Friday, June 22, 2007

Fleshbot and Grooms

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot gives up a chance to kiss the bride in order to pay special attention to the groom. Wedding bells are ringing this month, and last time I checked, there were two figurines on the wedding cake. Let’s find out what happens as the bachelor party recedes into memory.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find Lily contemplating the curiosity of watching amateur porn alongside the people who made it, not long before she finally has sex at orgy—unbeknownst to her, I’m watching, bourbon in hand. Somewhere along the line, she has the pleasure of conversing with my friend, the ever-charming Brooklyn Rake.

An orgy or two later, you’ll find Wendy on her knees and earning her stripes as an expert sword swallower. She puts aside swords for garden tools when she attracts the attention of none other than Brooklyn Rake.

I wish I had a reason to send stalkers to visit Cody, but in truth, I’m not involved in her most recent post. Sure, I introduced her to the fellow who introduced her to her . . . subject, but so far as I’m concerned, that’s as far as it goes.

I would also enjoy an excuse to send you to visit the aforementioned Brooklyn Rake, but alas, the rake ain’t raking. My man is too busy fucking girls at my place to bother writing about it. Stay tuned, though: one day soon, he’ll put aside his tool and pick up his quill.

For now, Rake’s blog is just limp.

Speaking of grooms, it won’t be long before a fresh-faced teenager becomes my son-in-law. That’s right: this month, my nineteen-year-old daughter Rachel takes a husband.

Finally, I can lay to rest my anxieties about her fate as a spinster.

My children and I will be at the wedding, along with my grandmother, my parents, my siblings and my nieces and nephews. None of us thinks it wise that Rachel marries so young—even seven-year-old Lillie has said as much to her adored sister—but we love Rachel and we respect her undeniable love for Ray.

That’s all we need. Ray is family now. He’s my son.

I look forward to getting to know him.

My ex wife Lucy never responded to her invitation to the wedding. We reckon she won’t be there.

I’ll tell you about the wedding in time, but no time soon. I’ve got other stories to tell you in the meantime.

Still, just so you know, I’ll soon be away for a spell. After the wedding, I’m taking the kids Down South to be with family.

I may post now and then when I am away; I may not. But that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking of you.

Hell fire, sugar. I’m cooking something special with you in mind.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

I Shot Myself



Sweet Jane

I Shot Myself



Siena

For Broke

I looked into her eyes as my fingers traveled up her leg. I caressed slowly; she spread her thighs slightly as my hand vanished under her gingham dress.

I had changed my mind about sex with her that night.

I’m perfectly happy to have sex on a first date. As my finger slipped inside her panties, it was clear she didn’t object either.

Even so, I hoped I wasn’t making a mistake. Leah was smart and beautiful, and I liked her. I was fortunate to have met her. So as much as I might enjoy sex with her that night, I didn’t want to risk leaving her with “slut remorse,” that morning-after realization that maybe you went too fast too soon. If she had regrets, Leah might not want to see me again. I would have much preferred postponing immediate gratification if having sex meant sacrificing the opportunity to get to know her better.

Mind you, gratification was an immediate opportunity.

“Let me see what’s going on under this dress,” I said, raising her hem. “Oh look, you wore very pretty panties.”

“You have good tastes,” she smiled.

“I do, I really like them.” I slipped a second finger into the crotch of her panties and rubbed the fabric against my thumb. “Very sheer, but sturdy. Quality goods.”

“A girl’s got to know how to shop,” she nodded.

“I can imagine,” I agreed, feeling the texture of lace on my fingers, and wet flesh on my knuckles. “Me, I’ve never been much of a shopper, though I do appreciate quality merchandise. Do you mind if I take a closer look at these?”

“Be my guest,” she invited, waving a hand.

“Oh, thanks.” I retrieved my fingers and ran my hand to her hips. She lifted herself, turning slightly as I slid the panties down her legs. “These are very fine, aren’t they?” I asked as the panties cleared her knees. She held her ankles aloft. “Where did you find something so fine?”

“Hmm, I think those came from La Perla,” she mused, watching as her panties made their way down her legs. “La Perla or someplace.”

“Don’t know that establishment,” I said, weaving her panties passed her arched feet. “See what I mean? I’m no kind of shopper.”

“I’d be very surprised if you shopped there.”

