scrim and closed my eyes, ignoring the eyes on me.

I was the only man fucking one of the objects, so of course, everyone in this crowded room was watching. Lolita was with Viviane and Selina, just a few feet away.

I have no objection to being watched as I have sex. I have come to find it very hot. These days it’s so common I can either allow myself to be aroused by it, or I can retreat into my own head to ignore voyeurs if I’d prefer privacy.

I have places to go when I want to be alone in a crowded room.

But one thing I can’t abide, whether I’m fucking or blogging or talking, is the sense that at some point, I’ll be summarily judged by my actions. I dreaded having to explain and discuss my desire to use this object.

No bones about it, I was very turned on by this public display of anonymous sex. I just wished for the privacy of my own anonymity.

Marcus was fine. Neither of us needs to explain himself to the other. We do anyway, but more to understand each other, and life, than to judge one another.

I barely knew Lolita. I knew she was an expert in all matters kinky, so I couldn’t very well shock her. That didn’t concern me.

But I really liked Lolita, and I didn’t know her well enough to know what, if anything, was simply too grotesque for her. I would much rather get to know her better than fuck this object; I hoped this did not ruin her interest in me.

Still, I fucked.

Selina has had a tough time figuring me out. As she got to know me, she enjoyed that I was smart and funny; it didn’t hurt that my knowledge of seventies rock rivals her own. That’s the real me, and it made me someone she wanted to know.

But she seemed to have trouble reconciling this nice guy she liked with the dominant side of my blog persona. Here I was, this nice guy, not only fucking someone I didn’t know, but also talking trash and throwing in some spankings. This might rankle her considered opinion about trust in a sexual relationship, much less a dom/sub interaction.

I was fucking this hole and seemed unconcerned about the woman behind the scrim. Maybe Selina thought this was hot. Maybe she thought I was a misogynist prick. I didn’t know.

Still, I fucked.

Viviane and I have a deep relationship. Through knowing me, she came into blogging, group sex and kink—heck, even her first forays into sex after marriage were with me.

As Viviane created her own sex blog and dove into her first threesomes, her first orgies, her first domination scenes, her first efforts as a doyenne, I was right there by her side, giving her my advice, and, more critically, my imprimatur. If I did something, in her eyes, it was the cool thing to do.

I was one of the cool kids, and I was her devoted lover.

That’s a lot of responsibility. And here I was fucking some object, reducing a flesh-and-blood person to a mere hole, some gloryhole for my dick.

This was heavy shit and I was playing it out in front of people whose opinions mattered to me.

Still, I fucked.

I tried to focus.

I was also questioning my own motives. All my life, I have done my best to live by the golden rule. I was raised a good Christian boy, a Southerner who opened doors for others and blessed their souls when they prayed for me.

I was raised a mama’s boy within a matrilineal clan, taught to revere women in ways that translated easily into feminism as I matured as an intellectual. After a devoted marriage to someone who required my total attention, even to the most erratic demands, I had shifted into a single life dedicated to making happy the various women I met.

How did that jibe with fucking this woman—this object—while subjugating my concern for her pleasure, much less her identity?

Still, I fucked.

My mind was distracted, but my cock was not. This had me very hard.

I could explain myself later, I reasoned, even to myself. For now, I needed to concentrate and close down my peripheral vision, to reduce my immediate concerns to very simple elements.

My cock.

Her hole.

That cock.

This hole.

In.

Out.

Nothing else.

I willed myself not to care about her orgasm as the object came in shudders against that cock.

I willed myself not to be distracted by her flinch when I touched her stomach. Was she concerned about her slight belly, or just ticklish? Was she pregnant, or protecting a tender injury?

Not my problem, I told myself, facing the scrim as I fucked. If that’s an issue, I thought, that fuckhole should put it on its God damned miserable “don’t” list. That will be a problem for the next cock that takes mercy on this hole and fucks it.

“How is it?” asked a sweet voice. I turned to see a young woman smiling pleasantly.

I shrugged. “Pussy’s like pizza, you know—even the least of it is generally pretty good.”

I kept fucking as we talked, my hands holding the object’s hips still.

“Good. Is this one any trouble? I notice she has a lot of rules.”

“Yeah, it’s a pain when holes come with troublesome restrictions.”

“Like that ‘don’t play with my clit’ thing?” she said, pointing to the list of "don'ts." "What's up with that?"

“Ridiculous, right?”

The object moaned. I slapped a thigh.

“See?” I smirked. “That kind of shit just ruins it.”

“Well, not to rush you,” the woman smiled. “But I’ll fist her once you're done.”

“Oh, please,” I said, pulling out. “I’ve wasted enough of my time. Do your worst.”

I pulled off my condom and tucked it into the object’s hole, using her body as my waste receptacle. I pulled my shorts up over my erection and buttoned the waist.

“Excuse me one second,” I said as the woman pulled on a glove. I picked up the Sharpie and left a signature on the object’s inner left thigh. When I finished, I slapped my note hard.

The leg winced.

“That was me,” I said to the scrim. “Remember my name, cunt.”

“You’re Jefferson?” the young woman asked, slipping her fingers into the pussy I had just vacated.

“Yeah, and that’s my blog,” I said, pointing to the URL I left inked on anonymous flesh. “Come read me sometime.”










Thursday, November 16, 2006

Back to the Garden

Our tires crunched along the gravel drive until the headlights caught a lone figure in their sights. He stood from a folding chair and waved for us to stop.

“It’s the guard,” I said, rolling down my window.

“Lonely job,” Marcus said, peering ahead. “Maybe we should blow him.”

The guard stepped to the car and shone his flashlight in our faces.

“Evening,” he said. “This is private property. Are you registered guests?”

“Yes, we are,” I said, holding forward my nametag on its lanyard.

