Sunday, December 30, 2007

One Tuesday

My friend Molly recently gave me twenty-four hours. Here’s her account of how the time was spent.

It's Monday afternoon. My plane arrives at JFK and I get a cab straight to Jefferson's house. I'm off to play with him for the first time. At camp we didn't play at all. We kissed in Marcus's Whoring Class but that was about it. Since then, we've been chatting online about getting together . . . it is about to happen any minute. I'm excited. But a bit nervous too; what if, after coming all this way, we don’t really have the connection we think we will have? I arrive at his apartment. We talk. Have a drink. We kiss. Oh! . . . mmm . . . our kissing is very hot, memories of that kissing is kind of what triggered us to find each other online and plan to meet up in the first place . . . and here we are. Yes. mmm. Our kissing is sublime.

We head to the bedroom and Jefferson fucks me for the first time. He already knows so much about what turns me on and what I like because I have told him in our online exchanges . . . he is amazing at giving me all that and more. Argh! His hands are magic. He makes me cum over and over and I have hardly been there an hour. I stop worrying about whether or not we will have a "connection" and yes, I think to myself, this is worth flying half way across the world for.

Before my visit, I have also told Jefferson a few things that I've never done but really want to do. Based on my wishlist, Jefferson has made some plans for Tuesday. But right now, on Monday, we are here to get to know each other's touch and taste, to melt into "us" for a few hours.

I am totally exhausted from a big work gig I just finished in England, so all I want to do is fall into a lost and vague zone while Jefferson indulges me with huge amounts of pleasure and small amounts of pain. One minute his fingers are caressing me, then slapping me and roughly grabbing me, then pulling my hair, then inside me then making me scream. It's so easy for me to get disoriented when someone is fucking me as incredibly as Jefferson does. I drift off into another headspace. My jetlag makes me drop in and out of consciousness too. Our fucking goes on all night in between my jetlagged naps. Any moment I wake up, Jefferson is always there to pamper me and make me cum again. I am here for a few days to get lost in this. Fairly quickly I realize what people love about Jefferson. It’s very easy to fall into a deep-felt connection with him as well as have amazing sex. Not really something that happens too often.

For Tuesday, Jefferson has organized some visitors. The first one is a Voyeur. He likes to come over and watch Jefferson fuck girls. Jefferson has told him I like sitting on people's faces, pressing my pussy or my ass hard into their face as they kneel at my feet or lay on their back underneath me. Apparently the Voyeur likes the sound of this . . . and maybe this visit is the one where the Voyeur might actually do more than just watch. Before he arrives, Jefferson and I agree that we are happy to invite him in for more than simply watching if he wants to. We will see how it plays out.

I go buy some champagne for us all, mainly because after much online chat, Jefferson and I are discovering that we really do like being with each other and that alone calls for celebration. I get home with champagne and I put on my black rubber mini dress and boots and we wait for the Voyeur to arrive. He turns up exactly on time and offers me lingerie. I ask him if he would like to get on his knees to give it to me and it seems yes, he would like to do that and kneels in front of me. I look at him down there on his knees at my feet looking up with his very innocent eyes. I like people on their knees at my feet. Mainly because it’s such a perfect position to put a leg either side of their face and take push my pussy and ass into their face.

I take the lingerie and thank him for the gift. I don’t have time to put it on right now because just behind me on the sofa is Jefferson, and I haven’t kissed him enough yet. I turn around and straddle him on my knees as he sits on the sofa. We kiss. I lean forward into Jefferson's face and reach my hand backwards to grab the Voyeur's hair. I pull his head right into my ass. Once I know his face is happily in my ass, I know I can ignore him and I go back to kissing Jefferson. The Voyeur groans with pleasure.

We all head to the bedroom with our champagne, My rubber dress comes off. Jefferson tells the Voyeur to lay on his back on the bed. I kneel over him so his face is only a few inches under my pussy. Jefferson starts to fuck me from behind and the Voyeur gets to watch in a close-up view as Jefferson's cock thrusts in and out of my cunt. I look down to see what he can see. God. It's so hot, and he's SO into it. He is groaning at the sight of Jefferson's dick in my cunt and his tongue is reaching up to lick me. Everything we invite the Voyeur to do, he does. I think he likes this participation thing. We kiss. He goes down on me. I go down on him. He thrusts his dick hard into my mouth. He starts to lose it. Jefferson orders him to cum on my face. I lay my head back and he cums all over my face within seconds. His cum is in my mouth on my cheeks, in my hair. Everywhere.

The Voyeur needs to go take a shower . . . he has to get ready to go back to work. Jefferson and I stay in bed. We start fucking. The Voyeur comes back and takes a seat in the corner to watch. Jefferson is fucking me so hard, and I like the idea of the Voyeur being there watching in the corner. I slide my hand down my stomach and push my fingers down behind the top of my pubic bone. It pushes onto the top of my g-spot and makes Jefferson's cock hit it harder. I keep my hand there pushing down and Jefferson fucks me and I orgasm. Very loudly. It shudders though me over and over. This turns the Voyeur on so much, we look over and notice he is stroking his (once again) hard cock. We invite him over to the bed. We all go down on each other. Within minutes, the Voyeur cums all over my face again. Twice in an hour and a half. This time he really has to go back to work. I say, "I hope you had a nice lunch break.”

He says, "Yes, it was a great way to spend my birthday"

Birthday? Well, gee, if we knew it was his birthday, we would've done something really special for him. Maybe next time.

Jefferson and I go out for dinner, its really only mid-afternoon but I am on London time and I'm starving. We have a most beautiful dinner date. We feel so comfortable with each other and we've got loads of things to talk about—our work, sex and relationships and just everything. We walk home. It's only about seven thirty at night, but it's dark and cold and we hold each other close as we talk and walk through the streets to Jefferson's house. In a few hours time we have another date. It's a double penetration date. At ten o'clock, I will be getting fucked in the pussy and the ass by Jefferson and a guy who he calls in for DP adventures.

We arrive home and fuck on the sofa. I still have the carpet burn scar on my leg to remind me of that one. We fall asleep in each other’s arms. The doorbell rings. Jefferson jumps up but I am in a deep jetlag sleep. He tries to shake me, but I am so out of it, I have no idea where I am and no idea if it is morning or night. Then I hear someone come in the door and start talking with Jefferson. Fuck! I suddenly remember: it's the DP dude. I am about to get fucked in two holes. But I am so sleepy. I feel like I have been run over by a truck. Fuck. I better wake up.

The DP dude is very cute. Like, super cute. He's funny too. Our fields of work are similar and we chat and laugh. We all kiss on the couch. We can tell we are going to have fun. We move to the bedroom and there's lots of very hot cock sucking. The DP dude is good at sucking Jefferson's dick. And pretty good at licking my pussy too.

The dude is on the bed on his back, I climb on top of him. He's super kissable and we get lost in each other while Jefferson works me from behind getting ready to put his dick in my ass. Supposedly the plan is to get the dude fucking me in the pussy like an "anchor" first, and then Jefferson will come in and fuck me in the ass. But all the plans fly out the window as the spontaneity of it all takes over. Jefferson is first inside me. His cock is deep in my asshole and he is fucking me for a few minutes before the DP dude enters my pussy. I'd never done this DP thing before. It feels amazing and quite overwhelming . . . I'm breathing and groaning and getting taken by surprise at how amazing it all is . . . the two boys are getting their rhythm working so well, and I just start really flying. In my confused state, I look at the DP dude and mumble "What’s going on now?" He says something like, "Well Molly, you've got two cocks inside you at the same time, I am fucking in your pussy and he is fucking you in your ass, and that's what is going on now." And it’s all too much! I have an orgasm that makes my entire body shake for minutes and minutes and minutes. Mmm. I liked that. I'm a total mess.