“Kinda girly, huh?” I said. My voice trailed as I held the panties in my hand, looking them over. “Such delicate seams . . . ,” I admired.

“You seem to have a thing for ladies undergarments,” she observed.

I lifted the panties to my nose. I inhaled deeply, and exhaled.

“Nah,” I grinned, tossing the panties aside. “They are nothing to me. Merely an obstacle to be overcome.”

She laughed.

My fingers ran up her calves and thighs to her dress. I lifted it again and gazed down at her bare pussy. The edge of a tattoo appeared under her gingham dress.

Without another word, I took her cunt in my mouth.

As my tongue parted her flesh, I realized we had yet to touch lips. This was our first kiss.

I vibrated my tongue on her clit, listening for her sigh. She breathed it out in staccato cries.

I sat back on my heels as her breathing slowed.

“Incredible,” I murmured, fingering her labia. “Even your pussy is composed.”

She opened her eyes and looked down. “Huh?”

“Look.” I tugged two small flaps from her labia. “See? It’s like two petals . . . and they are symmetrical.” I pushed the folds back against her skin. The folds slowly retracted back into her. “No, babies,” I whispered. I licked my fingers and wet her petals. I tugged them back into place, tacking them against skin. They stayed put.

“Hmmm.”

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” she said, settling back.

“Very much,” I smiled.

“Quality merchandise?”

I nodded. “Quality merchandise.” I stood and held out my hand. “In fact, let’s go back to the dressing room. I want to try you on for size.”

She sat up. She took my hand. She made a joke about an “undressing” room.

I kissed her quiet.

I fucked her so well that night.

I pinned her legs back and pounded her cunt. I bent her over and fucked her ass hard. I grabbed her hair and used her mouth as my fuck hole.

Leah went limp with submission. She moaned and twisted before giving herself over as my rag doll. I threw her all over my bed. I gave no concern to the time; now that she was mine, she was mine to do as I pleased. I wanted to savor her. She could catch up on her sleep at work the next day.

I had to have her, and all of her.

Now that we were fucking, there was no turning back. I may have squandered my chance for a second date by having sex on the first. If she felt slut remorse in the morning, I needed to make the most of this one opportunity with Leah that might never come again.

I went for broke.

The next morning, I woke to find Leah looking at me. I felt her hand on my cock.

“I’m sorry,” she shrugged sheepishly. “You were hard, and I just thought . . .”

I grinned and reached for a condom.

I noticed Leah's gingham dress draped carefully over a chair.

Sunday, June 17, 2007

For the Girls




For the Girls

I Heart U

“Shh!”

“You be quiet. You’re being too noisy, idiot.”

“Are we out of orange juice? That sucks.”

I could hear my three conspirators in the kitchen. I lay back on my pillows, mindful of my role. I was to remain in bed and feign sleep until their presentation.

I suddenly realized I was nude. I threw back the cover and jumped to my dresser. I quickly pulled on boxers and tucked myself back into bed. My eyes were closed tight.

“Shh, shh. Get the door.”

I breathed slowly.

“One, two . . . Happy Father’s Day!”

I opened my eyes. “Huh? Oh . . . oh my goodness, what’s this?”

Jason smiled, holding a tray. Collie danced, singing “Happy Father’s Day, it’s your Father’s Day. We’re going to party . . . like it’s your Father’s Day . . .”

“Look, I made you a card,” Lillie beamed.

“Oh honeys, this is so sweet. Here, Jason, let me take that tray.”

“Yeah, you were out of orange juice, so I made some water.”

“You like water, right Dad?” Lillie asked.

“I do, I really like water.” I sat up, putting the tray over my lap.

“I know, you drink it all the time.”

“Lillie wanted to give you wine and a bowl of olives,” Collie said, falling back in a chair. He made that face. “I mean, who drinks wine for breakfast?”

“Wine is good for breakfast,” Lillie maintained. “And olives rock. I like the sweet ones.”

“Lillie, no one eats olives for breakfast. That’s just stupid.”

“Okay, okay,” I interjected. “Hush up so I can read my card.”

Jason sat next to me. I put my arm around him.

“Do you see the front?” Lillie said, looking over my arm. “That’s a Father’s Day cake.”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “Her first card said ‘happy birthday.”

“Yeah, I messed up.”