“All right, Jefferson, let me just confirm that.” He tucked his flashlight under his chin, aiming it onto a clipboard. He flipped through pages, looking for my name. “All right, Jefferson . . . Jefferson . . . do you happen to have your vehicle’s registration number?”

“I do, one sec.” I opened the glove compartment and pulled out a packet of papers. I found the correct page and give him the number.

“Okay . . . the last two digits are six and three . . . okay, here you are, Jefferson.” The guard leaned in to turn the light onto my passenger. “And who are you, sir?”

“I’m Marcus.”

“Marcus? Well, why didn’t you say so? How’s the knee?”

“I dunno,” Marcus said, holding his brace. “It’s not broken or anything, but I’ll have to have more tests done.”

“Bet it hurts like hell.”

“It sure does.”

“Yeah, I had a pretty bad knee injury once . . . I was laid up for over a month. Still gets a twinge if I put too much weight on it.” The guard shifted his stance, moving weight from one knee to the other.

“Yeah, that sucks,” Marcus replied. “So, how did you know about my knee?”

“Oh, everybody knows,” the guard smiled. He aimed his flashlight into the darkness ahead. “All right, you can proceed to the parking lot.”

We thanked him and began to drive into camp.

“Your fame precedes you, sir,” I said, rolling up my window.

“Yeah, that was weird. How did he know about my knee?”

I shrugged.

It was just after eleven as we returned to sex camp. Thanks to the rapid response of the camp medical team and the attentions of the hospital staff, we were back just a few hours after Marcus first sustained his wrestling injury.

It felt like returning home.

While we were at the hospital, we had missed the Sex Idol Contest; unfortunately, our fellow campers would be denied the sight of Marcus onstage shoving his testicles into his ass.

However, we were arriving in time for the opening of the Garden of Carnal Delights. Marcus was unsure that he would be able to participate, but he didn’t want to miss the sights.

We were both curious to see what Lolita intended when she offered to make things happen.

Camp roads were closed to vehicles other than the golf carts that served as public transportation, but I allowed myself a special exception, given that I was driving a man felled in the line of duty.

Marcus and I had earned several hundred dollars in Kundalini Kash during the previous night’s Cirkus. This currency had only one exchange rate: to purchase sexual favors that night at the Garden’s brothel. After a quick stop at the cabin to pick up our Kash—and to top off my flask—I drove Marcus to the Sex-o-Rama cabins, site of the evening’s festivities.

Our car crept through the clusters of pedestrians making their way to the Garden.

I pulled up near a crowd at the stairs to Sex-o-Rama. It was dark but for flickering lights and candles that lit the way into the Garden of Carnal Delights. I turned off the ignition and shut down my headlights.

I opened my door and stepped out.

A crowd turned to face me.

“It’s Marcus!” a woman shouted. “Marcus is back!”

The car was swarmed. I made my way around to the passenger side, but Carin beat me to it. She opened the door and flung her arms inside.

“Marcus! Are you okay?” she asked, pulling him close and kissing his cheek. “Can you even walk?”

“Can everyone back up?” I asked. “Let’s get his leg clear of the car so he can stand.”

“Oh, I’ve got his leg, Jefferson,” Carin said. “And his crutches. Here, help me get his arms—are you sure you can walk, Marcus?”

“I think so,” Marcus replied. “Thanks Carin, just be careful, okay?”

“Oh, I’ll be careful—my God, you have a cast on it?,” Carin said, her voice raising. She turned and called out: “He’s got a cast!”

“It’s a brace . . . ” Marcus began.

Carin helped Marcus from the car. Once he was balanced on his crutches, I closed the door behind him.

"Man, you're okay!" Barry said, patting Marcus's back. "That's so cool, man. There are a million people here who would love to suck your dick."

Marcus was besieged by campers. I took Carin’s elbow. “Can you just get him up the steps?” I asked. “I need to go park the car.”

“Don’t worry, Jefferson,” she replied, her arm around Marcus’s waist as she lead him away. “He’s in good hands.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Hey Marcus, I need to go park the car—Carin’s got you, okay?”

With so many voices in his ears, Marcus didn’t hear me.

I got back into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The headlights came on, sending the crowd back to the entrance to Sex-o-Rama.

I drove slowly through the crowd, back to the field that served as a parking lot. I found a space at the far end, and made my way back under a quiet, clear sky.

We never have so many stars in Manhattan, I thought.

It took me fifteen or twenty minutes to get back to Sex-o-Rama. I found Marcus at the top of the stairs leading to the cabin. He had walked about ten steps since I dropped him off.

He was leaning against a rail and talking to Eliza, the septuagenarian fetish model who had made out with me the night before.

I leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

“Marcus,” I said. “You aren’t getting very far. Do you want to sit down?”

“I’m fine,” he said, smiling at Eliza. He leaned forward. “Everybody knows about my knee,” he whispered. “Apparently, my injury was announced at the Sex Idols Contest.”

“Hey Marcus, how’s the knee?” someone shouted.

Marcus turned and waved. “I’m okay!” he called back. “Thanks!”

“That’s nice of everybody,” I said.

“It’s nice, but I have to keep telling the same story,” he complained. “And everybody’s got a story to tell about their own knees. All this medical talk is making me woozy.”

“Maybe we should set you up at the brothel. You can sell the story of your knee injury in exchange for sex.”

“Yeah,” he smiled as he leaned on his crutches. “I can pimp my pain.”

“Jefferson!” Viviane called. “You’re back!”

“Yeah, they did some X-rays on Marcus’s knee, and said it wasn’t broken . . .”

“I know, I know, I heard all about his knee. Come on, I want to take you to the make-out room!” She was giddy with excitement as she took my arm and pulled me away.

“Wait, wait . . . they don’t allow sex in that room, right?”