Afterwards we all sit on the balcony and talk and smoke and drink. Every now and then a wave of remembering what that just felt like washes over me. I think to myself . . . Fuck! That was hot. I liked that a lot.

Mmmmm. Tuesday at Jefferson’s was a very fun day.

Training of O

Training of O

Saturday, December 29, 2007

Fleshbot and Another Man

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot looks those gift horses right in the mouth as our spirited sex bloggers take inventory of presents received and distributed.

Can it be that another year passes and I still haven’t fucked Anal Amy? This may call for a resolution.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me dispensing advice, donning Hello Kitty and taking a back seat to the sex of others.

Tilda follows my example and puts away the evidence of her perversion before entertaining family.

Lily seeks my advice concerning her relationship with another man.

Eliza recounts the pleasure of fucking her man as I watch.

Lynsey puts me in undies that are just too kawaii for words.

Janie sends me a poem and thinks of me while fucking another man.

Another man . . . you know, come to think of it, there’s a theme here. Looking over all these posts, I realize I don’t get laid in any of them. I would swear I fucked at least one sex blogger last week, but you’d never know it to read the blogs.

Dear Lord. Am I losing my touch?

Thursday, December 27, 2007


It has been a most memorable Christmas. And it just doesn't stop.


Saturday, December 22, 2007

Fleshbot and Holed Up

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot offers a little something for everyone, as Always Aroused Girl and I team up to offer you a grab bag selection of holiday hotness. No need to get us anything; your unfailing admiration is gift enough. (Although they do say erotic self-portraits make nice stocking stuffers.)

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me touching skin, polishing nails and managing to breath.

Eden takes a turn on top and teaches me to breathe through the pain. I listened, knowing that she was also teaching me something about herself.

Bridget has really been underfoot these days, making an utter nuisance of herself in her determination that my children have a fine holiday. You’ll find her musing about me now and then as she ponders things that whir and people who warble. I am but a bit player in the story of how she introduced my third-grader to the joys of such girlish pleasures as manis, pedis, and, uh, things that whir.

If you are stalking me, do try to do a thorough job of it. Tom Paine ponders living life as I do, or in an approximate manner suitable to the interests of himself and his wife. Along the way, he conjectures reasons why women may be attracted to me. Part of the explanation, he reasons, may be that most of these women are very young and therefore guided by irrational hormones.

I hear this now and then. While I appreciate Brother Tom’s overall sentiments, I must take issue to this assertion on two grounds. First, it is factually inaccurate. If you knit together my sex partners by blogs alone—and it would be foolish to assume that the blogs offer anything like a complete assessment—then you find that many, if not most, of the women who have written about me are over thirty. I did write a series of posts last year about meeting younger women, and another series about first dates. A superficial reading might understandably lead you to surmise that my sex life is primarily driven by one-night stands with young women. This is not the case.

My second objection is less about facts than perceptions. Why assume that younger people are incapable of making sound judgments in choosing sexual partners? It is dismissive and patronizing for older people to assert that younger adults are denied some special agency concerning sex that comes only with advanced maturity. The younger women in the blogs linked here have been meeting me for months and even years, so they are certainly engaged in relationships guided by factors other than mere hormonal spikes.

Here’s a related sidebar. I was recently contacted by a woman who wrote that she was intrigued by the possibility of meeting me, and regretted that I was attracted only to younger women. I denied any such bias, and we met. When she subsequently blogged about our liaisons, one commenter warned that I was “using” her for sex. My new friend laughed. “I contacted you for sex,” she wrote. “We met at your place, and I wrote that I enjoyed it. So in what way are you using me? If anything, I’m using you.”

That’s part of the blogging game. Many readers are guided not by what they read, but by what they already believed prior to reading it. And if reason must be found as to why anyone is attracted to me—or why anyone is attracted to anyone, really—then I would hope that it be based on valuing people’s reported experiences rather than relying on forgone assumptions about gender, age, appearances, or what have you.

If you ask me, I’m popular because I put out. Being a good time worked for me in high school, and it’s still working today.

And boy, do I work, as I thought while cleaning house last week in preparation for the seasonal onslaught of family.

Now that the holidays are upon us, I am simultaneously hunkered down and on the lam. The season began for me with the arrival this week of my ex father-in-law, who planned to stay at my place for a few days before heading off to the eXmas that excluded me. We were with the children two nights and left alone for a third. Rather than endure an awkward night of conversation about my ex and my life (to be potentially reported to my ex’s family in my absence), I elected to pack up my laptop and hole up elsewhere.

I am presently one hour north of the city in snowy New England, encamped in a hotel with a king-sized bed. The refrigerator is stocked with water. My desk is decorated with a bottle of twenty-year old bourbon. Every now and then, a local married woman tells her family that she is off to do some last minute shopping; instead, her car brings her to me for sex and conversation.

Outside, my own car is filled with contraband.

After my ex-father-law leaves, I will enjoy the eye of the storm before the return of my children, followed once more by their grandfather. After he leaves, my eldest daughter and son-in-law will be up for her annual New Year’s Eve in New York. I hear she is bringing a couple of friends.

With all this traffic, I wanted to be sure my apartment was scrubbed clean of dirt, grime and smut. I put my back into mopping. I scoured tiles and dusted shelves. Laundry was washed and put away. My supply of sheets and towels was replenished to its maximum capacity.

But what to do with the smut? Naturally, as a parent, I keep the accoutrements of my sex life very discreet. My computer is locked down by multiple passwords, with special accounts created for each child and visitors. The physical objects are a bit trickier to hide. Flogs, canes, ropes, whips and paddles are tucked on hooks inside a closet. Nearby is a sizable collection of panties and a sizable pair of fuck-me heels. Condoms are convenient in a bedside drawer, with several gross of extras stored in the top of a closet. (And no, they don’t expire unused.) A bottle of lube shares the drawer, with its many companions tucked into a hidden cabinet. In this cabinet, one would also find boxes of sex toys, poppers, latex gloves and shelves of porn in VHS and DVD, gay and straight, with a substantial collection from Joe Gallant’s Black Mirror Productions, including my favored Bong Water Butt Babes, which features an ingenious bong-cum-butt-plug that makes good use of enemas.

Not wanting to leave anything to chance discovery, I decided that for the duration of the holidays, all evidence of perversion should be relegated to off-site storage. My car’s trunk offered a convenient place to stow it all.

I had my servant girl Eden pack away the porn as I put away the implements of sadism. She’s not allowed to wear clothes in my home, and so it was distracting to pack canes as she climbed on a stepladder to reach the highest shelves, her ass at eye level and striking distance.

Avah helped me to load the trunk. It took a few trips to get everything. I was surprised to find that the trunk was completely filled. I mean, I’m not particularly acquisitive about sex products—mostly, you know, I just make do with what the good Lord gave me—but there it was, a trunk full of evidence that daddy is, well, “daddy.”