“That’s fine, simply marvelous,” I smiled. “Now let’s see . . . ‘Happy Father’s Day’ . . . and balloons and streamers . . .”

“I used your favorite colors,” Lillie pointed. “Blue, purple and green.”

“Those are my favorite colors, honey. Okay, let’s look inside . . . Ha! Another balloon! Let me read this . . . ‘Party! Fun! Cool! To: Dad 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . ! Happy father’s Day! Hi dad! I can’t belive how many years I have been having with you! And now we get to celebrate it! I hope you love your father’s day! Lillie.’ Oh sweet, that’s so nice!”

“Look at the back,” she said, grabbing my arm.

“I will, let me see . . . ‘I heart U, I heart U, I heart U, I heart U’ . . . wait, what’s this one say? Oh yeah, ‘I heart U, I heart U . . . and I heart U.’ Oh honeys, well, I heart y’all, too.”

“Not ‘y’all,’ I made the card.”

“Yeah, but I heart y’all, baby. Now, what’s on this tray?”

“Um, it’s toast, obviously,” Jason said. “And Frosted Flakes.”

“Yum, I love Frosted Flakes.”

“Me, too,” Collie agreed. “It’s my favoritest. So my present is I’m going to do the laundry.”

“And I’m going to clean the bedrooms,” Jason said.

“Yeah, before I do the laundry.”

“No, after you do the laundry. It makes no sense for me to pick up the clothes when that’s your job.”

“My job is to take the hampers to the laundry room, not to pick up the clothes. That’s your job.”

“No, the clothes are the laundry. That’s your job.”

“Yum, this is great cereal,” I said. “Really hits the spot.”

“Hey, can we go on a picnic for lunch?” Lillie asked.

“Yes, let’s do that,” I nodded. “Great idea.”

“Do we have to go outside?” Collie moaned.

“Yes, because it’s Father’s Day, and because you’re too pale. I’m . . . I’m worried about you son. You’re wasting away.”

Collie giggled.

“You might have the consumption.” I sobbed. “My poor baby, taken so young . . .”

“Dad!”

I turned to Jason. “Why? Why did Jesus take my baby home so young?”

Jason smiled. “I really miss him sometimes.”

“I’m right here!”

“It’s almost like you can hear him at times, especially at night, when all is still . . .”

Jason nodded. “It’s like he’s with us, somehow . . . ”

“Dad!”

Lillie took my toast and bit it. “Are we pretending Collie is dead?”

I kissed her head. “It’s hardest on Lillie. So young.”

Collie stood up. He began to dance. “I’m a gho-oo-ost, I’m a gho-oo-ost, I’m funky, like a gho-oo-ost . . .”

“Well, loved ones,” I said, moving the tray. “I thank you so much for this lovely, lovely breakfast in bed. Now, I think I should make coffee and get ready for our day.”

“We didn’t know how to make coffee,” Jason apologized.

“All things in time, boy,” I said, kissing his head. “Mind you, by your age, I could mix a mean Bloody Mary.”

He laughed.

I leaned close. “The secret is Worcestershire Sauce.”

Jason nodded sagely.

The boys flipped on the Xbox as I took the tray. Lillie followed me to clean the mess they had left in the kitchen.

Abby Winters



Roslyn

Saturday, June 16, 2007

Pearls

Two drinks in, I was thinking ahead to our second date.

Leah and I had met on a soft summer evening at Bethesda Fountain, perhaps the most romantic setting in this city of twinkling skyscrapers and horse-drawn carriages. We had talked at the higher levels of our individual acuities, chasing each other—cautiously a first, then, at each firm footfall, with mounting assuredness—ever upwards.

I had been reserved about her beauty. She made no fuss about my appearance.

Noel Coward was humming in my mind.

When our date might have ended with a kiss on the cheek, I had invited her over for drinks. Or had she invited herself? I couldn’t be sure, but at any rate, here she was in my living room, smiling.

It was after eleven.

I wasn’t going to rush anything.

“Are you comfortable?” I asked. “I just realized you’ve been in that dress all day. Should I turn on the air?”

“That would be nice,” she said, reaching for my coffee table. “Oh, you’ve got the catalogue for that show at MoMA. I’m seeing it this weekend. How was it?”

I thought for a moment as I shut a window. “You know how MoMA’s perfection slides at times to a certain sterility? Like the cleanliness of a hospital ward?”