“You can manage. Come on.”

I looked back to say goodbye to Marcus. He didn’t notice; his eyes were on Eliza as he stroked her short white hair.

As Tristan had told us in the orientation, there were four main rooms at the Garden of Carnal Delights: the orgy room, set aside for sex; the brothel, where sexual favors could be purchased with Kundalini Kash; the objectification room, where bodies were anonymously displayed for use; and the make-out room for kissing and sensuous touch.

Viviane pushed open the screen door and pulled me inside.

Couples were paired on pillows and sofas in various dimly lit corners, their quiet sighs rising above low music as they kissed, fondled and embraced.

We found an available spot on foam sofa shaped like a cresting wave.

“How do you sit on this thing?” I asked.

“Maybe like this?” Viviane said, falling backwards into a crook of the sofa. She giggled as the foam gave way, sending her legs in the air.

“That looks very comfortable,” I smiled. I crouched over her hips and bend forward to kiss her. My hands held her smooth calves then ran up her legs, under her black dress.

“Why Viviane!” I exclaimed, standing erect. “You’re not wearing underwear!”

Viviane’s giggles gave way to peals of laughter.

I took the hem of her dress and, in a swift tug, raised it over her belly. “Good Lord, your pussy is exposed!” I gasped.

“No, no . . .” she hiccupped, laughing as she struggled to lower her dress. I crouched again, foiling her effort by wrapping my legs around her waist.

I leaned to her face. “Viviane, perhaps the rules weren’t clear enough. You are not permitted to be nude in the make-out room.”

“I’m not, I’m not . . .” she sputtered, barely able to get out the words between laughs.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered, kissing her cheek. “I’ll help to hide your shame.” I cupped my hand over her pussy. She nearly splashed in my palm. “The shame of your very, very wet . . . “ I leaned into her ear and savored the next monosyllable. “ . . . twat.”

I slipped my tongue into her ear. She twisted and squirmed as she laughed. “No, no . . . please . . . please, Jefferson, I can’t breath!”

“All right,” I stood. “Enough making out.” I pulled her hem into place and held out my hand. “Let’s go tour this so-called Garden.”










Monday, November 06, 2006

Help

For a moment, everyone was stunned.

Then everyone began to help—all at once.

“What happened to your knee?” Viviane asked, quickly standing. “Can you move it?”

“Are you okay?” Selina asked, rushing to his side.

Lolita signaled for someone.

“Ow, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Marcus moaned, rolling and holding his left thigh. “I don’t know, fuck, fuck fuck!

“Wait, wait, look at me,” Barry commanded, crouching by Marcus. “Eyes on me. Can you stand?”

Marcus opened his eyes and focused. “What? What are you talking about?”

“Can you stand and extend your leg?” Barry repeated. “Like this?” Barry held out his own leg.

“I don’t know . . .” Marcus began. Barry took an elbow as Marcus bounced up on one foot, allowing his injured leg to dangle.

“Okay, now: slowly drop it into place,” Barry said.

Marcus straightened his leg and tried to stand. “Ow, shit! Down, down, put me down!” Barry lowered Marcus back to the mat. “God, don’t ask me to do that again!”

“Okay, that’s it,” Barry stood and faced the crowd pressing close. “He’s wrecked his ACL, maybe torn a ligament.”

The trannie we had met outside rushed over. “Are you having trouble with your leg?”

“Yes, fuck it! It hurts,” Marcus fairly cried.

“Sweetheart . . . “ I said, kneeling.

The trannie took a walkie-talkie from her belt. “Medical, pick up, this is Julie, MOD at the dungeon. Pick up.”

The device in Julie’s hand squawked a reply. Julie described the situation and listened again. She turned to Marcus.

“Can you stand?” she asked.

“Are you fucking kidding?” he said, clutching his thigh again.

“Tell them he ruptured his ACL,” Barry said. “He tore a ligament.”

“Let them do their work, Barry,” Lolita said sternly.

“You need to elevate that leg, honey,” Viviane said, bringing a chair nearby. “I had a bad leg injury once.”

“No one should do anything until medical arrives,” Lolita asserted.

Julie returned the walkie-talkie to her belt. “Medical is on the way. You aren’t to move, honey.”

“Well, I’m glad you agree with me,” Marcus said. He turned to Barry. “What are you saying? I busted an ACLU?”

“The ACL,” Barry said. “It runs from the center of your knee to your femur, right here.” Barry ran a finger over his own knee. “See? And you probably ruptured it when you fell. Did you hear a popping noise?”

“No . . . I don’t know, I just fell . . . does that need surgery?”

“Probably. It happens a lot in sports. It will take you out for about six weeks.”

“Six weeks?!” Marcus said, his shoulders falling. He looked at me. “I can’t miss work for six weeks.”

Lolita put her mouth close to my ear. “Can you make Barry stop? He’s not a doctor. He’s going to upset Marcus.”

I nodded. “Hey Barry, can you give him some room?”

Barry looked up. “We need to see if he can move his knee to the side.”

“Don’t move your knee,” another man said.

“Okay,” Marcus said, noticing the young man who had suddenly appeared from behind a curtain.

“I’m going to take your heel. Try to resist me as I push up.”

“Uh huh, and who are you?” Marcus asked.

“Firefly. Camp first responder. EMT, firefighter. Do you feel my hand on your heel?”

“Yes . . .”

“Barry, give them room to work,” Lolita instructed. Barry moved to one side.

“It’s the ACL,” Barry repeated to the man Marcus had been wrestling. “He’s going to be out for a while.” The poor fellow looked stricken.

Firefly gently moved Marcus’s leg from side to side, asking questions as he did so. He spoke into his walkie-talkie and listened to responses.

“Do you need anything?” Selina asked Marcus.