I marveled at this accumulation to Bridget. She offered to babysit the porn so my trunk would not be so burdened. I hope she finds room for it, given her own accumulation of fucking machines.

More to come, but I need to run. Room service is knocking.

Thursday, December 20, 2007


My feet are tended by my servant girl, though she is sometimes called to other tasks, such as bathing my guests.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

New Traditions

Cody and I were lazily masturbating. She was talking about her new boyfriend. She asked if I thought he was really over his ex-girlfriend. I pumped some lube into my palm and opined that if he’s still sleeping with her, they are probably not as broken up as she would like. She agreed, told me my dick looked hot, and turned up the speed on her Rabbit.

“I’m probably going to get my heart broken,” she said, spreading her thighs wider. “But the sex is awesome.”

“I can imagine,” I said, jerking as she flicked her clit.

“All five minutes of it,” she laughed.

“Yeah, well, you can train him. Now shut up about your boyfriend, I want to jerk off.” She moaned as I lifted my hips and stroked until I shot. Jism splashed on my belly and oozed from me as my body convulsed.

“Yeah, he would never jerk off while I’m watching,” Cody went on. “He wouldn’t be down with that.”

“It’s kind of new to me too, hon,” I panted. I scooped some spunk with my finger and traced a line on her belly. “Finish up, I want to take you someplace.”

She adjusted the speed again. “Where?”

I traced semen on her neck. “Baby, we’re going grocery shopping.”

It was a few days before Thanksgiving. My ex was taking Lillie on a road trip to visit a friend in the Midwest. The boys and I were going to enjoy a bachelors’ holiday. I asked them what they wanted to do about Thanksgiving. We could have the turkey and trimmings, I offered, or we could do something entirely different.

“I like traditions,” Jason said. “Do you mind making a turkey?”

I put my hands on my hips and laughed like a pirate. “Do I mind? Ha! I’m going to own that turkey.”

Collie giggled.

I needed help getting the groceries hauled back to my place, and so Cody was pressed into service.

“Did you notice that I’m not using a shopping list?” I boasted. “I can prepare a Thanksgiving meal, soup to nuts, without reference to any recipes or lists.”

“Yeah, you’re awesome,” Cody said, rolling her eyes.

“Some men fuck,” I nodded. “Others fuck and cook. That’s the real measure of a man.”

The total came to seventy-two dollars and charge. I put down a card. “Check it out,” I said. “I’m paying for Thanksgiving with naked Australian girls, my favorite currency.”

“Actually, that is pretty awesome,” Cody grinned. “You should invite some of them to dinner.” Ever since I began to earn money from Abby Winters and other affiliate programs, I have enjoyed identifying things that were purchased thanks to my blog and its readers. I particularly enjoyed knowing that the naked Australian girls were treating my family to a holiday meal. It made me feel thankful.

On Thanksgiving Day, I began to assemble things around ten thirty. Collie and I prepared stuffing from bread I had allowed to grow stale overnight. We mixed in raisins, apple, spices and milk as I talked him through the recipe. He held open the bird’s cavity as I filled it full.

The turkey went into the oven just after eleven. Over the next several hours, Collie would return to the kitchen to baste it. About an hour before the bird was due to emerge, I staked my place at the stove. Soon, all four eyes of my stove were busy with mashed potatoes, sweet and sour Moroccan carrots, brussel sprouts with bacon, and a cabbage and turkey soup.

I sang along to Ray Charles as I cooked.

The turkey came out and rested as I finished the side dishes. Collie basted it absent mindedly before deciding the set the table. He put out napkins and silverware, along with a centerpiece of two cartons of juice. Having not one but two cartons seemed abundant and luxurious to him.

When everything was set, we called Jason to the table. He emerged from his gaming wearing only boxer shorts.

“Now, here’s a manly holiday,” I noted. “Real men eating a huge feast in their underwear.”

Jason looked down. “I didn’t even notice. Should I get dressed?”

“Doesn’t matter to me, dude,” I said. I picked up my camera to photograph the spread.

“You’re taking pictures?” Jason scurried away. “Then I’m wearing clothes.”

“Whatevs,” I called.

We did our best eating, but we barely put a dent in the bird. The turkey returned in several forms over the next week before finally vanishing into the last of the soup.

During the meal, Jason commended my cooking and talked about food and holiday traditions. “I can’t wait for your burritos on Christmas Eve,” he said. “They’re always good, don’t get me wrong, but you do extra stuff to them on Christmas Eve.”

“I’ve got my secrets,” I smiled. Among my secrets was the fact that I wouldn’t be making burritos this Christmas Eve. Lucy had uninvited me from Christmas with her family. This news had come down over the previous weekend. I hadn’t told the children yet. I planned to tell them when they were next all together, which would be during the week after Thanksgiving.

On Sunday morning, Lillie called from the road.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hey, sugar. How’s the driving? Are you doing it all or is your mom helping?”

“Dad,” she laughed. “I can’t drive.”

“Oh my God, are you drunk? Please tell me you haven’t been drinking. I just can’t bear to face your probation officer again.”

“Dad! I’m too little to drive.”

“Seriously? I was sure you were a teenager already. Can you please get on that? Times a-wastin’, sugar.”

“You’re so weird, Dad.”

“Mama raised me as best she could.”

“Yeah, right. So Mom told me you won’t be coming to Christmas at grandmother’s house.”

I sat up. “She did? Well, how do you feel about that?”

“Eh.” She paused. “It’s okay.”

“Just ‘okay?’”


“Well, listen, honey. I love you and we’re going to have a very fun Christmas at our house, too. We can talk all about it when you get home.”

“Yeah, Mom says when I go to your apartment on Christmas I can run to the presents and open them all!”

I closed my eyes. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

“Please?” she begged.

“We’ll make Christmas plans when you get home. Now, tell me about your trip. Did have a good time?”

Lillie switched topics to tell me about her visit with Lucy’s friend. I listened and thought about what I would tell the boys now that the cat was out of the bag. They would need to know the change in our holiday tradition today, as their sister would tell them if I didn’t.

I pondered this as I made breakfast. I had no idea what Lucy had told Lillie—not surprisingly, Lucy had not spoken to me about telling our daughter—but I could imagine it was consistent with her usual “your father and I have decided” presentation of plans that were made without my input. It still stings to recall her telling the children about our separation by saying “your father and I have decided to live apart.” I sat there watching the children’s responses as I was implicated in a lie. I had nothing to do with the decision to end our marriage. That was entirely and solely her decision. I was forced to accept it, and forced to pretend it was mutually agreed upon.

Of course, the kids were younger then. I plated eggs, bacon and grits, and called the boys to eat.

We talked as we ate. Eventually, I announced that I had some news.

“So, listen, guys. Your mother has decided that she doesn’t want me to come to Christmas at her mother’s house. This makes me sad, as I want to be with you for Christmas, and that’s been the only way you’ve ever celebrated the holiday—with your entire family together at your grandmother’s house.” Collie and Jason exchanged a glance. I went on. “But, the good news is that we will now have two Christmases. This year, you’ll wake up Christmas morning with your mother, and then you will come here for more Christmas celebrations. Next year, we’ll reverse it—Christmas Eve with Dad, Christmas Day with Mom. So we have a brand new way of celebrating Christmas, and we’re going to need to come up with new traditions.”

“Why doesn’t Mom want you to come to Christmas?” Collie asked.

I shrugged. “That’s a question only your mother can answer.”