“ICU,” she nodded, flipping pages. “Like that?”

“Precisely,” I said, turning a knob on the air conditioner. “Not a damn thing wrong with that show but for the filtered oxygen. Perfect can be rather stupefying at times.”

“Perfect is a little overrated,” she agreed closing the book. She reached for her glass. It was empty. She left it alone.

“I’m sorry, would you care for another drink?” I offered.

“Yes, please.” She took the glass and handed it to me. “I’m usually a vodka girl, but this is good.”

“I regret I have no vodka,” I said, standing. “Bourbon man.”

“It’s manly,” she shrugged, smiling.

I was not sleeping with her.

For all the sex I’ve had since my marriage collapsed, I’m not terribly experienced with what normally passes for a date. I don’t often meet women for drinks and conversation. I more often meet women who have read my blog and want some of what they read about. I more often meet women who are recommended to me by mutual friends who enjoy fucking me. I more often meet women who show up at my orgies and like me well enough to request private encounters.

Leah and I were on a date of a more traditional sort.

Yet we had met online. I had responded to her advertisement for a dominant man to help to fulfill her submissive desires.

We had met through the most uber-lumpen of online forums, Craig’s List. I can only imagine how many cock shots she had deleted before responding to me.

Having met through Craig’s List, we each knew what it was like to be pearls before swine. Now we were nestled into our respective oysters, eying one another.

She had read my blog. I had shared it by way of introduction, in the interest of honesty and potentially snaring her attention. She had read what she cared to read of my sexual exploits, but she expressed no special interest in talking about that.

We kept sex at arm’s length.

My mind came to wonder about our second date. Would we be so cool then? After she went home that night, would she write me a note slightly more heated than our previous correspondence? Would I reply with coy innuendo, hoping she would want a date as soon as possible, given that neither of us had any claim on the heft of one another’s schedules?

Or would she simply put me off?

We fell to talking politics. She told me that she had once contemplated entering politics as a candidate.

“It was student government,” she laughed at a memory. She took a sip of her drink. “I liked my odds, though. Like I could lose with my slogan.” She raised a fist into the air. “More caffeine and anal sex!”

“You didn’t!” I laughed. “Are you serious?”

“No, I didn’t. But my slogan polled very well.”

That sealed it.

“You’re killing me,” I said. “Lean back.”

She set down her glass. She reclined on a pillow.

“Like this?” she asked. She extended a bare leg across my lap. I took a foot in my palm. It was perfectly manicured.

“Precisely like that,” I smiled.

Naked on the Internet



Naked on the Internet


I remember discovering that Audacia Ray is hot.

The possibility first dawned on me one afternoon as she stood framed in a doorway, describing in great detail an arcane legal code designed to identify as a streetwalker any single woman alone in a city after dark.

I listened, scribbling notes now and then. About twenty minutes into her extemporaneous lecture, I looked up and absently-mindedly thought, gosh, Audacia’s got such a strong physique. Must’ve been all those years of riding horses.

I’d never really noticed. She played down her physical appearance, wearing frumpy sweaters and baggy jeans. Anyway, I was mostly concerned with her mind—she came up with sharp insights based on research illuminated by sparks of clarion inspiration. She matched her passionate zeal with an orderly, fastidious reasoning that lead to observations that were nuanced and, in her favorite word, awesome.

In short, she was a nerd.

One night a couple of years later, Audacia stopped by my place for drinks. She had spent the summer hiking around Europe, and I was eager to hear about her adventures.

We hugged and bussed cheeks at the door. She stooped to put down her bag. When she stood, she turned slightly to look around my apartment.

That’s when I noticed it.

“Oh my God, Audacia. What happened to you?”

She smiled. “I got hot.”

I shook my head, stunned. “No, I mean, yeah, you really did. How on earth . . . ?”

As we shared bourbons that night, Audacia brought me up to speed on her life and her plans for the coming year. She had continued to be a serious thinker about issues of sexuality—particular women’s sexuality—and was, as ever, an advocate of participant activism.

Along the way, she had decided to put her body where her mind was. She was not content to ponder bisexuality, sex work, modeling or publishing as an academic observer. If she was going to address women’s sexuality in a serious way, she was going to experience women’s sexuality in a serious way.