“Shouldn’t we elevate his leg?” Viviane asked Firefly.

“The medic is on his way,” Firefly said. “Yes, let’s elevate his leg, but no more movement. I’m going to get a kit. Can you stay here, Marcus?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, wincing as Viviane and I lifted his foot into a chair.

Firefly spoke into his walkie-talkie as he stepped away.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” smiled a nude woman holding a whip.

Marcus looked up, taking in the incongruity of the offer. “Uh, yes, I would, thanks.”

“You shouldn’t drink wine,” Viviane warned. “You’re going to be taking ibuprofen for the pain.”

“I can manage a glass,” Marcus said, taking the cup being offered.

Viviane looked at me. “He shouldn’t drink anything.”

Selina sat and held Marcus’s hand. “They’ll be back soon,” she smiled.

“The ACL can usually be repaired, no problem,” Barry told someone.

Marcus sipped his wine and motioned me close. He leaned into my ear.

“I know everyone wants to help,” he whispered. “But I’m kind of going nuts here. Can you, you know, make them stop?”

I nodded. I looked at Viviane and Selina. “I think he needs some space.”

“Of course you do, sweetie,” Viviane said, standing.

“Let us know if you need anything,” Selina squeezed his hand. Our two friends asked the crowd to stand back. The match was over, they announced.

“Jefferson,” Marcus whispered. “I can’t be out for six weeks.”

“Shhh.” I lay beside him and took his head on my shoulder. I kissed his forehead. “Let’s see what the medical people say.”

“I can’t work without my knee,” he said, closing his eyes.

“I know, but let’s not worry about that.” I took the cup from his hand.

“It hurts so much . . . ,“ he trailed off.

“I know.”

Marcus’s head went limp against my neck. I held him still.

“I’m the camp medic,” a voice said from over my shoulder. “What’s happening?”

“His breathing is shallow and he’s unresponsive,” I replied.

“That’s not what I want to hear,” he said, kneeling. He directed Firefly to take Marcus’s blood pressure as he opened Marcus’s eyelids and shined a light into his pupils. Gradually, Marcus came around.

“Wha . . . what happened?” Marcus asked weakly.

“You had a vasovagal reaction,” the medic explained as he put a stethoscope on Marcus’s chest. “Essentially, you fainted. Very common in times of medical stress. Has this happened to you before?”

“No . . . what, you mean the fainting thing?” Marcus said, looking at me. “I don’t think so . . .”

“His pressure is coming back,” Firefly reported, unstrapping the Velcro from Marcus’s arm.

“Good.” The medic turned back to Marcus. “We’re taking you to a hospital. Do you think you can stretch out your leg in a van, or will we need an ambulance?”

“You can stretch your leg, right Marcus?” I asked.

“Yeah, just don’t ask me to bend it,” he said. “What, are we going in an ambulance?”

“Good. We’ll take the camp van. All right, I want your friend to come with us.” The medic turned to me. “Can you get a car and follow the van? You’ll be bringing him back. If you need us for anything, we’ll come back for you. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Good. You should get dressed and help your friend to get dressed.”

I had forgotten we were still naked.

I dressed and helped Marcus with his clothes. Viviane returned to our cabin for our wallets and keys. A van showed up at the dungeon. Firefly and I helped Marcus into a bench in the back. He winced at any motion to his knee.

Firefly sat with Marcus, his medical kit by his side. Colten was behind the driver’s seat. Tristan hopped into the passenger side.

She turned to the backseat. “Anything for attention, huh, Marcus?” she teased.

“Tristan,” he smiled. “You know, I’ll go to any length to make you notice me.”

At the hospital, Marcus was put into a wheelchair and admitted into Emergency. I waited with Tristan, Colten and Firefly as an administrator took his information.

“Jefferson?” Marcus called. “Can you come here for a moment, please?”

I joined him and rested a hand on his wheelchair. “What’s up?” I asked.

“I want to give them your phone number as an emergency contact and I don’t have my cell. What is it?”

The administrator looked up at me, her pen ready for the information. I gave her my number.

“Okay,” she said, writing the final digit. “And is Jefferson your first or last name?”

I looked at Marcus. I had forgotten. “Jefferson” is not my name at all.

I leaned forward and quietly gave my real name.

Reality had ruptured the neat bubble of sex camp the moment Marcus fell on the mats.

A door opened into the waiting room, near the seats occupied by Tristan, Colton and Firefly. A nurse called loudly for Marcus—using his real name, of course.

“So much for anonymity,” Marcus sighed.

“We can trust them, of all people,” I said, wheeling him to the examination area. Firefly joined us. He spoke to the nurse, bringing her up to speed.

“Okay, that’s all we can do for you,” Firefly said. “You are in good hands, so we are going back to camp, because we are on duty tonight. If you need us for anything, please call us.”

I shook Firefly’s hand and sat with Marcus. He was examined by a doctor and given painkillers before being taken for X-rays.

As we waited for results, Marcus worried that he was now out of commission for the duration of sex camp.

“I can’t fuck anyone if I can’t put weight on my knee,” he fretted.

“You’re very creative,” I assured him. “If there’s someone willing, you’ll find a way.”

To distract him, we made up dirty stories about the cute young father soothing his baby in the next examination area.

The doctor came back to explain that there was no evidence of a break, but Marcus would need to get an MRI when he returned home to rule out further damage. He was released after being outfitted with a brace, crutches and a prescription for more painkillers.

As we prepared to leave, I turned to Marcus.

“Remember this morning, when you said it was my own fault that you didn’t share that boy Felix? That this was my comeuppance for hogging Madeline one night last year?”

“Yes . . .” he began.

“Well, you do realize that it is your own fault that you hurt your knee.”

“And how do you figure that?” he smiled, hobbling.