Collie grinned and looked at Jason. “I’ll ask her. She’ll tell me.”

Jason shook his head. “Please don’t ask her.” He looked at me. “Well, that sucks.”

“It does suck. But, like I said, we’ll have a new Christmas tradition, and we’ll make it fun. So let’s think of things we want to do for our new Christmas.”

“That’s good,” Jason nodded. “Well, I don’t care if we get a tree or not. That’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, I want a tree!” Collie said.

“We can get a tree,” I said. “Here, let me write down these ideas.” I took a pencil and pad from my desk and we brainstormed as we ate.

The next morning, I took the boys to school. That afternoon, they would go home with their mother. After school, I got a call from Jason. He had left a textbook at home, and he would need it for homework. He said his mother would swing by in the car after she picked up the kids. These drive-by retrievals of forgotten items are common in our family. I told Jason to call when he was about a block away and I would come down with his book, as usual.

He called and I picked up his book. When the elevator doors opened in the lobby, Lucy was waiting.

“Oh, hello,” I said. I handed her the book. “How was the drive home?”

“Fine. What did you tell the boys about Christmas?” She was prepared with an interrogation. I knew that she only asked questions for which she already had answers.

I put my hands in my pockets. “I told them we would now be having two Christmases and so we could create new traditions.”

She squinted. “Huh. Because what they told me is that you said it was my decision to exclude you from Christmas with my family. They said you were very upset about it.”

I nodded. “I was upset, yes, but now I’m over it. We’re going to have a fine Christmas. But yes, I did tell them that this was your decision.”

Lucy’s hands became fists. “Jefferson, why did you do that? We have to stick to the party line and say we decided this together.”

“I wasn’t informed of any party line,” I said, my voice dropping to a calm low tone. “And I didn’t have any say in this. You told me I wasn’t invited. I wanted to be clear with the boys that when they wake up Christmas morning and I’m not there, it’s not because I didn’t want to be.”

The elevator door opened. A number of people got out. I smiled at a neighbor. A line of people waited to board the car. The lobby was busy with residents returning home from work.

“I didn’t . . .” Lucy began. She lowered her voice. “I didn’t tell you that you couldn’t come. I told you that we should have two Christmases now.”

“Lucy, it’s the same thing. You presented it to me as if I had a say, but obviously, if you don’t want me at your mother’s house for Christmas, I’m not going. You made your position clear.”

“Look, Jefferson it wasn’t just me. I spoke to every adult in my family about this, and everyone agrees. No one wants you there.” She shook her head heavily. “No one wants you there, Jefferson.”

Lucy had twisted this in her mind to such an extent that everyone now despised me as she did. My response burned up from my chest, fetid with sarcasm. “Really? And I’m sure you did your best to argue in favor of my attending, didn’t you, Lucy? Because you know that being together as a family matters to the children, and you always put the children first.” Those words were poised to jab forward, meaning to stab while I prepared to parry. But the words that erupted from my chest were reshaped in my throat and cooled by my tongue. My ears, coiled for action, were surprised by their untroubled tone.

“That’s a real shame. It’s unfortunate when adults can’t get over themselves and do the right thing for children. Christmas is supposed to be for the children.”

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her jaw closed. She stood and looked at a wall for a moment. She had no immediate response, so she had no alternative but to dig deep for tested attacks.

“That’s so passive aggressive,” she turned and hissed. “You have to take responsibility for this.”

Passive aggressive. Wow, I hadn’t heard those two words in what? Two years? Three? They were so devoid of injury now, like salt on a wound that had long since healed. “Passive aggressive” once served as her most wounding attack, the diagnosis that proved I was just as sick as she was. She knew she was right in attributing passive aggressiveness to me, and I couldn’t argue. In fact, until she explained the term to me, I had never heard it. Like most of my failings, my passive aggressiveness was visible only to her. Alone among people in my life, my wife had the unique gift of seeing through my pleasant veneer to know the twisted maggots of my true self.

I used to buy into that. But now, it’s all stale water under a tedious bridge.

“Okay, Lucy. It’s my fault that you decided to exclude me from Christmas with the family. It’s also my fault that your family hates me. And that business with Jim Jones and the Kool-Aid? All me.”

The elevator discharged another crowd. We stood aside to let them pass.

“You don’t get to blame me for this!” Lucy snarled. She jabbed a finger at me. “You have to take some responsibility for this decision.”

“This is bullshit,” I said. “End of conversation. Goodbye.” I walked away and went to the mailbox to collect my mail. When I turned back, she was staring at me, her face contorted and furious. She left, walking across the lobby and outside to the children in her car.

Tant pis, poor Lucy, I thought. I pushed the elevator button and chatted with a neighbor. I wasn’t proud of how the conversation had ended, but at least I hadn’t let her walk over me. She sent me an email that night that said, among other things, that it was very interesting that I thought Christmas was for the children. Didn’t I agree that blaming her for my exclusion from Christmas made it all about me? Nice try, Lucy, I thought. Looks like that one got to you. I left the note unanswered.

As I thought it over, I realized that one advantage of missing eXmas was being absolved of any responsibility to buy gifts for Lucy’s family. That was always a chore, as I spent several hundred dollars on gifts for people I saw once a year. I sadly realized that this also meant no gifts for me, but those are the breaks. I could do without a new sweater. Then it dawned on that I was at a great economic disadvantage. Lucy’s family is wealthy and all of the adults have good incomes. By contrast, my Christmas with the children would be dependent on the resources of one adult, and I am not a wealthy man.

Actually, I realized, while I am not rich, I do have a wealth of friends.

“Ho, ho, that bitch wants a competing Christmas?” Bridget laughed. “She won’t know what hit her.”

Another friend dug in her attic and found bags of lights and decorations. “What are the children’s sizes?” she asked. “I’m going shopping anyway.”

I took the naked Australian girls shopping.

I put an Amazon Wish List on my blog, and Viviane reposted it on hers. Soon, presents began to show on my door. Lynsey and Tilda targeted Lillie’s list. Eden baked and Jocasta wrapped presents. Bridget showed up with a Christmas tree nearly seven feet tall. We decorated it with the children, adding a special angel to the top.

Christmas is a little over a week away.

The kids are going to feel the love.


Saturday, December 15, 2007

Sapphic Erotica

Sapphic Erotica

Fleshbot and Pomegranates

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot takes an unexpected turn for the unexpected, those moments when we surprise no one more than ourselves.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find Bridget adding mythos to our proto-relationship in college, a time when she thinks I might’ve danced to Depeche Mode—though girlfriend, even I’m not that gay. She also recounts finding true love while dating me.

Lynsey takes pandering to a new high by paying lip service to my kisses in a blatant appeal for blog traffic. I would accuse her of kissing ass, but that would be a disservice to her actual ass kissing, which is pretty phenomenal, actually.

Speaking of sucking up, I’d like to welcome a new sponsor, WebCam Reports. I was going to review the site, but I found myself distracted by all the naked people on webcams. I had forgotten how much I enjoy looking at naked people on my computer screen. In fact, if you’ve got a cam and you want me to look you over, drop a line.

Otherwise, click over to WebCam Reports, which includes a fine assortment, including some kink. The site does need to improve its clumsy text, however. Perhaps they should hire someone to rewrite the copy. Let’s see, who do we know who can produce good online smut . . . ?

