Friday, March 30, 2007

Fleshbot and Spring Fever

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot surrenders center stage to the exhibitionists, those show-offs who enjoy posing and being watched, even in the most compromising of positions.

Speaking of show-offs, look at me! Look at me!

I’ve already given you Lily’s story of her first orgy at my place. Those of you who enjoy stalking me will also find me leaving ThatGirl with a favorable impression, and enjoying a sweet hug with Cody.

And am I mistaken, or is that slutty Suzanne Portnoy flirting with me?

Maybe she’s got Spring fever.

Which reminds me: the pigeons are roosting, the dandelions are peeking through, and New Yorkers are wearing lighter shades of black. That means Spring is here, and with it comes my annual call for a Spring Fling.

That’s right—maybe you could be Jefferson’s sweetheart.

Two winners—one female, one male—will be chosen. For three whirlwind weeks this spring, each of these lucky winners will be treated to all the fine loving Jefferson can muster.

Of course, three weeks can lead to more. Last year’s female winner was Avah, and Cody won for the boys (there being no more suitable candidates among the biological males). Both are still around a year later.

You want long walks, quiet conversation and sweet kisses? Say the word.

Need to feel the lash now and then? It’s yours.

Hungry for the flesh buffet of an orgy? Help yourself.

You decide what you want. Jefferson will take care of what you need.

To be considered, send the following to

1. A recent photograph.

2. A description of yourself, including experiences and interests.

3. A brief text outlining why you should be chosen as Jefferson’s spring fling.

Remember: you can’t win if you don’t apply.

Good luck!

Contest remains open until winners are announced. Must be eighteen or older to enter. Winners must live in the New York City region, or relocate at their own expense. Previous winners need not apply. Void where prohibited.

Many will enter, few will win.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

In Which Lily Attends an Orgy!

Here's Lily making her first foray to my orgy.

What do you wear to an orgy? When I inquired, Jefferson had gone right for the punch line I’d fed him: “Wear something that will look good on my floor.” Hmm.

I assumed that clothes are superfluous at these affairs, but I wasn’t planning on getting naked. At least not very. As I had told Jefferson, and myself, I was going as an observer only. Or, less politely, and more lasciviously, a voyeur.

It just seemed like the logical next step in my brave new world of Living Somewhat Dangerously. I had to go.

Accordingly, I turned up at Jefferson’s one Tuesday night, fashionably late at 8:30.

Outside his door, I could hear voices. Talking, not grunting. “Hi!” Jefferson greeted me. I sloped inside, feeling awkward in my maternal quilted coat and galoshes. I caught a glimpse of his guests: they were all women!

What kind of orgy was this? I had been worried that I’d be the only woman, but instead it was a veritable girl-fest! There were three girls in the living room, all younger than me, and cute. Jefferson introduced me to Avah, and an elegant brunette, and did not introduce me to a remarkably pretty girl whose name, I later learned, was Cody. She had long, straight black hair—dyed I thought—and had a kind of fragile, Suicide Girl quality. I’d kind of like to look like that.

(more . . . )

I Shot Myself

Brown Sugar

In Focus Girls

In Focus Girls

Tess's Bitch

Tess had assumed it would be a platonic date.

A reader had sent a note saying that she enjoyed Tess’s blog, especially as she, too, was a novice submissive bisexual in an open relationship. After some correspondence, they decided to meet for dinner.

Tess was early. She passed the time by buying restraints at Babeland.

Gina met Tess outside the restaurant. Tess discovered that her correspondent was rather beautiful.

Dinner was put on hold when Tess and Gina allowed themselves to be picked up at a bar by a "pot-bellied freak."

He led the two women back to his apartment, where he promptly set the mood by doing a few lines of coke. The women passed on his offer to share.

As the pot-bellied freak struggled in vain to get hard—for cocaine and erections do not mix—the two attractive women he was failing to fuck busied themselves by playing with one another’s breasts. The pot-bellied freak watched, flopping his useless cock as he yammered about his “really hot girlfriend.”

Tess grew bored of the limp-dicked cokehead pot-bellied freak. She buttoned her blouse and took her new girlfriend to dinner.

Over a meal at an Ethiopian restaurant, their conversation naturally turned to submission and blogs.

“And Jefferson’s blog,” Tess said, picking up spicy potatoes with folded bread. “You have to read that.” She took a bite, and then added. “He’d love you. He would eat you up.”

“Oh, really?” Gina said. She took a sip of water. “Huh.”

Shortly afterwards, I received an email.

Tess told me to email you, so I am, because of course I do what she tells me to do. ;-)

Gina said she enjoyed reading my blog, especially the parts about parenting, as she had two young children of her own. She concluded:

I would love to meet you sometime. And Tess seems to think you'll like me. ;-) So, there is that LOL.


We traded notes. She had a sense of humor. It seemed Tess had made a good call.

We traded photographs. She had long red hair. It seemed Tess had made a very good call.

I contacted Tess to ask what she thought of her new friend. “Jefferson, don’t you get enough play without stealing my bitches?” she teased. “Actually, you’ll like Gina. She’s really sweet. And God, her skin—so pale and translucent, so milky!”

I thanked Tess and made a date with Gina. She said she could meet for a few hours, as her husband would watch the kids.

“Oh, you’re married?” I asked.

“No. Well, yes. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when we meet.”

I agreed. After all, I’m accustomed to long stories.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Ron Harris


Five Questions

My sweetheart Viviane is running a series of interviews with sex bloggers, asking each of us the same five questions. You can read my responses at Viviane’s Sex Carnival today—or heck, you can just read them here.

When did you start blogging?

My blog began in November 2004 with an email to my friend Audacia Ray. I was new to dating after the end of my marriage, and she provided a sympathetic ear as I sorted out my return to sex after fifteen years of heterosexual monogamy that was all but abstinent.

When I wrote to tell Audacia about one particularly exhilarating date, she replied that I needed to post these stories in a blog. I didn’t know about blogs, as I only read hers. She came to my place and we drank bourbon as she helped me to launch One Life, Take Two. My email to her became my first post.

What do you like about blogging?

Initially, I thought that my blog would provide an outlet for writing about my experiences while allowing me to try my hand at erotica, a new genre for me as a writer. I assumed my readership would be small and anonymous, as I intended to share my blog with few people I knew.

In a short time, I began to receive correspondence from readers. I found that many related to my experiences with divorce, dating, parenting and/or bisexuality. I also began to understand that many people were getting off on my life and my writing.

With that, my interest in blogging expanded. I was satisfied that it offered an easy opportunity to publish. I was newly excited that this writing provided me not only with readers, but also with community.

Plus, it gets me laid like crazy. Seriously, this shit is bananas.

Is blogging a major or minor way of connecting to other people for you?

One Life, Take Two has provided me with many friends, both online and offline. It has also become a factor in my sexuality, as I have sex with my readers. The blog has opened avenues for experiences that were new to me, particularly within BDSM.

Now, most people who are involved in my sex life read my blog. Many met me through it. This allows a degree of transparency that would otherwise have been inconceivable, feeding my strong fetish for honesty.

Perhaps most significantly, my blog has introduced me to people I have come to love.

Where's your blog? Do you use a free hosted service (Blogger, Wordpress, Livejournal, AOL, Google Pages, etc.) or do you have your own domain and web server?

My blog is at Blogger, which has served me well.

What do you do to promote your blog or your writing (using tags in your post, blog roll,, Digg, Pingoat)?

Over time, my blog has become part of an informal network of interconnected sex blogs. As many of my friends and lovers are also bloggers, I often find myself written about elsewhere. Of course, we exchange links.

My esteemed webmistress Viviane advises me in the use of tags, feeds, pings and other devices to drive traffic my way. Many readers first discover me through the Sex Blog Roundup I compile each weekend for Fleshbot.

I Feel Myself

Tilly and Sascha

Saturday, March 24, 2007


“I’m not sure where we are speaking,” Simone said, looking around the conference room. “I mean, the chairs are arranged here, so maybe we’re talking before the movie?”

“They wouldn’t have you speak beforehand, would they?” I asked. “How would the Q&A work?”

“The screening is in the theater,” Dacia said. “You’re probably talking afterwards. The chairs are just screwy here because they are. New School fucks up.”

Simone laughed.

“I’m sorry, excuse me,” Jamye said, taking Simone’s elbow. “I just need to introduce you to someone. Sorry guys!”

“It’s cool,” Dacia said. Jamye pulled Simone to a cluster of people. Dacia turned to me. “She’s super cute.”

“Simone? Or Jamye?”

“Well, both, but I was referring to Simone.”

“I have an enduring crush on Jamye Waxman,” I nodded. “She pushes all my ‘Rhoda’ buttons. I want to have hot Mary-loves-Rhoda lesbian sex with her on my sofa bed. But yeah, your star is adorable. And she’s so nice.”

“Yeah, she’s nice,” Dacia said. “I can’t wait to watch her fuck again.”

Dacia and I were at a reception preceding the premiere of Simone Valentino’s new porn flick, Afrodite Superstar. The executive producer was Candida Royalle, a friend of ours who was launching a new line of African-American films aimed at women and couples.

We like to support Candida’s work any time, but we were particularly eager to attend this function, as Simone is also the star of Dacia’s new release, The Bi Apple.