“If you had shared the boy, we would not have wrestled this morning. If we had not wrestled, you would not have been inspired to organize the match. If there had been no match, you would not have been injured. So you see, this is really all your doing.”

He leaned on a desk to get his balance. “I’m glad you’re my friend,” he said. “I’d hate to be your enemy.”

I held a door as he passed on his crutches. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I'm sure we can find a way to pin this all on Madeline.”










Sunday, November 05, 2006

Mano a Mano

Marcus kissed me outside the dungeon.

“I want you to know, I just really love you,” he said. “I’m so glad we are here together.”

“Me too, sweetheart. I love you, too,” I said, resting my head against his neck. “Now, are you ready to get your ass kicked?”

“As if,” he laughed.

“You two are too much,” a trannie called from a bench, where she sat with her girlfriend.

“And you are too gorgeous,” Marcus replied. “Do you want to wrestle tonight?”

“No, baby, I’m one hundred percent a lady. But thanks anyway.”

A few people had already gathered for the evening’s match. Marcus’s Bi Men’s Wrestling Contest—inspired by our impromptu tussle that morning—had proved to be a popular attraction. It would kick off an evening full of events, leading into the Sex Idol Contest and the much-anticipated Garden of Carnal Delights.

I was facing it all on nearly no sleep. Marcus was no better rested, and he now found himself much on center stage as the coordinator of the match. He also planned to participate in the Sex Idol Contest by demonstrating his ability to insert his testicles into his ass, a practice he dubbed “shurgging.”

We also anticipated a tour of active duty in the Garden, as Lolita had promised to make things happen for us.

I found a chair and sat to rest for a moment.

Marcus and Barry began to debate the rules we would follow. As it happened, Barry had wrestled in high school and college.

A camp staffer was wiping down the mats in preparation.

“Okay,” Barry said. “So we’ll stay with a three count on two shoulders down. We’ll count one, two, three, and you’re pinned. Best two out of three sets wins a match.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Marcus said. “But when they lose, they should have to say they submit.”

“And they should wrestle nude, right?” I asked.

“They can submit, I guess,” Barry allowed. “We can keep points. I can track that. Like, it’s two points on a takedown, one point on an escape, two points on a reversal . . .”

“No, no,” Marcus shook his head. “No scoring points. This is like an erotic show, not a real match. So when they submit, they should be required to do anything the winner wants—suck cock, whatever.”

“So they wrestle nude, right?” I asked.

“Yes, Jefferson, we wrestle nude,” Marcus said, wearily. “Now can you please take your mind out of the gutter and do something constructive?”

I opted to talk up potential wrestlers.

It was Saturday night, and the dungeon was already filling with doms and subs there to use the facilities.

At the entrance, one woman was blindfolded and restrained to a Saint Andrew's cross as her bare body was gently knifed. She was awfully pretty, I noticed, with her moist lips parted as she sighed.

Near the mats, a woman was suspended from a frame, also blindfolded as she was lightly flogged by a nude couple. The man took the front as the woman took the back. Their submissive’s mouth seemed frozen in a permanent smile.

Across the gym, a group of naked men jerked off as they surrounded a woman supported in a sling. The group was well into a gangbang; she sucked two cocks and grunted as she was briskly fucked.

Her noises eventually attracted Barry’s attention. He dropped his pants and walked over to inquire how long he would need to wait to have a go at her.

He was told it would be about forty minutes.

That being a long time to wait, Barry contented himself by doing pull-ups, nude in the center of the dungeon.

Music played lowly from a sound system. I caught part of Sarah McLachlan’s “Sweet Surrender.”

I asked one beefy fellow if he wanted to join the wrestlers. He declined.

I asked another young man. He looked to his girlfriend and demurred.

I expected such responses. Some fellows might be resistant to wrestling at all, much less as part of a something billed as a naked throw down among bi men.

“Come on,” I said. “If you don’t wrestle, I’ll have to, and believe me, no one wants to see that. I fight dirty and I cry like a girl.”

I cajoled, but I didn’t want to press the point. He seemed slight and kind of pasty. It’s possible he was worried about being trounced.

“We’re taking care to be sure everyone is evenly matched,” I offered as assurance.

“Go ahead,” his girlfriend nudged. “It’ll be fun.”

He looked at her, then at me. “Okay, sure,” he agreed. “Why not?”

I sent him to Marcus to get his match assignment.

“How’s it going?” Viviane asked. She had walked to the dungeon with Lolita and Selina following dinner.

“Not bad,” I said, looking around. “We’re getting a good crowd, right? And a few men are ready to take to the mats.”

“That’s nice.” She put her hand on my back. “Don’t hurt yourself, okay, sweetie?”

I kissed her hair. “Don’t worry. If I have to wrestle at all, it will be quick business. I’m nobody’s athlete.”

“Okay.” She lowered her voice. “Please don’t wrestle Barry.”

“Uh, not likely. That boy means business.”

Marcus signaled for me. I joined him and a handful of other men as he went over the rules.

“ . . . and if you are pinned, you have to say ‘submit,’ and do anything the winner asks of you.”

“What do you mean, anything?” my recruit asked.

“Let’s say it’s negotiable,” I suggested. “No one should do anything he’s not comfortable doing.”

“Fine, whatever,” Marcus said, impatient with debating fine points. “No one’s asking anyone to get his ass fucked. It’s a wrestling match, okay?”

First up were Barry and Will, a powerful-looking bear of an Aussie. They stripped their shirts and took positions.

Barry circled Will, squatting low to take advantage of his opponent’s height.

“I thought they were supposed to wrestle nude,” Viviane complained. “Judges!”

“Right, we’ll fix that in the next round,” Marcus said, just as Will hit the ground.

“Submit!” Barry commanded. “Submit!”

“Right, right, I submit, you strong bugger.”