The fellow behind WebCam Reports, my pal Tony, did me the favor of submitting a new menu item to the Perverts Cookbook. Doesn’t this sound tasty?

Here’s a really simple dish I came up with a few years ago. I was living with D, my longest-running relationship to date. Well, longer is not always better, and we only lasted so long because I was too much of a coward to break up with her.

My attitude was that if I don’t fuck her for long enough, eventually she’d break up with me. Who the hell would’ve guessed the stamina a woman has when she thinks she has a potential father/protector for her unborn cubs. (If you ever read this, D, I did love you for a while, especially in Jerusalem, but it just passed away).

But I digress. Here’s a little something I made when I was still trying to impress D and her urban kibbutz social set. It took the room by storm, even though nothing could be simpler to make. The dish has a strangely sexy feel, probably perfect for debauchery.

Take a few pomegranates. Go for the deep red-colored ones, try and avoid pomegranates that have a washed-out pink color. Peel carefully, getting all the juicy seeds into a bowl. It’s best to do this naked since, much like diamonds, pomegranate stains are forever.

Place pomegranate seeds into a bowl.

Grate chocolate over the pomegranate seeds. (Look around for some nice dark chocolate; bitter is definitely better.)

Add a tad of lemon juice.

Mix and serve. Make sure to lick the bowl.

Thanks for the tip, Tony.

I Shot Myself

Argon Noble

Thursday, December 13, 2007


It was a pleasure to meet Eliza and William of Horny Female Pervert when they stopped by to audition their nascent live sex show. I played the unaccustomed role of observer, so I was glad they brought bourbon for me to sip as I sat in my bedroom’s voyeurs’ chair. That made me feel right at home—which, of course, I was.

Eliza and William are exhibitionists in search of an audience. I am an audience of one who happens to maintain a retinue of voyeurs, particularly among the membership of the Bukkake Social Club. The couple reasoned that if I enjoyed their show, they might find a place in the fast-growing niche market for live sex performers on my bed.

Their ardor and passion for one another soon had me stroking along. Eliza’s blog can have that same effect. Congratulations, Eliza and William. You’ve earned a call back.

Friday, December 07, 2007

Fleshbot and Dumb Ass

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot tries to fit square pegs into round holes by looking into the near misses and the total wash outs. You can keep pounding away, but some things are too broken to fix.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me the muse for the latest inspiration from Lynsey: Sexed-Up Stickmas cards! Pick up a set for the stick figures on your holiday list.

There’s no guest DJ at the Smut Turntable this weekend, as I want to catch up on your requests. Keep ‘em coming!

Speaking of things being off, I am really quite the dumb ass. Yesterday had me running from meeting to meeting. Around noon, I left a meeting in Harlem to find myself facing a local fried chicken shop. There are many of these in upper Manhattan; many have operated for years under names ripped from KFC, such as Kennedy Fried Chicken and JFK Fried Chicken. You know the chicken is good when it’s served from behind bullet-proof glass.

Now, I happen to make a very fine fried chicken, and so I rarely eat it as fast food. But here I was, with a few moments to spare, staring at a photograph of a lunch special—two pieces, French fries and a drink for five dollars and sixty cents. I mulled it over and decided against it. I wasn’t in the mood for fries, and I just wasn’t that hungry. Anyway, five bucks for two pieces didn’t strike me as such a great deal. I hopped on the subway and headed to midtown for my next meeting, glad to have resisted temptation. Perhaps later I would pick up an apple.

Halfway into the meeting, I was starving. All I could think about was the fried chicken I had left behind in Harlem. Dumb ass.

Afterwards, I had to hurry to pick up Lillie from school. The last leg of that errand would be a long walk. It was a cold afternoon, and I decided to pick up coffee from a Korean deli. As I waited in line to pay, my eyes scanned the steam table, stopping at fried chicken wings. What’s the harm, I thought, in getting a few wings as a snack for my walk? Perhaps it would take my mind off this fixation on chicken. I took a plastic tray and loaded two wings. I walked away before going back for a third. I had lost my place in line, so I moved to the back of the queue.

The total came to three dollars and ninety-four cents. I opened my wallet to find I had no cash. “Do you take debit cards?” I asked.

“Five dollar minimum,” the cashier replied.

I was about a dollar shy of the minimum. I looked around. It might be nice to pick up a treat for Lillie. I decided against it, as I hated to spend money on something just to round up to five dollars. “Is there an ATM?” I asked. The cashier pointed to the corner. As I punched in my number, I noticed a branch of my bank across the street. I could use an ATM there for free, and the one at the deli would have a fee. I decided not to cross the street to save a little money. I was in hurry, and my fried wings were waiting on the counter. The fee was one dollar and ninety-five cents. I hit accept and out came a twenty.

I handed the bill to the cashier. As he counted the change, I realized what I had just done.

I had spent nearly two dollars on a fee, rather than one dollar on a treat.

Worse, I had now spent nearly six dollars for coffee and a few chicken wings—more than the cost of the lunch special I had passed over in Harlem.

Dumb ass.

I wasn’t feel too bright as I walked down the sidewalk, trying to balance a large cup of coffee in the crook of an arm while eating from the plastic tray I held to my chest. My fingers were greasy. All that would do now would be for me to drop the chicken, scalding myself in the process.

I was so focused on my balancing act that I bumped into someone. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, my mouth full.

“No problem,” Alan Alda smiled. He went on his way, reading a book as he strolled. He looked very smart in his glasses.

I licked my fingers and headed on my way. At least I hadn’t offered to shake Alan Alda’s hand.

Abby Winters

Courtney K.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Day Tripper

A suburban mother made another trip to the city. She reports in:

My day of Christmas shopping. (Or at least that is what everyone thinks.)

Gas: $3o (Jesus, these damn gas prices are killing me.)
Parking: $27
Lunch with Jefferson: $30

Fucking Jefferson: Wow, this is my cheapest fuck to date. But boy, was it fucking sweet.

Saturday, December 01, 2007


This week marked the third anniversary of One Life, Take Two. I've met most of my closest friends and lovers because one day, Audacia Ray convinced me to start a blog. It just changed my life, that's all.

As I do each year, I'm republishing my first post, which began as an email to Audacia. If you enjoy it, rummage back in the Archive for more.

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 gang bang 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.

Abby Winters


Fleshbot and Secrets! Conspiracies!

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot tells all when it uncovers the secrets of sex bloggers. True! Unexpurgated! And entirely entre nous, y’all.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me offering sympathy, receiving a love letter, and cooling my heels in the drunk tank.

“As for my ex, all I can say is that I loved him until I couldn't. I wish I could say more than that, but I can't. I hope I can be forgiven for that.” Eden shows up at my place feeling conflicted upon learning of the accidental death of the man who abused her. Not to draw comparisons, precisely, but I wish I had authored those sentences, Eden.

Wendy calls me a “frood” for forgetting my towel, earning her this week’s award for “Most Proper Use of Geek Vocabulary.” Bone up, Wendy, and you’re a shoo-in for the SATs at Hogwarts.

Jocasta finds herself breathless fucking another man and thinks of me. She goes on to attempt a flow chart of who has fucked whom in our gang. She might just as well hitchhike the galaxy.

Where’s Mark Lombardi when you need him? Our gang would’ve would have been a breeze to graph for the artist who connected the dots between then-Governor George W. Bush and Osama bin Laden prior to the artist’s death in two thousand. You know, before Al Gore or nine eleven. See how simple it was for Lombardi?

