Friday, January 26, 2007

Fleshbot and Tall Tales


This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot peers inside the skulls of sex bloggers who make good use of their overheated imaginations by dreaming up fantasies of all stripes.

Speaking of imaginative sex bloggers, allow me to introduce the lovely Anna Smash (above), who ‘fesses up at Confessions of an Unmanageable Life. Those of you who enjoy stalking me should skeedaddle over to her site to read about her recent trip to visit me in New York.

It all begins in the one in which we meet. I don’t suppose it would be giving away too much to admit that she landed a very fine addition to my quest for forty-four blowjobs during January, the month of my birth—and still managed to witness a few other contributions to the cause.

How is that going, you may ask? It’s going well, I may answer. I won’t give you the current tally, but please note: we are now in the last week of the month. If you plan to take part in this project, now’s the time to step up! Don’t assume that someone else will do your part—it’s time for you to drop to your knees to make every blowjob count.

Tell your friends!

The end of the month is also the deadline to vote for Dirtyspoke’s Sex Blog Awards.




You’ll find me up for Best Sex Blog, Best Male Sex Blog, and as a team player at Viviane’s Sex Carnival.

Those of you who have first discovered my blog through Dirtyspoke may well wonder: where’s the sex? My apologies. My blog is about my life as a parent and pervert—as stated in my profile—and by chance, the contest hit at a time when I was writing about parenting after an extended digression on perversion.

You might try delving into my archives.

Just to show that I’ve still got my chops, I am once again shifting gears. For the next few posts, you get full throttle smut. It all starts with stories of a visitor to my birthday week of wall-to-wall sex. Nope, not Anna Smash—she’s on that for now. This is another scorcher, one so hot I would doubt it myself if I didn’t have photographs as evidence.

That’s right. Photographs.

Not that you need proof. You know that if I tell a story, it’s true. I write nonfiction, and I am not one to tell tale tales.

I’m not privy to the results in progress, but I do hope the Dirtyspoke award contest is going well. It’s a splendid idea that brings attention to all of the fine folks who write sex blogs.

I’ve exchanged notes with a few of the fellows up for Best Male. There just aren’t that many of us men who blog sex, so naturally we are a convivial bunch. Once the finalists were announced, we patted each other’s asses in the locker room, saying “may the best man win.”

Then we traded blowjobs and hit the showers.

Things are a little more competitive in the Best Sex Blog category, but there again, everyone is on very friendly terms. I’m grateful for that. Frankly, I’ve had enough drama in my life lately.

Like, check this out. The other day I was out running errands, as you do, and as I walked down Third Avenue, I noticed a penny on the sidewalk. I stopped to pick it up. Huh, I grinned—a 1942 wheat penny! I thought the kids would enjoy that.

Just then, I heard a thundering crash. I looked up to see that a bank safe had fallen just inches from where I stood. Why, if I hadn’t stopped to pick up a coin, I might have been crushed by a falling safe! I had found some lucky penny, all right!

I had barely avoided a very bad scrape. But my spirits were lifted by a thoughtful email I found waiting in my inbox.

Practice SAFE sex.

Philip


“Wasn’t that nice?” I asked Elle the next day when she stopped by for tea. “Especially after that whole thing with the falling safe and all.”

“Oh my God!” she said, raising a hand to her mouth. “Are you serious? Jefferson, that’s really scary.”

“No kidding, I was really scared. But why would a safe just fall like that . . .”

I was interrupted by the faint click of my broken doorbell. I excused myself to answer the door.

“Oh my!” I exclaimed.

“What is it?” Elle called, running to my side.

There was a small fire burning in the hallway. Acting on instinct and adrenaline, I quickly stomped out the fire with my stocking feet.

“Oh God, what is that smell?” Anna gagged.

“Ugh—that fire was set to a bag of manure!” I said, retching.

“That’s so disgusting,” Anna said. “Who in the world . . . wait, what is this note?”

She pulled a paper from my door.

Scat.

Nina


“Who is Nina?” Elle asked.

“I don’t know,” I asked, scraping my feet. “A fellow jazz fan, I guess. But that can wait . . . my feet are so gross. Help me to the bathroom, would you?”

Elle held my shoulder as I hobbled to the tub to wash up. Afterwards, she helped me back to the couch.

“You rest,” she said. “I’ll refill your tea.”

“Thanks, Elle, you are very sweet.”

Elle came back with a full cup of tea. I sipped it as we talked. I was really enjoying this opportunity to get to know her better.

After a few moments, though, I began to feel woozy. I hated to be rude to my guest, but I didn’t feel very well.

“Would you excuse me?” I said, struggling to stand. “I think I need to go to the restroom.”

“Oh, of course, Jefferson,” Elle smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

I had just made it to the toilet when I began to vomit. It was an awful, burning sensation, but I did feel a little relief.

That’s when my chest began to feel tight. “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” I thought, opening my medicine cabinet. I tore down medicines for colds, fevers and hemorrhoids before finding what I needed: two aspirin and my portable defibrillator.

“Wow, I felt bad for a minute there,” I sighed, dropping to the couch.

“You . . . you’re all right?” Elle asked.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I said, patting her hand. “You’re very nice to be concerned, but I’m sure you have better things to do that look after a sick man. Really, I appreciate it, but please, go out and enjoy your day.”

After Elle left, I had a nap. I woke feeling refreshed, thankfully. I was really looking forward to my date with Ilyana that evening. She’s so hot. I would have hated to cancel.

She was just as alluring in person as I had hoped. Not to be too explicit, but we were soon naked and rolling on my bed. She was over me, I was over her, she shuddered, I trembled . . . it was very intense.

I rolled off her to take a break.

“Wow,” I panted. “That was pretty earth shattering for, you know, casual sex.”

“Casual?” she asked. “Did you say ‘casual?’”

“Yeah,” I laughed. “I mean, I can’t believe we just met.”

Ilyana put her face close to mine. “I’m going to make sure you never forget me,” she said, like she really meant it.

“Oh,” I laughed. “Not much danger of that.”

We went at it again. Eventually, I fell asleep in her arms. When I awoke, she was gone.

I guess she had someplace to be, I thought when I awoke.

I was glad she wasn’t there to see what I found in the kitchen.

Somehow, I had managed to leave a pot of water boiling on the stove. I can be such a ditz! This oversight evidently proved tragic when my sweet pet bunny fell into the pot.

“Poor Pinky!” I cried, turning off the heat. “You always were so curious.”

So, like I said, I had a very dramatic week. I’m just lucky to have so many wonderful friends. I’m glad we all get to share in the excitement of this award contest. Best of luck, pals!

I hope you enjoy the smoldering sex I’m sending your way.

6 comments:

Tess said...

Hey, Jefferson, thanks for the Fleshbot. Did that story seem like a fantasy? I don't know if I'm embarassed or ecstatic to say that it was in fact completely true.

Good luck in the 44, if anyone is capable of achieiving such a feat, it is you.

Jefferson said...

Gah! Well, then let me amend to say that the fantasy is that I could be the lucky fellow in the story.

As for the forty four, whatcha gonna do about it? Huh?

Chrissy said...

If I only I could find my way to NY sometime soon...

Madeline said...

Damn.

Now I've got that My Doorbell song in my head.

I get to play the drum part.

Desire X said...

Full throttle smut?
I've got my hands in my panties waiting for that!

About time.

You'll win I'm sure. You are hands down (my pants) the best sex blog out there.

Mwah!


HER

Christie said...

Don't say "gah."

Ever.

Unless 12-year old AIM lingo is cool now or something.

(I write this as I titter with glee.)