As we talked, a man announced that everyone should adjourn to the theatre for the screening. Dacia walked ahead with Jamye and Simone. I followed, chatting with Veronica Vera.

Dacia and I caught up in the theatre and found two seats near the middle.

Dacia turned to me. “I was meaning to ask you—how was the last party? Were you hypertexting?”

“Was I what?” I said, raising my eyebrows.

“Showing my movie at your orgy. There must’ve been some metacognition.”

There sure was.

The Bi Apple concerns a sex researcher, played by Simone Valentino, whose work brings her to an apartment in New York City where people meet for orgies and bi sex. As she watches sex and scribbles observations in her notebook, Simone finds herself drawn into the activities—masturbating as two men kiss, dreaming of sex with a woman, and finally, doing the deed with two bi fellows.

Anyone who knows Dacia—personally or through her writing—would recognize her in the character of Simone’s sex researcher. And anyone who knows me—personally or through my writing—would draw parallels to Dacia’s experiences at my bisexual orgies.

So with the film’s release, I thought: how better to celebrate art’s imitation of life than to bring the onscreen sex back home to roost? I decided to show The Bi Apple at my next orgy.

It was a big party, with a number of novices in the mix. My friend Lily was attending her second orgy at my place. Her ex-boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend Wendy was also there. When Wendy broke up with a boyfriend (not her former ex, now Lily’s new ex, but a newer ex), Lily had suggested that Wendy contact me for breakup sex therapy. Wendy and I had some very fine sex as a result, and now she was at my party.

Avah was there, chatting with her new buddy Lolita, who had brought Boymeat and his girlfriend. A couple that Dacia had introduced to the party was there, chatting with another couple, as well as a third couple I like to fuck. Bugs dropped in, as did her friend Callie, who brought homemade mint brownies.

With so many women, I had called in lots of men. Our mainstays Jake, Thomas, John and Mmmark were there, as well as two recent additions: Jed, a straight boy who loves strap-ons and sucking dick, and Fred, a bodybuilder and porn actor who had never been to an orgy—off camera, that is. Funny thing was, he didn’t have that much group experience outside of his porn appearances. The first time we met, he said his biggest fantasy was to have a girl blow him as she fucked a man.

“Did you ever do that?” he asked.

I took his dick from my mouth. “Now and then,” I shrugged.

I had also invited a crossover from my male orgy, a gay man who hadn’t been with a woman in years but admitted to being “bi curious.” He’s handsome and sensuous, which I like, but above all, I adore that he laughs when I describe his thick hair as a “Franz Kafka ‘fro.”

It began as a chatty party. You know how it is with girls at orgies—they love to trade recipes and talk smut.

After a while, I spoke up.

“Everyone, can I have your attention please? Hello?”

“Shhh,” Jed said. “Jefferson’s got something to say.”

“Thanks, Jed.” I looked around. “Well, friends, tonight we have a special treat. Our friend Dacia has created her first porn film, and we have it. This is not her debut as a porn actor—that was another film. This is her debut as a director.”

Thomas looked around. “Hey, where is Dacia? Is she coming?”

“Alas, no,” I replied. “Dacia doesn’t do our orgies so much these days. I may have to retire her jersey eventually. But, as many of you know, her film is partly inspired by her experiences at our shindig . . . and a number of us saw her get naked for the party celebrating the release of The Bi Apple . . .”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Boymeat interrupted. “We have your blue balloon.”

Avah laughed. “You do?”

“Yeah,” his girlfriend nodded. “Some Hispanic kids gave it to us in the subway that night. So now it’s at our apartment.”

“My goodness,” I grinned. “You have to chronicle its further adventures.”

“Well, I think its high times have passed,” Boymeat said. “It’s retired now.”

“Do give it our love,” I smiled. “Now, anyway, some of you old timers will recall that we used to play porn at the orgies.”

“Yeah, what happened to the porn?” Thomas asked. He looked at Jake. “I loved the porn.”

“Well, everyone loved the porn,” I said. “And that was the problem. I kept finding groups of naked people sitting around watching the screens.”

“Tsk. You should be making your own porn,” Lolita admonished.

“My sentiments exactly,” I said. “So tonight, I am showing porn. But I warn you, if it kills the sex, I’m turning it off. In fact, to facilitate our usual level of activity, I suggest we watch it nude.”

Lolita pulled off her t-shirt. “Let’s go,” she smiled.

I pulled off my shirt. “Friends? To the bedroom.”

I hit “play” as everyone undressed.

A bass note hit as Simone cruised the city streets.

“God, I love porn music!” Wendy cried.

“You know, Dacia got her brother to compose the music,” I said.

“That’s fucking hot,” Avah said.

“The family that porns together . . .” Callie added.

“Do you mind if I stay to . . . watch?” Simone asked a couple as they fucked.

“Do you mind if I stay to . . . fuck?” I asked Avah. I picked up a condom as she spread her legs and grinned.

“Tucker, you need to concentrate,” Trixie whined. “Sex can be so much more intense if your chakras are aligned.”

“Get on the bed,” Jake ordered Callie.

“On my back or stomach?” Callie asked.

“Who the fuck cares?” Jake shrugged.

“I’m just going to shower,” Tucker said as he passed a nude man shaving at a sink.

“Cool,” the man said.

“You,” I pointed to my gay friend. “C’mere.”

He crossed the room and stood beside me. I pulled out of Avah.

“This is my friend, Colin,” I said to her, tearing off my condom. “He’s going to fuck you now.”

“Hey, Colin,” Avah smiled.

“It was just so . . . unprofessional,” Simone said quietly. “I shouldn’t have given in.”

“Hey, Callie,” I whispered, fucking her.

“Yeah?” she whispered.

“Check out the cute muscle boy.”

“Yeah, he’s hot.”

I kissed her. “Want to trade his cock?”

“Hmmm,” she nodded.

I stood, keeping my dick in Callie. “Hey Fred, c’mere.”

Fred walked over from side of the room, where he had been leaning against a wall. “Me?”

“Yeah,” I smiled. I took his cock in my hand. “Mind if we blow you a bit?”

“Uh . . . no,” he said, putting his hands on his waist.

“Awesome.” I took his cock in my mouth and fucked Callie with renewed vigor.

After a bit, I passed his cock to her mouth.

He caught my eye. “Fuck, bro.”

I winked as I moved in and out of Callie. “One fantasy, down.”

“Hmmmm,” Simone sighed. “I’d really like to get my cock in that ass.”

“I have some lube over here,” Josh offered. “And a harness for you.”

“Hey, where’s Josh?” Avah asked.

“Yeah, wasn’t he supposed to be here tonight?” Callie asked.

“He was,” I answered. “Along with his wife, whom I’ve never fucked . . . uh, met. I guess they are not coming tonight.”

“Oh shit, I’m coming,” Josh said.

“Come on me,” Simone moaned.

“Oh, God,” Wendy sighed.

“Unh, take it,” I whispered.

Wendy trembled. Her body shook under me. “God . . . unh, God damn it . . .”

“Take it . . . ” I said.

“Unh, ooh . . .” Wendy’s body went still as she stopped breathing. For a moment, she was absent. “Unh, oh shit . . . fuck!

“Yeah, yeah,” I laughed into her mouth.

“God damn it, unh!”

“Go, go,” I said, pulling her hair.

“Fuck me!”

“I am, I am.”

I felt Wendy splashing on my cock. She bucked and twisted, and then went limp under me.

She looked up at me. “Fuck, man.”

“No shit,” I smiled.

“While you were having your fun,” Thomas said, “The porn ended.”

I looked back at the blue screen on my television.

“Yeah,” I kissed Wendy. “The porn ended.”

Dacia elbowed me. “That’s Mister Marcus.”

I looked at the screen. The denouement of Afrodite Superstar played out. “That’s one fine wall of man.”

She nodded. “No shit. I met him at AVN. He was so mellow. ‘Hey, how’s it going.’ I should’ve fucked him.”

“You’ve thought of this?” Simone asked.

“Yeah, I’ve thought of this so much . . .” Mister Marcus said, his voice low and sexed. He reached for a condom.

“Yeah,” I nodded, low and Barry White. “Magnum.”

Dacia laughed. “Sweet.”




Ira D


“Hey, Dad!”

“Hey, Lillie-pins.” I switched my phone to the other ear as I poured water into a teakettle. “What’s shaking, sugar?”

“Guess what? Mom said it was okay!”

“Great! What did Mom say was okay?”

“She said I could get my ears pierced!” Lillie giggled.

“Really? Wow, that’s so cool. So, do you want to do it?”

“Yes, duh, Dad. That’s why I asked Mom. Only you have to do it, ‘cause Mom is scared of needles. She’ll faint.”

“I know. But that’s cool, we’ll take care of it. You want to do it this weekend?”

“Can we? And can I get Hello Kitty earrings?”

“We can, but first you will have to get a starter set. I don’t know if we can get Hello Kitty for that.”

“I know, Dad, and I know I have to turn them and clean them with a Q-tip, ‘cause that’s what Cindy had to do.”

“That’s right. So yeah, let’s do that this weekend. Can I speak with your Mom?”

“Sure, Dad. She’s upstairs, so I will go there.”