George W. Bush, Harken Energy and Jackson Stephens,
circa 1979-90, fifth version, 1999.

Here’s a detail.

Three degrees of money! That's even better than my own five degrees of sex from Elvis—and that’s via Ann-Margret. I'm very proud of that.

Lombardi's work benefits from spy glasses. It's mostly gibberish online, but you get the idea, right? Those who want to follow our gang may want to sharpen your pencils, break out the index cards and cancel plans for graduate school. Better you read Finnegan's Wake and take the easy A.

Those interested in misuses of power will appreciate Anna Smash being carded, considering the circumstances. This was my laugh-out-loud moment of the week.

Or perhaps this was my weekly LOL? Sinclair relates a night in lock up that, for the life of me, I just can’t remember. Thank goodness she was there to witness my get-out-of-jail-free blowjob. That’s what I get for being the wingman to a stud like Mister Sexsmith.

Or was this the one that ached my tickle bone? Lynsey decides that following my example may not be the best way to get laid, and calls for a Plan B that begins by shaking her sticks at nineteen eighty-four at the Pyramid—a place I may have last visited in the aforementioned year. I spent a night there with John Waters around that time; I was young and pretty, and both of us were going straight to hell at a fundraiser for a cum rag of the same name. This before I married, of course.

Moments from back in the day remind me of my Marcus, who sends a well-timed Valentine to my ass. Which he apparently owns.

Stay tuned to the Smut Turntable, where I continue to plug in the spins selected by Tilda. Her playlist was submitted right on time—really, the only thing you can’t beat this girl with is a deadline—but I’ve been too swamped this week to be an effective producer. I swear, my smut keyboards are as tetchy as a neglected cat.

I’ll make it all better, promise. After New Year’s, I’ll tell you what I’ve been up to. You’ll cream.

Thanks to all of you who offered to pitch in for this year’s end to eXmas. Ding, dong, henceforth my children will have two Christmases—sane and mom’s. Story to follow.

For now, since you asked, I’ve started an Amazon wish list for the children. It will develop as I glean info from the kids who have no idea they have so many friends. God bless us pervs, one and all.

One Christmas, Take Two.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

HNT and Barbara Nitke

Rascal and Jefferson, 2007

This week my feet take a star turn in the Photo of the Week at the website of Barbara Nitke, photographer to the perverted. She set up a studio at Dark Odyssey in September and kept snapping as campers took turns before her lenses.

I was passing by, innocently making my way to the dungeon, when my new pal Rascal drew me into a photo shoot. I liked Rascal. He didn’t get the memo that I can’t be topped or that my nipples are a no-fly zone, so he simply followed his instincts and made earrings of my ankles. Don’t ask about the nipples. Ain’t he fierce?

Also featured are my new clam diggers, a handover from a girlfriend the memo that my ass is hottest in girl jeans.

Thanks, Barbara!

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Abby Winters

Sue Ann

Am I Trustworthy?

"People have to show they can be trusted with little things if they want to be trusted with big ones."

Very good, Eddie.

Friday, November 23, 2007

Fleshbot and Here's Tilda

Beautiful Creature

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot throws a little pixie dust in the direction of fantasies. Some of them may come true and some already have. Gee, just reading Aliza, I realized a fantasy I didn’t even know I had—namely, watching Aliza orchestrate an orgy. Phew!

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me getting my readers laid, watching my stars shake out, and thanked as my secrets are laid bare.

Lily takes good advantage of one lover’s good press to garner another good lover.

Bianca wakes to sex between us, after days of sharing.

Jocasta gets my angle and learns to ignore her mother’s advice.

Shockingly, Wendy is still making moves on my boyfriend. Back off, big girl!

Janie takes my dick out of her mouth long enough to thank me for putting my dick in her mouth. That’s nice, but . . . ahem? My dick?

Bridget is grateful too, giving me credit for many good things in her life. I read one, two, three more posts this week, in wonder as ever in our friendship and love.

Handsome wordsmith Sinclair conjures my first bumper sticker slogan. It may send us both to hell, but we’ll go down as millionaires.

Things get sticky when Lynsey leaves her glasses in place as she explores my nooks and crannies. And so I first learned on the Internet about a freckle the sun never made.

This weekend, we hand the Smut Turntable over to Tilda. Expect a steady groove from the woman who showed up for a sex date in a Joy Division t-shirt and a smile. You should’ve seen the smile when I handed the shirt back to her. I was sore for two days. I was impressed she could still walk.

Thursday, November 22, 2007


Does this ass make my foot look fat?

Friday, November 16, 2007

Fleshbot and Desire

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot takes a cup of cocoa, props up its feet on a soft ass, and relaxes with comfort sex—though occasionally of the comfort-right-now-dammit variety. Think Barry White on adrenaline.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me looking good in a sweater, making small talk over lunch, and keeping everyone content at an orgy—well, almost everyone.

Lily and I enjoy introducing each other to our friends. She so enjoyed meeting my crush Anna Smash that she agreed to keep Anna’s sexy boyfriend cozy on a business trip to the city.

Wendy thanks me for keeping my clothes on, for a change.

Janie finds that she can put her lunch hour to productive use so long as she is disciplined.

What do you get when sex bloggers orgy? Why, an orgy of sex blogging! Four reported in from the most recent gathering of my sex parties.

Eden finds Boymeat and his single tail whip before taking me to a quiet corner in order to make one hell of a lot of noise. Later, she compiles a list of cherries she has yet to collect. You know, Eden, you might want to get to work on that—you aren’t getting any younger, dear.

Tilda warmly held my hands—inside her body. Repeatedly.

Orgies can be great fun. They can also leave you feeling insecure, as Jocasta found when her high came crashing down.

The elated Lynsey keeps the ink flying with new sexy stick figures. She’s at a loss for words when shit happens, she’s a fly on the wall overhearing the darnedest things, and she pulls out a dictionary to define a few sex terms new to her experience.

This weekend, the DJ booth at the Smut Turntable is manned by Desire, a young rocker, sex rebel and dumpster-diving chef from down D.C. way. I was eager to get her mind between the ‘phones, given that she’s a musician with a fine flair for smut. She's also one for getting her naked self painted, which goes over big around these parts.


She’s easy on the eyes, sure, but let’s see how she is on the ears.

Speaking of easy, I could use some of that. This has been some week.

I need a vacation.

Abby Winters


Thursday, November 15, 2007


I read a lot of sex blogs—heck, it’s my job—and there are certain features common to many that I find amusing. One is “Half-Naked Thursday” (or HNT), in which exhibitionists take the opportunity to show off some flesh.

I’ve never considered participating in that tradition. My life requires me to be guarded about my identity, and anyway, it’s probably more interesting that you don’t know what I look like when you imagine me having sex. I’m surely way hotter in your imagination.

But now and then, I think it’s a shame that I deny you my feet, because my feet are really all that and a bag of nail clippings. Look at those long prehensile toes, that abundant Hallux, that elegant Morton’s toe . . . how can I deny these to you?

If you would care to be photographed with such extraordinary feet, grab your pedicure kit and drop a line.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Holiday Plans

A few weeks before Halloween, I asked the kids if they wanted to trick or treat in my building or in their mother’s neighborhood in the suburbs. “You’re supposed to be with me that night,” I said. “But if you want to do Halloween at your mom’s, that’s fine by me if she doesn’t mind.”