She reasoned that achieving that goal would be easier if she were hot. A summer of walking and a few shopping trips later, she was transformed.

That decision led to the experiences she describes in the introduction to her new book, Naked on the Internet She reveals her early excitement in online hookups, discusses her emergence as a sex worker, talks about her career as a model and alt porn producer and describes the exposure of blogging her sex life.

She then puts that aside.

The book, she tells us, will not be about her. It doesn’t have to be, as so many women share similar experiences, while others are doing things that are outside her own personal interests or abilities.

For the remaining pages, Audacia relates the tales of women for whom the Internet has become an instrument of their sexuality in ways that can be personal, commercial or—especially in the penultimate chapter—directly physical.

In language that is so accessible as to be conversational, Audacia takes us into women’s bedrooms and workplaces to listen to stories of relationships, businesses and orgasms.

As I read, I nodded along in recognition as she covered subjects with which I am well acquainted, such as blogging or online hookups. I found myself underlining passages and making marginal notes as she covered subjects less familiar to me, such as women-produced alt porn or cyberdildonics.

In approaching material new to me, I was impressed by the reportorial tone of her narrative. Throughout, Audacia doesn’t seek to pontificate; rather, her goal is to make coherent observations about a moment in flux. She allows her subjects to speak for themselves. When she has an opinion, she expresses it as such. Were it not for the identifiable voice and underlying scholarship, you might at times forget that Audacia is in the room.

But it was in reading material closer to home that I was most impressed, for Audacia often put me in the room with people I already know.

I was not an interview subject for the book—disqualified, alas, by the whole “being male” thing—but a number of my friends and lovers were. Sometimes, they talked about their relationships to me or to my blog. Reading those passages (okay, I’ll admit: I flipped ahead to read these immediately), I was struck by Audacia’s sensitivity to her subjects and their stories.

I know these women, and so I could affirm that their thoughts were accurately conveyed and fairly reported. It can be awesome to see one’s life written into a public narrative, as my friends and lovers find when they appear in my blog or when they write their own. It can also be dreadful, as jealousy comes into play, commenters race to judgment and stalkers shove misery into inboxes.

The vulnerabilities of sex blogging lead some—including, at this very moment, Meg, who is represented in the book—to question the entire enterprise.

Audacia’s objectivity regarding people I know well gave me confidence in her treatment of those I do not. This in turn led me to want more. Her interview subjects do not represent the full range of women’s sexuality, as she makes clear—by its thesis, the book is focused on women with access to the Internet and whose use of it is generally public. It is difficult to quantify the impact of the Internet on women who do not make their experiences known.

I would also have appreciated more on women who may use the Internet to pursue agendas not consistent with the culture we’ve come to describe as “sex positive.” Audacia writes well on abortion opponents, which highlighted my sense that many of her subjects happen to share my personal politics. Given the book’s ability to fairly represent diverse points of view, I found I wanted even more of Audacia’s guidance in understanding those with whom I might not agree.

It gives away nothing to give away the end of the book. Audacia reminds us that the book, once published, is dated. The relationship between women’s sexuality and the Internet will continue to evolve, she notes, and so she refers us back to her blog, inviting readers to leave comments and send emails as she continues to follow developments.

That is a mark of Audacia’s mind at work. The project is never over so long as there is more research to do, and more observations to make. Naked on the Internet is a great contribution to all of us who are affected by or participate in online sex; for her, it is yet another moment in her ongoing dialogue with sexuality.

Naked on the Internet is essential reading for those concerned with women’s sexuality online. If you are a regular reader of sex blogs, dude, you should already be reading it. You can support independent booksellers when you pick it up here.

I Shot Myself



Bex

For the Girls




For the Girls

Friday, June 15, 2007

Fleshbot and Twoallbeefpattiesspecialsauce lettucecheesepicklesonionsonasesameseedbun

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot puts on its black tie and brushes off its tails to ponder first impressions, those moments that can whirl you across the ballroom or leave you sidelined before the baton is even raised.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me picnicking over pork with oink-expert Lolita and Madeline. Lolita also joins Viviane in giving you a glimpse of my new footgear—and just like that, my knees are famous on the Internet.

Lily gets her priorities straight in a threesome with two boys whose priorities are anything but.

Astute stalkers will read between the lines of Anna Smash’s encounter with a stranger on a train—and stay tuned to journey’s end.