I listened as Lillie’s feet stomped up stairs. She continued to talk, though I couldn’t make out her words. I wasn’t sure she was talking to me anyway; Lillie often talks to fill the air.

One day, she’ll make a great talk show host.

The teakettle whistled. I turned off the gas.


“Hey, Lucy. So you are cool with Lillie getting earrings?”

Lucy laughed. “So she told you that? Yes, it’s fine with me, but you have to take her to do it. I’ll faint.”

“I know.” I poured hot water into a coffee press.

“Aren’t you impressed that I’m cool about this?”

I nearly spilled the water. “No, I mean . . . well, yes, I guess I am impressed. Thanks for being easy about this. You sure you’re okay with it?”

“Eh, all the kids are doing it.”


“And it’s reversible.”


“So why not, right?”

“Right. Well, here’s hoping we handle her first tattoo this well.”

Lucy laughed. “Oh God, that will happen before we’re ready, right?”

I laughed. “Yeah, yeah.”

We said goodbye and Lucy returned the phone to Lillie. I talked to our daughter for a bit longer, then said goodbye.

Lucy and I had consulted on something concerning the children, and we had agreed. We had even laughed together.

Well, I thought, pouring my coffee: it only took us four years of separation to manage a civilized conversation.

Perhaps progress comes in dribs and drabs.

I sent an email to Bridget. “Are you around Saturday? How about you join us as we get Lillie’s ears pierced?”

“Are you KIDDING??” she replied. “No WAY do you get her ears pierced without me. But you’d better check with Lucy, Snooks. She’ll kill you if you do this without checking with her.

“God, do you think they have Hello Kitty earrings? With little rubies for noses? God, I’m doomed. Doomed! There are SO many cute earrings!”

I assured Bridget that Lucy had given her permission, and promised that if Hello Kitty earrings existed, she could put them on Lillie.

Now we had a problem to solve. Where would we get her ears pierced?

If we lived in the suburbs, this would not be a question. Every shopping mall has at least one place where young girls can get their ears pierced.

I mean, that’s how we did it when I was a young girl.

When I was nineteen, my red-haired girlfriend Pablo decided that I should wear an earring.

Pablo knew that my best friend Peabo had worn an earring since ninth grade. He was the first boy I knew to have one. My brothers had asked if the single ring in one ear signified that he was gay or that he was a drug dealer.

“Neither,” I said. “He’s just, you know, cool.”

My brother Jesse scrunched his nose. “That’s not cool. I think it’s gay.”

“He’s not gay,” I asserted, rolling my eyes.

Jesse shrugged. “So he sells pot, right?”

These days, Southern boys wear earrings as readily as they wear backwards baseball caps. But when I was a teen in the Deep South, boys with earrings were as rare a sight as snow tires on Subarus.

Pablo took me to Spencer’s to get my ear pierced. She plunked down eight dollars and held my hand as another teenager put a needle to my ear.

“This will hurt,” I winced.

“You’ll feel a pinch,” the shop girl warned me.

“Take it like a man,” Pablo scowled.

The shop girl pulled the trigger.

“Ouch! Shhh-yet!” I responded. “Fuck!”

That was more than a pinch, I complained.

“You look so hot,” Pablo said, her eyes sparking. She took me home and fucked me.

Then she pulled back my hair and made up my eyes. For the rest of the decade, I would bang my head androgynous and glam.

“Dad, this will hurt like a pinch, right?”

I looked at Lillie. “That’s right, honey.”

Lillie raised her fingers to her ears and squeezed. “That doesn’t hurt.”

I combed my fingers through her red hair. “It may hurt a little more than that. But you are a brave girl. And it will be over lickety-split.”

Still, I had no ideas about where to have the deed done. There are no Spencer’s in the city, if those tacky teen stores even exist anymore.

Now and then, Manhattanites feels deprived. Here, there are neither malls nor gas stations, neither Wal-Marts nor Costcos, and now and then, that hurts.

I asked our ten-year-old friend Cindy where she had her ears pierced.

“My doctor did it,” she replied.

“Well, I hate to make a doctor’s appointment over this,” I said, scratching my neck. “Don’t a lot of the girls at school get them done at Halloway’s?”

Cindy looked at me as if I had just appeared from a time machine. “Are you kidding? Everyone who gets their ears pierced at Halloway’s gets infected. Everyone! It’s the worst place, ever. Don’t go there, ever!”

“Okay, okay,” I agreed, chastened.

Bridget and I consulted.

“Should you guys come to New Jersey?” she suggested. “At least we have malls here.”

“We could, but . . . gee, come on! Is it really impossible for a child to get her ears pierced in Manhattan? I mean, what about all those places on Saint Mark’s Place?”

“I think Lillie wants earrings,” Bridget laughed. “Not a tattoo.”

“They do piercings, too. At least that’s what the neon signs say. Come on, we’ll check it out. If we don’t find a place, we’ll go to Jersey.”

Bridget sighed. “I’ll bring my car, just in case.”

Bridget picked us up on Saturday. True to her luck, she parked on Third and Eighth, just across from the Continental Divide.

“You and Lillie walk ahead to see what you find,” Bridget told me. “I’m taking the boys to the comic book store.”

“Really?” Collie asked. “Can we get a game?”

“Shush,” she whispered. “Not in front of your father.”

“Yeah, Collie,” Jason winked. “We . . . don’t . . . want . . . a . . game . . .”

“You people must think I’m pretty s-t-o-o-p-i-d,” I said, taking Lillie’s hand.

We walked ahead as Bridget ushered the boys down steps into the shop.

“Dad,” Lillie said. “You spelled that wrong.”

I squeezed her hand. “I did it on purpose, honey.”

We stopped into a place offering piercings. In the window, a young woman grimaced as a pair of dice was tattooed into her forearm.

I approached the woman behind the counter. She was about twenty and pale, with tattoos visible on her exposed arms.

“Hello, good afternoon,” I began. “My daughter is interested in having her ears pierced. Can we do that here?”

The woman brushed the black bangs from her face and looked down at Lillie. Lillie smiled. The woman looked back at me, not acknowledging Lillie.

“No, no way.” She scratched her nose ring. “You have to be sixteen to have anything done here.”

Lillie looked to me.

“Oh, okay.” I asked. “Earrings too, huh? Well, do you know any place we can go?”

“No.” She went back to doodling a dragon. “Everything is sixteen and up.”

“Okay.” I smiled. “Thanks.”

I took Lillie’s hand and walked to the door. She looked over at the woman getting tattooed.

“Do I have to wait until I’m sixteen?” she asked.

“No, baby. You just have to wait until we get the answer we want.”

We crossed the street and went into a t-shirt shop offering piercings.

I approached a man selling sunglasses. “Hello, good afternoon,” I said. “My daughter would like to have her ears pierced. Can we do that here?”

The man looked down at Lillie. She smiled.

He pointed to the counter. “You talk to Mo, he’s the boss here.”

I looked to the register. “Mo is the man with the beard?”

“Yes,” he nodded, rubbing his bare chin. “Beard.”

“Thank you,” I smiled. “Shukran.”

He smiled, surprised, catching my eye. “’afwan, al-‘affu, sir.”

I waited as Mo tended on a customer. He finished and looked to me. “Yes sir, what can be done for you?”

“This is my daughter,” I said, pointing to Lillie. Lillie smiled. “She would like to have her ears pierced. Can we do that here?”

Mo looked to Lillie and returned her smile. “You are such a beautiful girl,” he said, offering his hand. Lillie reached up and shook it. “Such lovely red hair.” He looked back to me. “This is your daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come,” he said. “We will do this.” He gestured to another man and introduced him to me as his son. “My son will do this for your daughter. Follow him, please, to the back room.”

“You are kind, shukran,” I said. “One moment, please. I want to bring her brothers.”

“She has brothers?” Mo smiled, then laughed. “Good, bring the brothers.”

I thanked Mo again, took Lillie’s hand, and crossed the street. A bell rang as I opened the door.

I found Bridget with her arms full of games, comic books and Star Wars memorabilia. The boys were looking through boxes of comics.

“What, what’s up, Snooks?” Bridget asked.

“We found a place,” I said. I tugged her arm. “Come back for this, we need to move on it.”

“Oh!” Bridget unloaded her arms on a stack of boxes. “Okay, okay—hey boys, come on. We have to help your dad.”

Jason looked up, slightly dazed from so many comics. He saw me and took Collie’s arm. “Come on, Collie, we need to go.”

“Wait, hang on,” Collie said. “Can I bring Han Solo?”

We told him to drop Han Solo for now.

Lillie pointed out a Family Guy plush as we left the store.

“Here are my boys!” I told Mo. “And our friend Bridget.”

“Welcome, welcome,” Mo smiled. He raised an arm. “Please, Yassine will help you.” He spoke to another man in Arabic. The man smiled and pointed us to the back of the store. Mo turned to help a man holding two t-shirts.

“This way,” Yassine said, opening a door.

We followed into a white room with fluorescent lights and linoleum floors. There were mirrors on medicine cabinets, and the strong scent of rubbing alcohol.

I looked to my left to see a shirtless man sitting on an exam table. Paper crinkled under him as he spoke in low tones to an intent bearded man.

As he spoke, the bearded man drew lines on his back.