“Mom hates Halloween,” Lillie said, using her fingers to push carrots onto her fork. “She turns off the lights and pretends she’s not home.”

“I think the candy is better there,” Jason said. “Plus we can go trick or treating with Jim and his dad.”

Collie put down his cup and grimaced “No way is the candy better there, Jason,” he argued. “Think about it. This building is huge. There is so much candy here.”

I picked up my plate and walked to the kitchen for more potatoes. “Well, you kids decide what you want to do and I’ll work it out with your mother.”

The debate raged on for several days before the kids realized they didn’t have to come to an agreement. They had two homes, and there was no rule that they had to be together at the same one. For the first time since the separation, the kids decided to spend a holiday apart from one another. Jason opted to be with his mother, Collie decided to be with me, and Lillie secured an invitation to be with her BFF, Mindy.

“I’m going to be a vampire,” Lillie informed me. “And Mindy’s going to be a pirate. And this is the last year we’re going to trick or treat, because next year, we’ll be fourth graders, and trick or treating will be babyish. We’ll just give out candy and say that babies are so cute. Don’t you think babies are so cute, Dad, dressed up like little pumpkins and ghosts and stuff?”

“Babies are very cute, big girl.” I kissed her head.

Jason planned to use the same costume he wore last year, a Scream mask and black cloak. At thirteen, he wanted a costume that looked like he didn’t care about his costume. Collie ultimately came to the conclusion that he was too old for Halloween, and he would sit it out.

“Are you sure? I asked. “Aren’t you going to regret not having candy?”

“It’s not like there won’t be candy,” he said. “I mean, come on, Jason and Lillie will have too much. I’ll sneak it when they aren’t looking.”

“It’s your call,” I shrugged.

On the afternoon of Halloween, Collie came home from school and announced that he had changed his mind. Some of his friends were trick or treating, so that meant it was still cool.

“It’s a little late to find a costume,” I said. “What will you wear?”

“I’ll wear the Frankenstein mask I wore last year, and a cape. It’s easy.”

That was easy. I keep Halloween costumes from year to year in a bag with make up, masks and such, in a closet with everything else I don’t need but can’t discard. Fibber McGee would feel at home with this closet.

However, as the witching hour approached, I dug into the closet to find that I couldn’t find the bag. “Collie?” I called. “Have you seen the Halloween bag?”

“No. Is it gone?”

“I can’t find it.” I opened a box of dried-out art supplies. “Honestly, I just don’t know what to do with myself,” I muttered.

I found a bag of broken cameras and had an idea. I gathered a few more things together.

“Okay, sweet man. Put on these shorts, this Hawaiian shirt and a baseball cap. You’re going to wear this camera, these sunglasses and shove this map in your pocket.”

Collie cocked his head. “What am I going as?”

I drew myself up and wriggled my fingers. “A tourist,” I creaked in my best Bela Lugosi.

“Ha! Awesome.”

“I only regret I don’t have a fanny pack.”

Collie curled his nose. “That’s too scary.”

He asked me to join him as we toured the building. We carried a list identifying which apartments had signed up to distribute candy.

“This is weird,” Collie said, hesitating at the first door.

“What’s weird?”

“This. Trick or treating. It’s weird. I’m glad no one can see me.”

He rang the bell, recited his line, and took away some Almond Joys. “I’m giving these to you, Dad. I know they’re the only candy you like.”

“Thanks, baby. Okay, let’s go to the next floor.”

We passed some other kids who are Collie’s age. A boy in a cape pointed his scythe at Collie. “That’s a great costume,” he nodded. “Everybody hates tourists.”

“I don’t see the Grim Reaper winning any popularity contests,” I replied.

“Let’s go in the other direction,” Collie whispered. “I don’t want people to see me. It’s humiliating.”

“It’s perfectly fine for an eleven year old to trick or treat,” I said.

“Humiliating.” He pushed the elevator button a few times, hoping to bring it faster.

I patted the shoulder of my middle child, knowing he is in a hurry to grow up, though he doesn’t really want to.

After he counted out his haul—sixty-seven pieces of candy, minus three Almond Joys—we went together to pick up his sister at Mindy’s house. Bridget drove, as we had plans to take Collie, Lillie and Mindy to see the musical Legally Blonde.

“I know the girls will like it,” Bridget said. “But what will Collie think? Is it too girly?”

“Na, he’ll be fine,” I said. “I think.”

Lillie came to the door at Mindy’s. I was shocked. “Oh my God, Lillie—you look so hot! You look like Stevie Nicks!”

“That’s what Mindy’s mom said,” she giggled. “Who’s Stevie Nicks?”

“A famous witch. God, look at you.”

Lillie smiled and stood erect, allowing herself to be looked over. She was in a black velvet skirt, a maroon top with a cinched bodice, black tights and boots. Her red hair fell past her shoulders.

“Your mom found that costume?” I marveled. “It’s just . . . wow.”

She giggled again. “I know, right?”

We returned to Bridget’s car and drove to Times Square. Bridget parked on the street, one block from the theater. A man in a Jaguar gave us a smile. It was an amazing parking space.

“I wish I had my camera,” I marveled.

“What? I just parked,” Bridget said, shrugging it off. “Big deal.”

“You are the luckiest sumbitch I know.”

The girls sat together in the theater, giggling about the Chihuahua they knew to expect on stage. Collie sat between Bridget and me. He looked bored.

“Are you ready to be wowed?” I nudged him. “Singing sororities? Sexy UPS man? Hair salons?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, brother.”

His eyes flashed as the curtain rose.

The next day, I was working at my computer as Collie played Halo Three in the next room. He slaughtered monsters singing “Omigod, You Guys!” at the top of his lungs.

Separate holidays may become the norm in our family. A few days later, Lillie asked about Thanksgiving.

“Dad, would it be okay if I spent Thanksgiving with Mom? She’s going to visit her friend Linda in . . . what’s it called?”


“Yeah, Illinois. And the boys don’t want to go. Can I go? Linda has a dog and a cat. Plus Terry is my age and one of my best friends. Can I go?”

“This is the first I’ve heard of this,” I said, disguising my annoyance. I have to accept that Lucy makes plans with the children without consulting me, and that I will first hear them from my eight-year-old daughter. Lillie was excited about visiting Linda and her daughter Terry. I was in a position to make that happen or to deny her something she now really wanted, all without any input from me. “Let me call your Mom, beloved.”

I called Lucy.


“Hi Lucy, it’s Jefferson. So I hear you may be going to Illinois for Thanksgiving?”

“Yes, well, it’s not certain. I haven’t asked Linda yet, but would you mind of I took Lillie? The boys don’t want to go. Can they stay with you? Do you mind?”

“No, I don’t mind having the boys. It’s my Thanksgiving with the kids.”

“Okay, good. I’ll ask Linda. Okay, so now, can we split Christmas?”

“What do you mean?” I knew what she meant.

“I mean, can I have the kids this Christmas Eve, and you get them Christmas Day?”

I hate Lucy. I hate her above all for being so predictable.

As my lawyer drew up our divorce contract, she suggested that we alternate holidays.

“You always have the kids on Thursdays,” she noted. “Now, Thanksgiving is always on a Thursday. So you need to offer her Thanksgivings every other year. Can you do that? “

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said. “Of course, that’s fair.”