Barry jumped back, rotating his arms and bouncing on his heels. “Yes!”

“Now what, I have to suck his cock?” Will asked.

“Yes, that would do,” Marcus said.

“Fine. I owe you a blowjob anyway, you bugger. Come here.” Will raised himself to kneel on the matt. Barry stood before him and lowered his shorts. Will took the victor’s cock in his mouth and pumped his head back and forth.

“Right,” he said. “That’s done. Now, let’s go again.”

Two more rounds, and Will was out three blowjobs.

“Awesome!” Barry said. “Who’s next?”

“Well, come on, we can’t keep throwing opponents at you,” Marcus said. “We’ll run out of men. Let’s do different matches and see who wins. Then we can match the winners.”

“You sure?” Barry asked. “Because eventually I’ll get tired. Someone could beat me.”

“I’m sure,” Marcus said indulgently. “All right, Jefferson . . . let’s match you with Switchme. Come here, guys.”

We huddled. “All right, look,” Switchme said. “This is all good fun, but I’m worried about my back. So let’s not get too rough.”

“That’s fine, I’m a wuss,” I said. “This is all for show. Which reminds me: we should be nude.”

“I have no problem with that,” Switchme said, lowering his shorts.

I tossed my shorts to Viviane.

Switchme and I took to the mat. We crouched as we circled one another, our arms poised for a good position. I was concerned about Switchme’s back, and mindful that he had about ten years on me.

We had to take it easy. Still, I wanted to put on good show. I bounced on my feet, circling him and talking trash.

Switchme lunged for my knees. I was down instantly.

He pinned me before I knew what had happened.

Barry pounded the mat three times. “Submit!” he ordered.

“Ugh,” I winced. “Submit!”

Switchme sat back and smiled. “Sorry about that, Jefferson,” he smiled. He took my cock in his hand and gave me a quick handjob.

I took the opportunity to stare up at the gym ceiling and catch my breath.

Switchme patted my hip and offered me a hand. He pulled me up. We were on for another go.

I focused as we got into position.

“Go for his legs, Jefferson,” Barry shouted. “His legs!”

Right. Go for his legs.

Maybe I should’ve asked for a few basics before agreeing to do this.

I reached for his legs. Switchme twirled and grabbed my thighs, knocking me down.

He pinned my shoulders. I struggled to pull one of them off the mat.

“Yes, yes!” Barry shouted. “Defense, man!”

A nearby dom shushed us.

I heard the sound of a cane hitting flesh, and instantly regretted that I had not made other plans for the evening.

I groaned as I twisted free.

Switchme was on me again.

I soon took another handjob. A third.

I shook his hand and retired to my seat near Viviane. “Well,” I panted. “That was quick work.”

“You’re a lover, sweetie,” she rubbed my shoulder. “Not a fighter.”

I sat back to wheeze and watch the next match. Marcus was taking on the pasty fellow I had recruited. As he stripped, I saw that Marcus’s opponent had very defined muscles.

I would later learn that he had wrestled in high school, not so long ago.

They squared off. They circled for only a few paces before lunging at one another. Marcus’s opponent grabbed him around the waist and lifted him from the ground.

“Shit!” Viviane said, covering her mouth.

Marcus landed, then grabbed for his opponent. He lifted him fast, turning so that they began to tumble. Marcus caught his fall on the mat.

His opponent took advantage of a momentary imbalance to lift Marcus again.

Marcus went up and came down hard. His sudden landing caused the mat to shift. Marcus fell, bringing his opponent down with him.

“Shit!” Marcus shouted, writhing on the mats. His face was contorted in pain. “My knee! Fuck—my knee!”










Saturday, November 04, 2006

Bloody Mary

The instructor was nude, as were a number of the students.

I wasn’t fazed. I had come a long way since the morning’s session on strap-ons, when I had been surprised to find Nina Hartley teaching in the all together.

Now, after our outdoor ritual bath, followed by skinny-dipping among the crowd in the sun, we were practically nudists ourselves. Wet hair and radiant skin made Viviane and Selina feel all but naked in their loose clothes. Marcus and I went shirtless in our shorts.

Twenty fours hours into Dark Odyssey, we were settling into sex camp. It would take a lot to shock us now.

At the afternoon session, we were ready to learn about objectification. Our guides would be Femcar and her husband, Phantom.

As Tristan had mentioned during orientation, objectification was among the most controversial aspects of camp activities. It’s a form of submission in which one surrenders subjectivity, allowing one’s body to be used purely for the gratification of another—or others, plural.

I had seen Femcar around camp. She had first caught my eye on opening night, at the Cirkus Erotikus, when she lay prostrate on the wooden floor wailing as two men kicked and punched her naked groin.

I talked to her briefly that night, after she had endured a brutal pummeling. She was dazed and flush, pushing her long hair from her face and nodding when I asked to talk to her at some point later, if we could find a quiet moment.

I was very curious to hear what she had to say about objectification.

She was already lecturing when we arrived for the session, held in the open-air pavilion that had housed the previous night’s Cirkus. We weren’t late; the lecture seemed to have developed organically from an ongoing conversation Femcar was having with the early arrivals.

Femcar’s lean, compact body seemed unmarked by the previous evening’s beating.

As Femcar spoke, her husband sat at a table, cutting and taping materials for their demonstration. He was a handsome man, with curly hair and glasses perched on his nose as he worked. He looked like a preoccupied teacher, the sort that inspires crushes in high school.

Billowing behind him, a sheet served as a screen. Vodka, celery and tomato juice sat at a corner of the table. Several people in the front row drank Bloody Marys from red plastic cups.

Viviane, Selina and I took seats near the front of the class. Marcus preferred to lean against a railing to one side, near a square frame built of two-by-fours.