“Please,” Yassine said, taking a folding chair. “You will sit here. What is your name?”

Lillie looked to me.

“Tell him your name, baby.”

“Lillie,” she replied. She pressed close to me.

“Lillie,” Yassine repeated, dropping to his knees. “Such a beautiful name.” He touched her hair. “Please, Lillie, sit in this chair. We will take only a moment.” He turned to a counter and opened a few boxes.

He returned with a selection of starter earrings. Lillie looked over the sets.

I looked over her shoulder. “No Hello Kitty, but remember, this just gets you started.”

“We’ll get Hello Kitty later,” Bridget assured her. “What do you think of those blue ones? Like your eyes?”

Lillie looked at the box, and pointed to the blue ones.

“Nice,” Yassine said, taking them from the box. “One moment, please.” He stood and went back to the counter.

Lillie looked at me, scared.

“Lillie, do you want to sit in my lap?” Bridget moved her bag from one hand to another, and extended her arms.

Lillie shook her head and sat in the chair. I crouched by her side. I put an arm on her waist.

“I’m here, baby,” I said quietly.

“Are you okay, Lillie?” Jason asked in a sweet, babyish tone. I smiled at him. Collie and Lillie have a secret language. Jason touches her by talking as though she were still two years old.

Lillie nodded.

I pulled her boo-boo blanket from a bag and put it in her lap.

She took it up and put a thumb in her mouth.

Collie watched as the bearded man drew lines on the shirtless man.

“I’m going to wait outside,” he said quietly. He looked pale.

I looked up at Bridget. “Keep the door open, okay Collie?”

“Okay.” He opened the door and stood just outside.

I whispered to Jason. “Stand near the door, okay?”

Jason moved to the door.

Yassine returned and stooped near Lillie. “Now, I will make a mark, a little mark, with a pen. You see the pen?” He held it up. Lillie nodded. “Good. This, it will help me put the earrings in the right place.”

“It won’t hurt,” I added.

Bridget fidgeted.

Yassine leaned forward, his brow creased. He took Lillie’s chin in his hand and studied her face. He looked from right to left, and back again.

I held her hand.

She looked at me, and then looked forward.

Yassine placed a purple mark on her left earlobe.

Lillie drew a quick breath. She exhaled.

“That was just a mark,” I said. “Just a marker to show him where to put the ring.”

Lillie nodded, not looking at me. Her eyes were focused on an empty corner across the room.

Jason looked at Collie. Collie stared at a t-shirt outside the room, hanging on a wall in the shop. It read, “WTF?”

I looked up at Bridget. She glanced to my left, nodding to the men preparing a tattoo. She looked back at me. I pursed my lips and shrugged.

“There.” Yassine looked at Lillie, then back to Bridget. “Like this, you like?”

Bridget stooped to look at Lillie. She pushed back her hair and studied her ear lobes. “Perfect. Jefferson?”

I looked. The target dots were absolutely symmetrical. “Very good,” I said, nodding to Yassine. I looked at Lillie. “You ready to have earrings, love?”

Lillie put her thumb in her mouth. She looked at me and nodded.

“Okay,” I said to Yassine. “Lillie’s ready.”

Jason leaned out the door. “Lillie’s ready,” he repeated to Collie.

“Okay,” Collie nodded. He looked away from the door and stared at a novelty license plate. It read, “FCKBSH.”

Yassine approached with a gun. “This will hurt,” he said. “Like a pinch.”

He placed the gun on my daughter’s ear. He pulled the trigger.

A jolt ran through Lillie’s body.

I grabbed her tight.

“You okay?” I whispered.

She nodded.

“You ready for the next ear?” I asked.

She shook her head, sucking her thumb. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Oh, baby.” I held her close.

“You’re very brave,” Bridget grimaced, clutching Lillie’s coat.

Yassine leaned close. “It will be better, the next one.” He wrapped an arm around Lillie.

We sat there for a moment as Lillie recovered. My arms were around her. Her eyes were on a far corner. And Yassine held her back.

I thought perhaps I should say a word to Yassine. I didn’t think the hug of a stranger who had just punctured her ear was going to offer much comfort to Lillie. Maybe it would be better if he stepped away.

But then, I thought better of it. Let’s ride this out. Poor Yassine was none too happy to have injured beautiful Lillie.

I looked up. “Ready?” I asked.

Lillie nodded.

I looked at Yassine. “Ready?”

He nodded.

“She’s ready for the next one,” Jason repeated to Collie.

Collie nodded. He looked at another t-shirt. It read, “Come As You Are.”

The bearded tattoo artist watched as Lillie jolted again.

“All done,” I whispered. She began to sob.

I took her up in my arms, thanked Yassine, and left the room.

Bridget patted Yassine’s back and passed us to pay the tab.

I rocked Lillie in my arms among the t-shirts.

Collie tugged my sleeve. “I don’t feel well.”

I looked down. He was so pale. I knew the look. “Let’s get outside,” I said. I carried Lillie, pushing him ahead. Jason followed behind.

Once outside, I directed Collie to a corner of the building, littered with cigarette butts. “If you feel sick, it’s okay,” I said.

“Are you okay?” Bridget asked, coming out after us.

“Collie . . . ,” Jason began.

Collie grew weak as he stood staring at the building corner. The life was quickly draining from his tiny frame.

“Can you hold Lillie’s hand?” I asked Bridget, dropping my daughter to her feet.

“Dad . . .” Lillie complained, weakly.

“Shh,” I said. Bridget reached for Lillie. I picked up Collie, resting his head on my shoulder.

“Come with me,” Bridget said, taking Lillie’s hand. Jason followed, looking back at his brother and father.

“It hurt . . . ,” Collie murmured into my neck.

“She’s fine,” I said. “It hurt, but she’s fine.”

His body went limp in my arms.

I caught up with Bridget and the kids outside the Saint Mark’s Hotel.

“Is Collie okay?” Bridget asked.

“He fainted,” I said. “Let’s go sit in your car.”

Collie recovered in the car. I held him in my arms as Lillie offered reassurances that she was fine.

When he was alert, Bridget drove a couple of blocks to a restaurant that serves macaroni and cheese. We ordered too much for us to eat.

Collie ate more than I did.

Lillie kept running to the bathroom to see her earrings in a mirror.

Jason and Bridget talked sports and comics.

I sipped coffee, loving how happy my children were. I grinned at Bridget. She reached across the table to pat my hand.

Friday, March 23, 2007

Sapphic Erotica

Sapphic Erotica

Only Cuties

Only Cuties

In Focus Girls

In Focus Girls

Fleshbot and Wanderlust

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot lifts the veil on married couples for whom the honeymoon never ended. Read up on the monogamists, the swingers, the dungeonistas—and my crush of the week, Homme and Femme, and their girlfriend, Siobhan.

If I ever head back up the aisle, I’m taking notes from these folks.

Speaking of “been there, done that,” this week I had sex in the Bronx. It was perfectly steamy sex—involving a bed, a floor and the unexpected arrival of a roommate—but even more, it was landmark sex, as I had never before had sex in the northernmost of the city’s five boroughs.

Now, only Staten Island remains unfucked on my sex map of the city that never sleeps for all the sleeping around.

You might think that with all the sex I have, I would have long since burned through the city’s neighborhoods. But in fact, since the demise of my late marriage, my pants are most often dropped within my own home. I take good advantage of one of New York’s finest attractions: you can get anything delivered.

As I mentally scratched the Bronx from my list of virgin territories, my mind wandered to larger maps. I pondered the Manifest Destiny of my libido’s open borders.

Of these fifty United States, I have had sex in only sixteen, plus the District of Columbia. It’s as if my nation of sex has yet to find its Louisiana Purchase.

Of the one-hundred-and-ninety-two constituent states of the United Nations, only fifteen have stamped my sexual passport. Five of these came from a tour of Central America that proved to be un viage muy ambicioso. If not for that insatiable isthmus and the United States, I’d have an unacceptably short itinerary.

Still, I’m closing in on the continents, with only two of seven left with pristine shores. One of these seems a readily addressed oversight, but how will I ever manage Antarctica?

Bronx, my Bronx, you have awakened my wanderlust. Oh, to feel the salt spray of the Staten Island ferry.

Michelle7 Erotica

Michelle7 Erotica

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

I Shot Myself



I sat on the bed next to Fawn as her face emerged from a t-shirt.

“Your hair is a mess,” I smiled, tucking a black strand behind her ear.

“Sorry,” she grinned nervously, looking away. She ran her fingers through her hair and looked up at me. Her pale blue eyes were clear and unblinking.

“So . . . ,” she began. Her hands dropped to her bare lap and rested there, palms up. “Anyway, this is me.”

My hand moved down her neck to her shoulder. “And this is us—alone, finally.”

“Yeah, I know. So, um, I’m sorry I’m not skinny,” she said. She nodded to the door. “Like Jenn.”

I touched her cheek with my fingers. “Jenn seems very nice. She obviously cares about you.”

“Yeah, Jenn’s cool.” Fawn looked to her palms. Her face turned to rest in the cup of my palm. She closed her eyes.

I took her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “Hey.”

She looked up. “Yeah?”

“Jenn’s here because she knows you wanted to be here.” I stroked her black hair. “You’re here because you wanted to be here. You’re here because I wanted you here.”