You won’t find me with Meg, as she has decided to ring the final bell on Tales of a Teacher and Slut. Dismissing her final assembly, she says of her experience as a sex blogger:

I've made some pretty awesome friends in the process. Friends I know I will have for quite some time.

Friends I'd really rather keep around forever, you know?

But the negative side effects of all this crazy and rather hastily woven web of who fucked who and who's jealous of who or angry about what? Well, that I'd rather not be a part of because my life without it?

Pretty fucking fantastic.


Preach it, sister. We’ll miss your voice, but you won’t miss the headaches of blog drama.

Speaking of first impressions, Lillie has lately enjoyed a few culinary firsts. The other day, as she snacked over homework in a café, she mused on food.

“You know how we went on that field trip to Little Italy?” she said, biting into a mozzarella and basil melt. “At school?”

“I do,” I replied, sipping my coffee. “Use a napkin, baby.”

“Oh, right.” She wiped her chin, chewing as she talked. “Well, we were at a restaurant, and—oh! In the bathroom, I saw someone had written the ‘f’ word.” She giggled.

“Oh dear, that’s no good,” I tsked. “So what did you do at the restaurant?”

“What do you think we did? We ate stuff.”

“I assumed as much. Stuff like . . .”

“Well, you know those Italian cookies, biscotti? We had those with expresso.”

“’Espresso,’ not ‘expresso.’ Wait, your teacher gave you coffee?”

“Hmm hmm, to dip it.” She held up her sandwich and eyed my cup. “Sa-aa-ay . . . “

“No way, Miss Thing, not in my coffee.” I covered the cup with my palm. “So what else did you eat?”

“There were these things, I forget what they’re called . . . another Italian cookie. Do you know what they are?”

“Um, macaroons?”

“Yeah, yeah, we had those, but I meant the other ones.” She looked at her fingers she imagined holding the cookie her mind saw but could not name. “They looked like this,” she said, drawing a swirl in the air. “Rainbows, long and skinny.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know, honey. Cannoli?”

“Yeah, yeah—no, not that, but we had those, too. Did you know that cannoli is a tube with filling, right? And do you know what ‘cannoli’ means in Italian?”

“I do not.”

“It means ‘a tube with filling.’ Isn’t that so funny?”

“That is funny. And good, right? I like cannoli.”

She lifted her sandwich. “It was so good.” She took a bite and chewed. “You know what else I saw? A sign that said, ‘Parking for Italians Only.’” She giggled. “And another one that said, ‘You Take-a My Space, I Break-a Your Face.’”

I laughed at the mobster rolling out of my daughter’s mouth.

“Isn’t that so funny? I mean, how can you break a face?”

“I don’t think I want to know that,” I smiled.

“Then don’t take-a my space.” We laughed again.

“Well, it sounds like you had fun trying new things.”

“Yeah yeah, it was cool.” She nodded and took a sip of a banana and strawberry smoothie. “Oh guess what I had the other day with Mom? We went to McDonalds and I had a Big Mac—and I ate the whole thing!”

“No way!” I said, raising an eyebrow. “You mean to tell me that you ate twoallbeefpattiesspecialsaucelettucecheesepicklesonionsonasesame seedbun?”

Lillie dropped her jaw. “What?”

I leaned forward. “You are telling me that you ate twoallbeefpatties specialsaucelettucecheesepicklesonionsonasesameseedbun?”

She sat back. “What are you saying?”

“Oh, that’s the ingredients of a Big Mac,” I said knowingly. “Twoallbeef pattiesspecialsaucelettucecheesepicklesonionsonasesameseedbun.”

She squinched her nose. “Two whole beef . . . “

“Not ‘two whole beef,’ silly. Everyone knows it's twoallbeefpatties specialsaucelettucecheesepicklesonionsonasesameseedbun.”

Lillie waved her hands. “I don’t know what you are saying!”

“Let me break it down. Two all beef patties . . .”

She listened intently. “Two all beef patties . . .”

“ . . . special sauce . . .”

“ . . . special sauce . . .”

“ . . . lettuce, cheese . . .”

“ . . . lettuce, cheese . . .”

“ . . . pickles, onions . . .”

“ . . . pickles, onions . . .”

“ . . . on a sesame seed bun.”

“ . . . on a sesame seed bun.”