Viviane pulled out a fan to circulate the humid air. Selina retrieved her notebook. I took a sip from my flask.

“This desire to be used, to be used, to be used,” Femcar said, her voice ruminating on a phrase. “It comes from within me, from within my mind, my heart, my cunt.” She spread her legs, opening her smooth vagina.

Viviane instinctively looked away.

“I didn’t know it would lead to this, to being used, when everything started. It was a fluke, a bar bet: I was hoping the Cubs would win, and bet that if they did, I would streak down the street.” The class tittered as Femcar paced, her feet clomping in heavy boots, the only thing she wore. “The Cubs pulled it out, so I had to live up to my end of the bargain. So I ran naked down the street, listening to the men calling after me. I was afraid of being seen, of being followed, of being arrested. But when I sat to rest at a bus stop, the police stopped and thought it was cool. So they wound up staying to protect me. Must’ve been Cubs fans!”

We laughed. Femcar’s anecdotes defused a palpable sense of anxiety among the students. The meandering presentation seemed like a preamble to the main event, like we were waiting on something—but what? Why was she wearing boots fitted with clasps and fasteners? What was her husband up to? And what was with the cocktails?

I heard a loud thud and turned to look over my shoulder. A man was suspended from a tree. A woman was using his torso as a punching bag.

Just beyond, a couple lay fucking in the grass.

Femcar moved onto another story, describing how she pursued one masturbatory fantasy to the next, realizing those that seemed possible and keeping after those that eluded her. These fantasies pushed her to ever greater extremes.

“Here, this one may show what you mean,” Phantom said, typing on the keyboard of a laptop. In a moment, a digital film was projected onto the screen.

“Right, this is a good one,” Femcar nodded.

In the film, two men attached straps to a prone figure immobilized in a tightly wrapped material that resembled duct tape.

Femcar continued to narrate a story, but the film distracted me.

“What is that?” Viviane whispered.

“I don’t get it,” I said, furrowing my brow.

Suddenly, the immobilized figure began to move. Or rather, it remained stationary as the ground beneath it moved.

“Wait, look,” I said, pointing. “Get it? That’s a body. It’s being hauled behind something with a fixed camera.”

Viviane leaned forward. “I don’t get it . . . oh, okay, now I see . . . the camera is on a pick-up truck.”

“Yeah. But how’s the body floating behind it?”

The ground below the figure stopped moving. A muffled howl came from the laptop’s speakers.

Phantom looked up and smiled at Femcar. “That worked.”

“Sure did,” she laughed.

“What was that?” someone asked. I turned to look; it was Nina Hartley—nude, of course.

“Oh, well . . .” Femcar began, and then gestured to her husband. “You explain.”

“All right. Well, we rigged up a single-wheel trailer and hitched it to a truck. She’s mummified and attached on top of that, so that’s Femcar in there.”

“Yeah,” she laughed. “And then . . .”

“Yeah, and then there are sensors from the truck’s electrical system hooked up to her. There are some on her tits that zap when the truck is moving, and some inside her cunt that zap when we hit the brakes.”

“Jesus,” Selina gasped. The class murmured.

“Ouch!” Nina said. “That’s got to hurt.”

“It hurt like hell,” Femcar nodded. We heard the squeal of brakes and another howl. “Yeah,” Femcar said, looking at the screen. “That was a good one.”

I looked over at Marcus. He had lit a cigar and watched the film spellbound.

I turned to check on the human punching bag. The boxer was embracing the dangling torso.

From a distance, it was hard to be sure, but it looked like the couple in the grass was taking turns pissing on one another.

Femcar sat on the table, answering a question about how she and Phantom managed to balance sadism and masochism with their responsibilities as parents. As Femcar spoke, her husband fussed with her right arm.

“We have four kids,” she began. “And the oldest is a teenager now. So we have to be careful about that. I mean, he did tell me he found my website, Three Holes, No Waiting, so I asked, ‘Oh my God, you didn’t look, did you?’ He looked at me and said, ‘Mom, no—I don’t want to know.’ So they are aware to some extent, and we’re honest with them, but obviously, we don’t talk about everything, and we’d rather not show them pictures and shit.”

“Oh my God, really? He found your website?” Nina asked. “What did you do?”

“Well, I moved it. I mean, he knows, but I don’t want him to really look into it, or to share it with his friends.”

“That raises an interesting point,” Marcus said. “A number of us have kids and write sex blogs. I know Jefferson does, right Jefferson? And Selina does. And I’m a sex worker, so obviously, we have to use computers and still keep this from the kids.”

I nodded. Viviane squirmed in her seat as her mind raced through necessary precautions and cautionary tales.

“Can’t you just leave false clues in your blogs?” Nina asked. “Like, say you live in Boston or something?”

“Well, I mean, yes, you could, but that won’t work really . . .” Marcus began.

Listening as the porn star and the whore debated privacy and parenting, I realized that Marcus had just let down his guard: he had announced that he was a sex worker. He had planned to withhold that biographical detail at camp, unsure how it might be received.

The lecture had become a conversation, with Femcar chiming in now and then. She reclined as her husband continued to work on her right arm, just out of view on the other side of her body. I was sitting to one side, with a better vantage than most.

Selina craned her neck. “What is he doing?”

I leaned over to whisper. “He’s drawing blood. See the bag collecting it?”

“He is? Why?”

I shrugged.

On the film, Femcar was hauled behind the truck, yowling as it stopped and started. On the table, she talked and squeezed her fist, pumping blood into a bag.

The couple in the grass was fucking again.

As Marcus watched, Carin left her seat to stand next to him. He leaned over to whisper something in her ear.

Carin was at camp to teach a session on swinging. She was a drop-dead beauty—somewhere in her twenties, with a sparkling smile, dark eyes and wavy hair. Her lithe figure was nude but for a silver metal bangle slung low on her hips.