“You okay?”

She smiled. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

I smiled. “Good.” I leaned forward. Our lips met.

As we kissed, my fingers traveled lightly over her body, now bare but for her panties. She touched my t-shirt and felt the fabric of my pajamas.

I inhaled deeply as she quivered, savoring her response to my touch.

Her hand found my cock, hard inside my clothes.

I listened as I entered her. I moved slowly into her body, imagining my cock as an expansive tendril that would grow long and fat to fill her entirely, or to retract at any hesitation.

She breathed deeply, holding my shoulders firm as, for the second time in her life, her body took another body into her.

I rested in Fawn, listening to her breath. My face was nestled into her neck. I pulled back to look into her face. Her eyes were tightly closed.


She opened her eyes. She turned her chin down, smiling slyly. I grinned, suspecting that she was giving me a look practiced in mirrors and webcams.

“Does this feel good?” I asked, moving gently inside her body.

She laughed. “Are you kidding? This is amazing.”

“Oh yeah?” I kissed her nose. “How about this?”

I fucked her with more vigor, pulling back, pushing forward.

“Oh, God yeah.” She laughed again.

“All right.” I sat back, pushing her thighs forward. I raised her ankles to my lips, lightly kissing her left calf. My cock pressed up and deep into her. I rocked back and forth. “And this?”

She looked up at me as her mouth dropped. “Oh . . . fuck yeah.”

I caressed her face. “That’s all I need to know, Fawn. You can just relax now while we fuck.”

We had our basic vocabulary. We were close and tender. We were hot and rough. We were submissive and dominant.

It only takes three letters to spell “l-u-v.”

We had traded so many mash notes to finally be here, in my bed, after midnight with her friends making out in the next room.

Fawn wanted to trade in her inexperience and add luster to the novice’s sexual resume she had amassed with her first high school boyfriend. I wanted her to trust me and to be content that she had made the right decision in being with me—and perhaps, along the way, to add a few notches to the brand-new bedpost of her sexuality.

After our first hour and change, we peeled our bodies apart.

“You still doing okay?” I panted.

“Oh yeah, my God,” she said, catching her breath. “That was . . . this is . . .”

I took her hand. “Right?”

We lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I looked to my clock.

“Look, it’s really late. Let’s sleep. But look, I’m probably going to wake you for sex at three or four. So don’t be surprised.”

She laughed. I liked her laugh, especially now that I heard it so often. “That is fine by me.”

“Good.” I turned to curl against her. I yawned. “If you need me, or you wake up and I’m hard, just elbow me and climb on.”

She put a hand to my head, suddenly maternal. “Shhh, you just sleep.”

I was out immediately.

We woke up fucking. One of us initiated it. Hard to say who did what, as we were both asleep.

The next morning, my face was buried between her legs when I heard giggles. I looked up. Shapes scurried past the open bedroom door.

One of us must’ve gone to the bathroom overnight and left the door ajar. Or maybe it had been pushed open.

Her friends had watched as my mouth pulled orgasms from Fawn.

“Oh shit, did they really see me?” she asked, coiling her legs to her torso.

“Uh, maybe,” I said, pulling her to me. “Was that embarrassing?”

She looked to one side. “Do you think they saw my chest?”

The focus of her bashfulness seemed a tad incongruous, given that I was licking her pussy when the giggles passed by. Still, I could see she was unnerved by the prospect of having her breasts exposed.

“I suppose so.” I pinched a nipple. “Here, let me close the door.”

I closed the bedroom door and came back to her. She relaxed as we kissed.

I went down on her again.

She gushed in my mouth. I waited a moment before I made her do it again.

I kissed my way up her body.

“Wow,” she said, glancing at a clock. “That’s a record. Ten times in one hou . . .”

Her voice trailed as I entered her.

She rested her eyes on mine as my palm squeezed a breast.

Fawn stayed in bed as I emerged to face the music.

“Hey,” Jenn grinned. “You two were pretty noisy in there.”

I shrugged. “I hope we didn’t wake you.”

Paolo laughed. “Shit, man.” He held out his palm. I shook his hand.

“Coffee?” I asked.

Fawn came out of the bedroom fully dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. She sat next to Jenn on the couch as I rattled pans in the kitchen.

I prepared a breakfast of omelettes with thyme and sweet sausage, bacon and toast. Jenn said it was the best omelette she had ever been served.

Paolo watched as I made them. I talked him through the steps.

After breakfast, Paolo and Jenn disappeared for a while. I sat talking with Fawn. The vulnerability of the early morning was gone. She was once more locked up in her clothes, her body, her veneer.

I kept my blue eyes on her pale mirrors. I held her hand. We talked about things, passing the time.

It took Jenn forever to locate her cell phone, but she found it.

At the door, I kissed Jenn’s cheek and hugged Paolo as he pulled me close, once, strong and tight.

I kissed Fawn’s lips, soft and slow.

“Thanks,” I murmured.

“Shit, thank you,” she said, dropping her forehead to my lips.

Later, Fawn phoned to say they returned home with no mishaps.

It turned out that it was the carburetor, and it cost less than a hundred dollars to repair.

Jenn dumped her boyfriend and hooked up with Paolo.

Jenn and Fawn had a falling out. They were no longer best friends forever.

Fawn made plans to see me again. A few weeks later, she had a new boyfriend.

I never saw her again, as she doesn’t cheat.

I’m her friend. I wouldn’t want her to cheat.

As I made breakfast that morning after meeting Fawn, I reflected on an unexpected threshold I had crossed. In my nascent career as a chicken hawk, I had reached a new apex—or nadir, depending on one’s point of view.

I had now slept with someone younger than my eldest daughter.

Saturday, March 17, 2007

Madame Xpod

More intimate than graphic, Madame Xpod is a new site offering images of beautiful woman grooving to their favorite music. They are often lost in reverie as the camera captures them dancing, lounging or just zoned to tunes. If you like a natural approach and artful touches, take a look; you'll find Madame Xpod featured in "Jefferson's Gangbang" at left.

And stay tuned: the site promises an upcoming tour, with the photographer and model dancing to a town near you.

Friday, March 16, 2007



Fleshbot and Girls Next Door

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot pays a social call on the girls next door, those neighborly gals who seem just like your sister or mom—though the stories they tell have no place at family hour.

Speaking of the girls next door, pay a visit to the girls in the next blog. I have recently shown up in the writing of a few of my friends and lovers; here’s a handy map for those of you who enjoy stalking me.

Lily rethinks my casting for her first threesome, replacing my best supporting actor with one of her own. Read forward in her blog to follow subsequent developments.

Anna Smash is drawing near the conclusion of her smoking hot series on our weekend together. It kind of breaks my heart to see it ending again.

And finally, Madeline raises the bar on scripting blowjobs—just as she will raise hell that I included her in a roundup of “women who fuck Jefferson.”

You can even listen to Madeline’s twang as she reads a tale that was featured on Playboy Radio.

Hey, remind me to tell you a story about Madeline. I think I’ve got a few.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007


TIME: Tuesday, March 13, 9:18pm.

SCENE: A crowded living room. Thumping music plays low under vibrant overlapping conversations.


JEFFERSON (sotto voce): Oh right, today’s the thirteenth. You know what that makes tomorrow?

THOMAS: The fourteenth?

JEFFERSON: That’s right. And the fourteenth is “Steak and Blowjob Day.”

THOMAS: It is? There’s such a thing?

ENSEMBLE falls silent. From the couch, a chorus of FOUR WOMEN speaks in unison.

FOUR WOMEN: Oh no, you don’t!

JEFFERSON: What? What did I say?

FOUR WOMEN: That holiday does not apply to you!

BUGS: You don’t believe in Valentine’s Day.

CALLIE: You have to believe in Valentine’s Day to get a “Steak and Blowjob Day.”

LILY: Its true, I think those things are reciprocal.

AVAH: See? Told you.

JEFFERSON: Is it too late to repent?

FOUR WOMEN: You have eleven months to find out!

TIME: Wednesday, March 14, 12:13am.

SCENE: An orgy. ENSEMBLE is nude on a bed, entangled in sex. In a nearby chair, JEFFERSON is receiving a blowjob from WOMAN. The time is visible on a nearby clock.

AVAH (petting WOMAN’s hair): God, that’s hot.

JEFFERSON (smiles as he takes AVAH’s breast in hand): Yeah, she’s such a sweet cocksucker.

AVAH (kisses JEFFERSON’s cheek): Did you notice the time? Happy “Steak and Blowjob Day.”

JEFFERSON (kisses AVAH): Aw, thanks. Can I get that medium rare, baked potato—butter, chives—with a glass of Cabernet?

TIME: Wednesday, March 14, 8:16am.

SCENE: A bedroom. Tables and shelves are covered with condoms, wine glasses and water bottles. The floor is strewn with condom wrappers and clothing.

JEFFERSON and AVAH stir under a blanket. They kiss.

JEFFERSON: Good morning, Avah.

AVAH: Good morning, baby. You didn’t snore that much last night.

JEFFERSON (reaches for condom and opens wrapper): Oh good, I’m glad.

AVAH (watches as JEFFERSON rolls condom on his cock): That’s it? No foreplay?

JEFFERSON (turns to lay on AVAH): I said “good morning,” didn’t I?