“Good.” She scribbled on her legal pad. “Now, Labor Day, Memorial Day, secular three day weekends, you should alternate those as well. And you’ll gain time with the kids, as she will otherwise have them on Mondays.”

“Okay, fine.”

“Is she observant?”

“You mean, Jewish? Well, her family is ethnically Jewish, but she’s a die-hard atheist.”

“All right, so the High Holy Days aren’t an issue. Easter . . .”

“We don’t really celebrate Easter.”

She lowered her glasses. “What if you remarry someone who does?”

I laughed. “I’m not remarrying.”

She removed her glasses. “You don’t know that.”

I crossed my legs. “Oh, I’m very sure of that.” I crossed my arms.

She looked at me for a moment. “Fine.” She returned her glasses to their perch. “I’ll leave out Easter and the High Holy Days, but note that this can be renegotiated pending future developments. After all, you might marry a Jew.”

“I’m not remarrying,” I repeated.

“Fine. Now, Christmas. You are not really a practicing Christian.”

“No, not really.”

“So I suggest you alternate Christmases.”

“What?” I unfolded my legs. “I wouldn’t have my children on Christmas?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Well, yes, that’s a serious problem. How can I not be with my kids on Christmas? That’s crazy. Anyway, it’s not an issue. We always spend Christmas with Lucy’s family. That’s not changing.”

“Well, you know, Jefferson, that could change.”

“Why? I’m divorcing my wife, not her family. They are my family too.”

She took off her glasses. “And what, you’re going to bring your new wife to Christmas with her family?”

I sighed. “I’m not remarrying. Look, this is about the kids. They need stability, and tradition helps that. Right? So we’ll do Christmas as we’ve always done Christmas. Lucy would agree to that.”

She looked at me. She replaced her glasses. “Let me do this. I will say that you have the kids on Christmas Eve, and then she gets them on noon Christmas Day. The next year, you alternate. And so on. That’s what the agreement will say, but what you decide to actually do is between you and Lucy. How’s that?”

I crossed my arms. “It’s fine. I mean, we’ll do what we do.”

I stood looking out the window with the phone to my ear.


“Yeah, Lucy?”

“So what about Christmas?”

“So, let me get this straight. You’ll have them Christmas Eve, and bring them back to me Christmas Day? And then next year, we switch?”

“Yes, just like in the divorce says. You’re so lucky you don’t have to be with my family for Christmas! I wish I could get out of it. You’re so lucky.”

She was pitching this to me as if she was doing me a favor. Like she didn’t know me. Like I was . . . like I didn’t . . .

“Can I get back to you on this?” I couldn’t say more.

“Yes, yes, of course. Thanks!” She hung up.

I hung up. I already knew the answer.

Just after college, I met Lucy. For a few Christmases, she went to visit her family and I went to mine.

After we moved in together, I stopped going home for the holidays and joined Lucy’s family for Christmas. Lucy’s mother came to make plans with me, as Lucy avoided the holidays. We made gift lists and plotted menus. After the children were born, we were Santas. Lucy was put out by all that.

I kept up the traditions.

Lucy kicked me out of her family. Just now, just like that. She destroyed our family four years ago and now, she has destroyed Christmas.

What else can I say to her request? Of course, I’ll concede. I wonder how I’ll tell the kids, but I'm sure she will first, abruptly, like it doesn’t matter.

This year, for the first time in my life, I’ll spend Christmas Eve without family.

I can’t . . . I can’t even . . . I never saw this coming.

I hate Lucy. I hate it, but God, I hate the mother of my children.

I’ll wake up without my children on Christmas.

I never saw this coming.

Friday, November 09, 2007

Fleshbot and Vacation

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot just comes right out and says it: tits are the shit. End of discussion. Next topic.

Those of you who enjoy stalking will find me splendid in the grass, implicated in incestuous fantasies and—no surprises here—manhandling mammaries.

Janie joins the unfortunates who will not be included in my future Fleshbot Sex Blog Roundups. Like so many before her, Janie made the mistake of having sex with me. Professional ethics prevent me from including my sex partners in the Roundup—which is a loss, as I happen to like fucking good writers. Chin up, Janie: you may still make my co-editor’s Roundup, provided you refrain from sex with Always Aroused Girl.

Jocasta discovers that I like cheese.

Bridget checks in to say she’ll check in again, and to remind us that she puts me above all—above all except, you know, her fiancĂ©, my kids, sleep, work and Josh Rouse. Otherwise, she’s all about the Jefferson.

Meanwhile, in what is fast becoming everyone’s favorite stick figure sex blog, Lynsey notices that she and I share many physical traits and wonders: could it be that we’re . . . siblings?

This weekend will be quiet around these parts. Expect nothing new here, and the Smut Turntable goes quiet without a guest DJ. I’m off to the Caribbean for a few days. A fetching lady is flying me there so she can get laid on vacation.

Yeah. Seriously.

Friday, November 02, 2007

Fleshbot and Meet Molly

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot visits Mom and Dad’s room to find out what the folks are up to behind closed doors. Sometimes, we find them elsewhere: the kitchen, the garage and oh God, not the family car!

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me both engagingly outgoing and downright mean and yet, despite such complexity, somewhat two-dimensional.

I may need to rethink my penchant for being with people who are smarter than me now that clever Lynsey has put me in the funny papers.

Wendy invites us to survey the damage to her splendid ass after our first date in a dungeon.

Tilda gets me so worked up that I dust the floor with her hair, leaving her so worked up that her head won’t stay on right.

Anna Smash takes a beating and gives careful thought to how that affects her relationship with her boyfriend—tears are shed, words exchanged, and love, well, don’t love beat all?

Eden looks up from my feet to notice my hands, catching a glimpse of them before they vanish, once more, into her body.

Jocasta recalls our first handshake, when she shook on my fingers.

Always one for cherry popping, Lolita picks up a camera as she watches me deflower a straight man. He was a sweet fellow. One of his last acts as an ass virgin was bringing me a bottle of bourbon.

Speaking of bourbon and ass virginity, I seem to have tripped into a recipe for these two great tastes that just taste better together. Lolita’s straight boy gave me bourbon and got his virgin ass fucked. My day tripper brought me bourbon and got her virgin ass fucked. I’m going to roll with this and proclaim November “Ass Virgin Month.” If you or someone you know is an ass virgin, deliver the ass and one bottle of bourbon to my attention.

I can promise you that the bourbon will last longer than the virginity.

When I’m not drinking or fucking, I plan to be reading Saul Bellow. Nicole had me read The Adventures of Augie March. It reminded me of what my father said after I gave him One Hundred Years of Solitude—he was about halfway through it one evening when he looked up and said, “I don’t know if I should thank you for this book or throw it at you.”

Dad made it though magical realism with the diligence of ants carting a baby into a jungle. Likewise, I’m sticking it out with Bellow. I’ve added some titles to my Amazon Wish List for those of you inclined to throw books at me.

Now, off to the Smut Turntable. This weekend’s guest DJ is Molly, a Londoner I met at Dark Odyssey in September. You may have seen her requests on the turntable; if so, you’ve noticed her eclecticism and fondness for live music. What you may not know is that she also has a predilection for fetish, which only makes the hotness that much hotter. Here’s a peek at your guest DJ to whet your appetite.

Molly and Marcus
Barbara Nitke

Stay tuned to the Smut Turntable to get between her ears.