“Good,” I said. “Now, let’s do it faster.”

Before my coffee cup was empty, she could recite the ingredients of a Big Mac.

She looked amazed. “How do you know how to do that, Dad?”

I sat back and folded my arms. “I know how to do a great many impressive things.”

“You have to let me teach Collie. Please?”

“Of course, honey.”

Lillie raced to her brother when we met him at school. Collie was similarly impressed at the recitation of a Big Mac’s ingredients. “How did you . . . ?” he began.

“Easy!” Lillie said, putting her hair behind her ears. “Two all beef patties . . .”

“ . . . two all beef patties . . .”

“ . . . special sauce . . .”

“ . . . special sauce . . .”

At home that evening, Collie initiated Jason into our Big Mac club.

After school the next day, Collie ran to me with his friend Giovanni. “Do it for him, really fast.”

“Sure,” I nodded. I leaned close and lowered my voice. “Twoallbeefpatties specialsaucelettucecheesepicklesonionsonasesameseedbun.”

Giovanni looked at me, then at Collie. “Whoa, what did he say?”

Collie broke it down for Giovanni.

“That’s beast,” Giovanni marveled. “How do you know that?”

“I’ll tell you the truth,” I said. “It’s a trick I picked up from a commercial when I was a kid. Most grown ups my age can do that. Ask your parents.”

“Wait, I need to learn this,” Giovanni said. He concentrated. “Two all beef patties . . .”

“ . . . special sauce . . . ” Collie added.

“ . . . lettuce, cheese . . . ” I went on.

“ . . . picklesonionsonasesameseedbun,” Collie concluded.

“Whoa,” Giovanni said.

The next morning at school, we ran into Giovanni. “Hey there,” I waved. “Did you ask your parents about twoallbeefpattiesspecialsaucelettuce cheesepicklesonionsonasesameseedbun? Did they know it?”

“Nah, they don’t know anything,” Giovanni said. “They’re from Italy.”

Monday, June 04, 2007

Swimsuit Edition

I’m always glad to find this reader’s name in my inbox. She brightens my day with a smile that comes through in her notes, and often sends sexy snaps made by her shutterbug hubby.

He’s very fond of sharing photographs of his lovely wife. Why wouldn’t he be? I mean, gosh, just look at her.



She tells me this was the outfit she wore to a recent toga party.

I don’t know about you, but she’s got me speaking Greek.

Package Tour

Care for a little summer reading?

While digging through my Archives, I came across the story of Belle, a recently divorced Southerner who showed up at my door looking to break a spell of unintentional abstinence.

When she headed home, her spell was broken, but good.

I’ve collected her story into a continuous narrative, which you can read at:

Package Tour

Keep it in mind as you plan your Summer vacation.

As the story concerns a cute bespectacled young woman, I’ve added photographs of other cute bespectacled young women, courtesy of the good people at Abby Winters.

Speaking of Summer vacation, don’t forget to send your submissions to our swimsuit edition.

Happy reading.

Friday, June 01, 2007

Fleshbot and Seven Figures

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot dives in with bloggers who like their sex wet and slippery. Splish splash, y’all.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will have to read between the lines this week, as I’m more often in people’s thoughts than in their beds.

You’ll find me on Lily’s mind, as she gets a poet all hot and bothered by fantasizing about a bukkake party at my place. Pretty heady stuff, especially considering that she had only recently taken the poet’s virginity.

You’ll also find me on Wendy’s mind in her new sex blog, as she ponders Lily’s advice to get over a painful breakup by meeting me for sex. Does she? (Here’s a hint: Wendy’s got a new sex blog.)

Speaking of beds, my bed frame has been broken (again) by an orgy (again). When I purchased my bed, I was told that it had a fifteen-year warranty. That was two years ago this month.

I’m going to replace the bed frame with no fuss. Around here, beds are like wine glasses at a Jewish wedding—it's good luck to break them.

Mazel tov!

On the day my bed was replaced two years ago, my statcounter registered six figures for the first time. In its first six months, One Life, Take Two had garnered one hundred thousand hits.

Today, the odometer rolled over to seven figures with the one millionth hit.

Half of those visits have been made in the past ten months.

Thanks so much for staying with me. Now, if you’ll all just drop a dollar in the collection plate as it passes . . . daddy needs a new bed frame.