TIME: Wednesday, March 14, 10:12am.

SCENE: The blanket is on the floor. AVAH and JEFFERSON are covered in sweat. JEFFERSON rolls off AVAH’s body.

JEFFERSON (panting): When did it get so hot in here?

AVAH (breathing deep): January. When they turned on the heat. I opened the windows last night.

JEFFERSON: Yeah, smart move. (JEFFERSON strokes AVAH’s arm.) Take a rest, honey. Then you can suck my dick.

AVAH: But you didn’t do Valentine’s Day. That means I can’t do “Steak and Blowjob Day.”

JEFFERSON: I didn’t ask for a steak. I want you to suck me off.

AVAH: But . . .

JEFFERSON: Tell you what. I’ve got an idea.

AVAH (smiles): What’s your idea?

JEFFERSON leans to AVAH’s ear and whispers.

AVAH: Awww . . . okay, let me get my hair clip.

TIME: Wednesday, March 14, 11:23am.

SCENE: A dining room table set with a flower vase and two place settings. JEFFERSON enters, nude, holding two plates.

JEFFERSON: Ta-da! (JEFFERSON kisses AVAH’s head.)

AVAH: Wow, that is so sweet.

JEFFERSON: As promised: pancakes in the shape of hearts. Want butter?

AVAH: You are too much.

TIME: Wednesday, March 14, 8:03pm.

SCENE: A kitchen. JEFFERSON is cooking, wearing shorts and a black t-shirt. COLLIE enters, holding phone.

COLLIE: Dad? Mom wants to talk to you.

JEFFERSON: She does? Okay, thanks. (JEFFERSON puts down wooden spoon and takes phone. COLLIE exits.) Hello?

LUCY: Jefferson, it’s after eight.

JEFFERSON (looks at clock): Yes, it is.

LUCY: Collie tells me that Lillie hasn’t finished her homework and she’s watching television. And she had a nap?

JEFFERSON (adds pepper to a saucepan): Uh huh.

LUCY: Jefferson, it’s so important that Lillie do her homework immediately after school. She can not nap then.

JEFFERSON (sips wine): She fell asleep reading.

LUCY: You have to wake her up! Jefferson, if she doesn’t do her homework before school in the mornings, she will get lower marks. She’s in second grade, Jefferson. She has to learn these things now.

JEFFERSON (draws breath): It’s unfortunate that you are relying on Collie as the supervisor of Lillie’s homework. She’s got twelve hours until school resumes. She can get it done.

LUCY: That’s your answer? Twelve hours? So—what? She does it at midnight? Four in the morning? What if she doesn’t do it?

JEFFERSON: Those are all possibilities. Another is: what if she does do it?

LUCY (her voice rises): Jefferson, it’s so important that she does her homework immediately after school . . .

JEFFERSON: I’m here if you want to have a constructive dialogue about the children. But I am not here if you want to use Collie or Lillie to call and impulsively yell at me.

LUCY (shouting): I am not yelling at you!

JEFFERSON (his voice steady and robotic): You are shouting at me. That is not constructive. This conversation is now over. Goodbye. (JEFFERSON closes the phone. He takes the spoon and stirs a saucepan. He reaches for a glass of wine.) Kids! Five minutes! (JEFFERSON looks at the phone. It does not ring.)

TIME: Wednesday, March 14, 10:13pm.

SCENE: JEFFERSON watches television with his thirteen-year-old son JASON.

JEFFERSON: Holy smokes . . . Claire is Jack’s sister.

WOMAN’S VOICE: But . . . I don’t understand. You’re paying the bills? Who are you?

MAN’S VOICE: Claire . . . I’m your father.


JASON (sitting up): Oh, snap! How did you know that?!

JEFFERSON: Shh! I’ll tell you during the commercial.

They sit in silence watching television.

ANNOUNCER: Disturbing footage tonight as a teenager is beaten to death at boot camp—captured by surveillance cameras. That, and is Spring here to stay? Accucast weather, at eleven.

JASON: What was that you made for dinner again?

JEFFERSON: Pepper steak with onions and peppers, with Spanish rice. Did you like it?

JASON: That was great, Dad. You should make that more often.

JEFFERSON (smiles): Yeah, I really should.


Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Gothic Sluts

Justine Joli

Slumber Party

“Oh my God, we made it alive!” Fawn laughed as I kissed her cheek. She wrapped her arms around me. “I’m so glad to finally meet you, Jefferson!”

“Likewise, honey. It’s been a long time coming. And you must be Jenn?”

“Nice to meet you, too,” she said, stopping just short of adding “sir.” We leaned forward from our hips to buss cheeks without otherwise touching.

I took Paolo’s hand. “And tonight’s knight in shining armor. Nice save, Paolo.”

“’sup, man,” Paolo said, wrapping one arm around my shoulder to pull me into a brief embrace.

I invited my guests inside and took their coats. Underneath his puffy black coat, Paolo wore a puffy black sweatshirt and puffy black pants. He didn’t remove his oversized black baseball cap.

Jenn looked around the living room, sweeping the long blonde hair from her shoulders as she glanced at book titles on my shelves. She was tall, with an erect bearing and a fresh-scrubbed beauty that reminded me of Christie Brinkley, circa my senior year in high school, before Jenn was born.

“This was one night I would love to forget,” Fawn said, falling back on the couch.

“Perhaps your evening is now improving,” I smiled, sitting beside her.

“Well, anything would be better than having my car die on the highway and waiting in that growdy gas station,” she said. “I have no idea what’s wrong with my car.”

“It’s the carburetor,” Jenn diagnosed as she pulled down a book.

“It’s going to be three hundred dollars, whatever it is,” Fawn predicted.

Paolo sat on a chair.

“Anyway, we finally meet, Jefferson,” Fawn went on. She grinned. She was instantly familiar, something I had found endearing in our correspondence. Fawn had the easy air of someone who quickly makes people feel like her best friend. She had only just arrived, but she seemed settled and at ease.

I smiled, taking in her pale blue eyes, black hair and milky skin.

“Yeah, it’s great to see you, too,” I nodded.

We talked for a while. Jenn joined in the conversation as she continued her tour of my bookcases. Paolo sat quietly, listening.

I relaxed, shifting gear from a long day—kids up and off to school, project deadline, housecleaning, gay orgy, and now, a teenage slumber party.

As midnight approached, I wondered how the night should progress. Fawn was here to have sex with me, and everyone knew this. It would probably be my responsibility to initiate that transition. But how? Should I offer a snack to Jenn and Paolo, and then excuse Fawn and myself to my bedroom? Wouldn’t that be a tad awkward?

In my life since marriage, I’ve grown accustomed to meeting people for sex. But this had the sense of a more distant social interaction. I tried to remember: how did we work this in high school?

“I’m so wired, still,” Fawn said, tapping a hand on her jeans. “You know what I would love to do? Veg to a movie.”

That was one way to do it.

“That’s a good idea,” I said. “Have you seen Secretary?

“No!” she exclaimed. “I really want to.”

“What’s Secretary?” Jenn asked.

“It’s like a movie about this submissive secretary who works for this guy who’s totally OCD. Right, Jefferson?”

Paolo laughed. “Sounds whack.”

Jenn winced.

“No, it’s not like you think,” I assured them. “Let’s go to the other room and give it a spin.”

We moved to my bedroom. Jenn sat in a chair, with Paolo sitting on the floor between her knees. I left them to watch cartoons as I prepared a snack and Fawn went to the bathroom.

I came back with popcorn and drinks—lemonade for my underage guests, bourbon for myself.

Fawn returned. She had stripped to an oversized t-shirt and panties.

She cuddled next to me on the bed. I kissed her hair and clicked the remote.

I had seen the movie more times than I could count. But I was glad to take this moment for down time, to unwind and feel Fawn so close.

My hand caressed her back. I felt her bra strap.

“Sit up, honey,” I whispered.

She sat forward, her eyes on James Spader. I unfastened the clasp on her bra. Her arms retreated inside her shirt and reemerged with a black bra. She handed it to me. I tossed it on a nearby chair.

She sat back in my arms.

“Much better,” I whispered, my hand cupping a breast. I toyed with her nipple as it grew hard.

I licked her ear and touched her thighs as Maggie Gyllenhaal wet her wedding gown. Fawn wrapped her bare leg over mine, resting a hand on my chest.

I stole a glance at Jenn and Paolo. Their eyes were on the screen as he rested a cheek on her knee. They didn’t notice our discreet touches, or they pretended not to notice.

James drove away, waving to Maggie. She waved back and looked into the camera.

“I love that movie,” Fawn said.

“Whack,” Paolo laughed.

Jenn turned a head to her shoulder. "That guy from Boston Legal is kinda hot."

"Totally," Fawn agreed.

We talked for bit more until our conversation was punctured by yawns. I made a bed for Jenn and Paolo as they said good night to Fawn.

They closed the door to their room. I closed the door to mine.

I looked into Fawn’s azure eyes.

They vanished as she pulled off her t-shirt.



Monday, March 12, 2007

I Shot Myself




Anette Dawn

Sex Ed

John and Randall were chatting in their underwear when she called.

She was laughing so hard I could barely make out a thing she said.

“Come again?” I asked.