Marcus’s hand toyed with the bangle as he draped an arm around her waist, bringing his lips to her neck.

This was their first meeting.

Carin was apparently intrigued to learn that Marcus is a sex worker. Within moments of ‘fessing up as a hustler, Marcus had found his honesty proving beneficial was she introduced herself.

Carin nuzzled into his arms.

Her boyfriend joined them. He offered Marcus a pretzel.

“Hey, can I get a hand here?” Phantom asked, looking at Marcus. “You too,” he added, nodding at Barry.

Phantom had placed Femcar on the floor and threaded rope though rings on her boots. Marcus and Barry were each instructed to take a boot in hand as Phantom pulled ropes to hoist his wife into the wooden frame.

Upside down.

Femcar steadied herself against the floor with her arms as her husband and his assistants pulled her aloft. Once the ropes were tied and she was secured into place, she released her hold and dangled in midair, her arms and legs splayed.

The lecture had apparently concluded. The demonstration was underway.

On screen, the film had been replaced by another in which Femcar curled on a sidewalk, surrounded by spectators as a man kicked her mercilessly.

Marcus and Barry stepped away from Femcar’s body.

The human punching bag dangled.

The couple in the grass was gone.

Methodically, and with no special concern for showmanship, Phantom retrieved a speculum from the table. Standing behind Femcar, he inserted it into her vagina. He opened the instrument, then taped it into place against her thigh.

Viviane’s fan waved faster.

Selina leaned forward to whisper. Viviane listened, nodding.

Phantom returned to the table and cut a length of celery. He plunged it into his wife's pussy, stirring roughly.

Femcar twisted, screaming.

Phantom poured a jigger of vodka. He sniffed it before pouring it into his wife’s open cunt. He stirred again.

Femcar screamed as the alcohol burned her cervix.

Marcus winced. Selina clenched her pen tightly.

A breeze rustled the trees.

Phantom returned to the table. He lifted the bag, using a knife to cut the cord that had drained the blood from his wife’s arm. He held the cord aloft as he walked back to her side, taking care not to spill the bag’s contents.

He threaded the severed cord into his wife. She writhed as he held the bag over his head. Blood began to flow down the cord and into the body it had only just left.

The blood slowly filled her vagina. It began to overflow her confines, spilling over and streaking around her belly and sides to her breasts and neck. Femcar screamed as the blood trickled into her face and eyes.

It dripped from her forehead onto a drop cloth on the floor.

Viviane closed her fan and placed it in her bag. She picked up her bag, stood, and walked away.

Phantom pulled the cord from his wife’s genitals, allowing blood to drizzle over her torso. Occasionally, he stirred the celery stalk.

Femcar jolted, sending splashes of blood into the air. Marcus took a hit on his forearm. He looked at the splatter in disgust.

Time was moving slowly. Phantom and Femcar were in no rush. This was a scene between dominant and submissive, not simply a show for spectators. We were no longer addressed as a class. We were simply voyeurs.

Selina leaned to me. “I can’t take any more of this. It’s too violent.”

“I was just thinking, though,” I whispered. “It’s gory, but there’s no actual violence. She’s covered in blood, but she’s not bleeding. It's like a horror film—no one is actually hurt.”

“It looks like real violence to me,” Selina said. “Too many associations with violence against women, with war or the Holocaust. It’s what I keep thinking about.”

I nodded and sat back. “I can certainly see that.”

Selina stayed at the edge of her seat, watching.

Pondering Selina’s reaction, I thought that each person watching this unfold might be making very individual associations.

Faced with such a grisly sight, I could understand thinking of war and the Holocaust, of course, but my own mind was wandering to horror films, heavy metal and, more closely, to performance art.

Even as I sat within feet of Femcar as she was abused by her own blood, I felt that what was occurring was not real violence, but rather, the representation of violence. There is a distinction between reality and representation, and in this instance, that difference seemed to do with enacting catharsis in the performer, the viewer, or both.

Femcar was clearly undergoing some physical stress as she was suspended by her ankles, with her genitals distended and her body drenched. That discomfort was only exacerbated by her howls and the display of so much blood. She was clearly conscious of the effect that these sights and sounds would have on us as viewers.

Yet as we sat, watching, we felt no impulse to intercede, as we would in a moment of actual violence. Instead, our minds tried to make sense of what our senses recorded.

In my mind, that meant opening files of images stockpiled by Alfred Hitchcok, George Romero and Roger Corman; Alice Cooper, Ozzy Osbourne and Marilyn Manson; Hermann Nitsch, Carolee Schnemann, Paul McCarthy and Karen Finley.

Femcar had made no mention of film, art or theatre, so performance may or may not have been much in her mind. But in looking at the unfamiliar, one can either look away or try to make sense by making connections to the familiar. Sometimes those associations can be unpleasant, as they were for Selina. Sometimes they may be off base, as they might have been for me. Whatever the case, this was unsettling to our senses, and our minds struggled to keep pace.

In time, Phantom asked Marcus and Barry to help him cut down his wife. Marcus held the ropes, refusing to touch her blood-streaked body.

Phantom guided her to the ground. Femcar lay in pools of her blood, writhing and screeching.

“Okay, show’s over,” I said to Selina. Marcus joined us as we left. We talked, trying to put into words what had transpired.

We met up with Viviane. Later, the four of us sat to dinner with Lolita. We were very animated and eager to compare notes on what we had witnessed.

Lolita listened as I began to describe Femcar’s presentation.

“So she was turned upside down,” I gestured, flipping an imaginary body. “And then, he began to pour blood into her vagina . . .”

“Oh, sure,” Lolita said, opening a napkin in her lap. “That’s a Bloody Mary. Can you pass the pepper?”