“I said . . . wait, wait, let me get my breath . . . oh my God, I am not believing this night!”

“You’re having some adventure, all right.”

“Okay, okay. You guys? Can you please not play with the radio?” She turned back to the phone. “So, yeah, we managed to get my car towed and called Jenn’s friend Paolo. He came to pick us up at the gas station, and so he’s driving us there.”

“I can’t believe your car chose tonight to break down. So Paolo is coming too? Is he cool with our plans?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s cool. Actually, he’s probably going to be Jenn’s new boyfriend. She’s got to dump the guy she’s seeing now.” She turned away. “What? Oh God, Jenn, Paolo knows this already, don’t you, Paolo?”

“Fawn? Fawn, you there?”

Fawn turned back to the phone. “Yeah, sorry Jefferson, I’m here. Guys, shhhh! I can’t hear.”

“So where are you? Are you near the city yet?”

“Hmmm? Oh yeah, we’re in the city. We just passed your building, actually. We’re just looking for parking.”

“You’re here now?” I looked around my room, bending to pick up stray condom foils. “Goodness, okay, let me go then. Call if you need help parking.”

“I think we just found a space, actually. So, bye! I’ll see you in a minute. I’m excited!”

I put down the phone. “Fellows, I’m sorry to shoo you off, but I’ve got a date on her way up.”

“Oh, a date?” Randall teased. “Maybe we should stay and meet her. Think she’d like to meet your gay boyfriends?”

“Not this time, princess. Get your clothes on, pronto.”

As the boys dressed, I hurriedly tidied my room. I stripped the sex sheets and made the bed with fresh linen. I put away gay porn, quart-sized bottles of lube, piles of condoms and boxes of latex gloves.

I left the candles in place.

I waved goodbye to the boys as I headed to the shower. I had to wash away the scent of men.

My soapy cock bobbed with the thought of meeting Fawn.

She had first contacted me in the middle of her senior year, just after her eighteenth birthday. She told me she got hot and bothered from my blog. She fantasized about fucking me, but she had a boyfriend, and she didn’t cheat.

I thanked her, and commended her honor.

The thing is, she went on, she and her boyfriend had lost their virginities to one another, and they had remained monogamous ever since. And while she loved him very much, she felt that . . . well, their sex was a little . . . well . . . abrupt.

He cums too soon? I asked.

Immediately, she answered.

I offered some advice. Give yourselves time when you have sex, I suggested. Don’t feel that you have to rush to grab this opportunity that will never again come. Enjoy touching one another, kissing, and building up to intercourse. Maybe he can give you an orgasm with his fingers and mouth before penetration. During intercourse, when he feels an orgasm coming, he can slow his pace, maybe even pulling out to restrain the impulse.

God, I want to fuck you, she wrote. Thanks!

Fawn spoke to her boyfriend. She had an idea. Her boyfriend didn’t mind if she had sex with me, so long as he was present. Maybe I could have sex with her and kind of teach her boyfriend a few tricks?

Furthermore, he had fantasized about being with a man, but never had the opportunity. So maybe she could watch him with me?

I pondered Fawn’s proposal. Should I take on the sexual education of two teenagers in love? It might mean many hours of threesomes and virgin experiences, but still, how could I refuse a request to improve two lives in one bedroom?

I agreed. We decided to get started in May, when her high school had a Senior Skip Day.

Alas, our plans were thwarted by the vagaries of young romance. Fawn and her boyfriend broke up. She was bummed. Her libido went on the skids.

Fawn had my condolences. Breaking up never gets much easier, but the first times are the worst.

A few months passed. Fawn decided that she missed sex. She decided she wanted me.

I gave her a night. I warned her our date would follow my boy orgy.

She thought that was hot.

Fawn said she wanted to bring her girlfriend Jenn along. Jenn wouldn’t want to get naked with us, she told me, but Fawn would feel more comfortable knowing she was nearby.

I told her I understood. I keep a very nice waiting room for such occasions, I said, stocked with all manner of reading material.

Everything was in place. Yet once again, catastrophe intervened. On the appointed night, her car broke down on the road to my place.

Jenn called her friend Paolo and explained the situation. Paolo agreed to chauffer Fawn and her chaperone to Fawn’s night of sex with a stranger.

The three of them rang up as I toweled off.

Friday, March 09, 2007

Fleshbot and Edges

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot eavesdrops on the true confessions and shocking secrets revealed in blogs whose names promise . . . well, confessions and secrets.

Speaking of confessions, I have a secret of my own.

I have been skirting close to a dangerous edge. I face risky consequences due to a filthy, inexcusable blind spot that I could readily diminish, and yet I fail to do so.

The edifice of my life could come tumbling down—and all because of underwear.

See, I hate to do laundry.

Mind you, I do keep up with essential items. The towels are always fresh, washcloths are always available for post-coital birdbaths, and the sex sheets are washed after every use.

I take special pride in the latter: it doesn’t matter whether the sex sheets were used for a spontaneous threesome or an all-hours splatter-fest orgy. They are always promptly washed, folded and put away, ready for next time.

When it comes to laundry, it’s the clothing that gets me down.

My own laundry isn’t much trouble. Being an apartment nudist, I don’t really wear clothes when home alone—at most, I wear pajama bottoms, maybe a t-shirt—so my clothing can survive many brief outings without much wear.

This is not true of my children. For the boys, no day is complete without tossing off clothes at least once. My daughter Lillie has more costume changes than Cher.

This distinction in my laundry came home to me about a month after school started, when Jason complained that he was out of underwear.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Did you look in the back of your drawer?”

“Dad . . . ,” he said. He opened a closet. The children’s hamper was overflowing. My son stood next to a pile of laundry nearly as tall as himself.

“Oh my gosh,” I exclaimed. “How did this happen?”

“Uh, Dad,” Jason rolled his eyes. “We wear clothes. You wash clothes. We wear clothes again. It’s called ‘laundry.’ Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

I looked at him. It was early October. I realized that I had not tackled laundry since June.

This was bad, but not as bad as it sounds.

In June, I had washed everything, putting away school clothes and packing to take the kids to visit my family Down South. Until mid-July, they lived in swimsuits that my grandmother secretly washed when she woke before dawn.

When we returned to the city, the kids went off with their mother, and I wore clothes only when demanded by the requirements of work, errands and travel. At home, I was nude, whether alone or . . . entertaining.

The summer passed. I washed the kids’ shorts when they were with me, and the towels and sheets as needed. They worked their way through a seemingly endless supply of tank tops and t-shirts, casting the dirty ones into a nearly vacant hamper.

When school resumed, the hamper began to swell. It might have grown until Thanksgiving if Jason hadn’t developed an adolescent’s interest in daily changes of underwear.

Bitch can’t go commando, I muttered, lifting armful after armful into my cart.

Collie and Lillie were excited to help me with the laundry, exhilarated by the sheer novelty of visiting the laundromat.

They loaded the washers and added soap. I dropped thirty dollars into the machines.

We finally emptied dryers into carts and began folding. I have never cared for folding clothes. I like it less now that the children help. As I fold, I have to keep them supplied in clothes that they can also fold—clothes that I must later fold again, without the children noticing that I’m undoing their work.

My children are beautiful geniuses, but they are lousy laundresses.

Collie dug for socks, as he specializes in matching pairs. He looked up. “Hey Dad, what’s this?”

I looked over. He held something bright red. It was too small to be a tank top.


“Oh, let me have those,” I said, reaching out a hand. Collie handed over his red palm. I stuffed the thong into a pocket and returned to folding shirts.

“Uh, Dad, what was that?” Lillie asked.

“Nothing,” I said, hoping that I wasn’t blushing. “Just some . . . see, I had visitors this summer. I guess someone forget her . . . their underwear.”

“Ew, that was underwear?” Collie scowled. He wiped his hands on his pants.

“Girls’ underwear?” Lillie laughed.

“Yeah, yeah, you know, whatever,” I said.

We folded.

“Dad?” Lillie asked. “Why do you have so many girlfriends?”

“Dad doesn’t have ‘girlfriends,’” Collie corrected. “Dad has ‘friends who are girls.’”

“All of Dad’s friends are girls,” Lillie said.

“I work with a lot of women,” I said, looking for shreds of plausible deniability among the pants in the cart. “And some of them are my friends. So, yeah, ‘friends who are girls.’”

“See?” Collie said.

“I know!” Lillie replied. “Duh.”

“Okay, okay, let’s fold clothes. Collie, take those other socks. Lillie, you’re in charge of your shorts.”

“Duh, they’re mine.”

That evening, the kids’ cabinets and drawers were packed full of clothes. Jason acted like it was Christmas morning.

Later, I told this story to Mitzi. “You put the panties in your pocket?” she laughed. “That’s practically an admission of guilt!”

“I know, I wasn’t thinking.” I shrugged. “Just reacting.”

“Well, if you’re lucky, they will think the panties belong to you.”

I looked up. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Love Today

My new boyfriend Mika and I would like to announce auditions for our upcoming Queen tribute band, "Ka-ching!"



Thursday, March 08, 2007



Spring Fire

Spring Fire

You read all about my adventures last September at Dark Odyssey, aka Sex Camp.

Next month, Dark Odyssey convenes its Spring Fire gathering in Washington, DC, and guess who’s an instructor? That’s right, yours truly—and some of my best pals as well.

Viviane, Selina, Marcus and I will be on a panel about sex bloggers. Marcus and I will also be co-presenters for two additional sessions—one on male bisexuality, another on orgy organization and etiquette.

(Stick with what you know, I say.)

What’s more, Viviane will be teaching a session on the mechanics of sex blogging, and Selina will be organizing an erotic Easter egg hunt that is sure to delight the furries among us.

Sadly, Lolita will not be attending. I guess I’ll have to crush on someone else.

Visit the Dark Odyssey website for information.



Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Blue Balloon

It was the end of the line for me.

I couldn’t complain. Life is fleeting for my kind, and I had enjoyed a pretty good run. Still, I hadn’t imagined that I would meet such a grisly fate.

I was moments from being crushed by the next downtown local.

That’s when he found me.

“Oh my God, where did you get that balloon?” Avah laughed.

Jefferson tugged on my ribbon. “It was hiding behind a post. Can I keep it? Can I keep it? Pleeease?”

“Only if you take care of it,” Avah smiled. “Balloons are a big responsibility, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Jefferson nodded. He poked me. “You’re my new best friend, blue balloon. And I’m taking you on an adventure.”

The train that had been destined to destroy me sped into the station. It did not splatter me into blue confetti and a wisp of helium; instead, it took me, intact, along with my new protectors, to my very first concert.

I heard that it was Avah’s second.

“It’s going to be very hard to be the hottest people here tonight,” Jefferson said. “I mean, look at this crowd.”

“Don’t worry, baby,” Avah replied, patting his hand. “We’re very hot.”

I scanned the concert hall. Apparently, I was the only balloon in attendance. That might have made me feel conspicuous and uncomfortable, but instead, I felt rather unique.

“I think I’m in the minority,” Avah noted. “Being a girl.”

“Maybe,” Jefferson agreed. “But you remain in the majority by virtue of being a cocksucker.”

The lights went down and Jefferson tucked me under his seat. I felt as cozy as an egg waiting to hatch.

My skin began to shake to unpleasant loud thumps.

“What do you think?” Avah shouted.

“I think it is the worst opening act I’ve ever seen, bar none,” Jefferson shouted back.

A loud voice slurred that the act was from Kingston, Ohio. “Let me amend that,” Jefferson added. “This is also the worst band I’ve ever seen from Kingston, Ohio. Tonight, at a gay club in Kingston, someone is asking someone else, ‘Hey, where are those two annoying faggots? You know, the really fucked up ones with no talent?’”

The lights came back on.

An hour and a half passed.

Of course, I can’t tell time—I’m a balloon, not a clock. I know how much time passed because Avah kept asking, “Is it supposed to take so long before the real band comes on?”

Finally, the lights dimmed again. Everyone stood and cheered. Jefferson tucked me between his knees so that I wouldn't float away.

Suddenly, my skin began to vibrate. My helium began to throb. What was happening to me?

“God, I’m so excited!” Avah said, squeezing Jefferson. “The Scissor Sisters!”

“Awesome fabulous,” Jefferson nodded.

Scissors? Balloons dread scissors. When they cut my ribbon, I thought I was going to pop dead.

But this sensation was like nothing else. If I had exploded on the spot, I would have evaporated a happy balloon.

I bounced contentedly between Jefferson’s knees.

At one point Avah shouted that Jefferson was filthy, and contended that she, Avah, was gorgeous. The roar of the crowd stretched my skin.

“C’mere, blue balloon,” Jefferson said. “I want you to see something.”

He held my ribbon so that I was level with his eyes. I blinked as bright lights shone through me, turning my blue to greens and violets.

And then, I saw them. Projected over the stage, as large as a movie screen—two bouncing pink balloons. The balloons shook and shimmied, back and forth, as I had never imagined balloons might do.

I wriggled open my knot, just a little, to let out a whistle. It was that exciting!

After the concert, I was led back onto a subway, once again thwarting death.

We emerged in lower Manhattan. My helium contracted in the cold night air.

My innards relaxed as we entered a place called the Pussycat Lounge.

I blinked as once again, lights filled me.

Jefferson and Avah pulled me through a crowd. At a table, they met Simon Valentino, a beautiful porn actress who was signing copies of her new movie, The Bi Apple.

I gathered this was a party for the movie, directed by Jefferson’s friend Audacia Ray. It’s about an apartment in New York City where people meet for bisexual orgies.

Pretty improbable scenario, if you ask me. Still, balloons have an affinity for apples, so I kept an open mind.

Jefferson seemed to know a lot of people. A handsome man named Mmmark let Jefferson sip from his cup of bourbon. A beautiful woman named Les admired his leather motorcycle jacket.

Another fellow, Thomas, said it looked like Jefferson had picked up his jacket in the nineteen seventies.

“Near enough,” Jefferson nodded.

“You should’ve left it there,” Thomas said.

“Thanks for the consult, Mary,” Jefferson replied. “By the way, you’re sporting a nice jacket. They carry Miami Vice in boys’ sizes?”

I was floating pretty high by this point, so some things got lost in the din. But I was drawn back when Lolita approached Jefferson.

“Have you ever played with electricity?” she asked.

Jefferson gripped my ribbon. “Uh, no,” he stammered.

“I’d like to put an njoy plug up your ass, wire it to a connector on your cock, and shock you,” she grinned. “You’d do that, right?”

Avah clapped. “You should totally do that,” she giggled.

“See?” Lolita said. “Avah’s on my side.”

“You want to fry my cock? How about . . . well, can we just wait and see about that?”

Lolita turned to Avah. “He’ll do it. You can watch.”

“Oh, goodie!” Avah smiled.

A crowd of people pushed toward a stage, where two naked women were licking each other’s bodies. I floated up for a better view.

Pretty soon, Audacia Ray joined the performers. She was accompanied by a woman with a spiky Mohawk. Spikes scare me, so I was especially concerned when I saw so many pink balloons bouncing on stage. What if they should burst?!

Evidently, though, those balloons were made of sturdy stuff. The spikes poked and prodded, but the balloons only bounced all the more.

I squeaked with joy.

Soon, we were back on another subway, joined by a group of people from the Pussycat Lounge. When we emerged into the cold again, Jefferson looked around and smiled.

“Two weeks ago, I was in Paris watching Rufus Wainwright sing Judy Garland. Tonight, I saw the Scissor Sisters, went to a bi porn release party in titty bar, and now I’m on Christopher Street after midnight. Man oh man, am I queer or what?”

“Yes baby, you’re queer, all right,” Avah smiled.

“Oh, it’s not like it used to be around here,” Selina said, looking wistfully at the Duplex. “Too many yuppies now.”

Several tables were pushed together at a restaurant. Jefferson tied me to his chair so that I could survey the room.

The waiter was round, like me. He seemed to enjoy having so many people talking about sex at his restaurant. He tried to participate, though he felt a little awkward about it.

“This man offered me his telephone number,” he complained to Boymeat. “But I’m not gay.”

“You should keep an open mind,” Boymeat suggested.

“ . . . but we’ll keep the man’s number,” Jefferson added.

Later, the waiter brought Jefferson some mustard and added, as an unordered side, that he had recently had sex with a teenage Swedish tourist. “It was so hot,” the waiter noted.

“I’ve seen old porn films like that,” Jefferson nodded. “Actually, I think ‘Teenage Swedish Tourist’ was one of the titles.”

When the waiter left, Boymeat turned to Jefferson. “He needs us. We should totally . . .”

“Yes,” Jefferson agreed. “We totally should.”

“So, did you read my fantasy about Jefferson in chains?” Lolita asked Avah.

“Yeah, that’s a nice one.”

Lolita nodded. “Yeah, and he’s already said he would do it.”

“Wait,” Jefferson interrupted. “What am I doing?”

“I’m telling Avah how I’m going to put you in cut-off Daisy Duke shorts.”

“Yeah, I think you mentioned that. But what’s this about chains?”

Lolita smiled. “It’s a new inspiration. I want to do you up like Christina Ricci in Black Snake Moan.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to chains.”

“Oh, you should totally do that,” Avah laughed.

“See?” Lolita pointed. “Avah’s on my side. You have to do it.”

“What I have to do is keep you two separated,” Jefferson sighed. He changed the subject by asking a man across the table about toys that go up people’s asses.

I had certainly been rescued by an interesting group.

Outside, the crowd said goodbyes. Some were looking for cabs, others were headed to the subway.

Jefferson was too cold to linger. He took Avah’s arm in his, held my ribbon and walked quickly down Christopher Street.

A train was coming into the station as we cleared the turnstiles.

“Should we wait on the others?” Avah asked.

“It’s after three in the morning and they are dawdling, so no, let’s go,” Jefferson replied. “Quick, get on the train.”

A chime sounded. Jefferson held me close.

“Blue balloon, I need you to wait here. Tell our friends we went ahead.” He held my ribbon outside the closing doors. “Thank you for a lovely night.”

Suddenly, a hand took me from Jefferson.

“Hey, thanks man,” a young man laughed. “Yo, check it out,” he called to his friends. “That guy just gave me a balloon.”

I looked back. The doors had closed and the train began to leave the station.

Through a wiindow, I saw Jefferson kiss Avah as my new protector tugged me away.